Grave Vengeance

by Lori Sjoberg

  His torso had been hacked to pieces. A butcher knife was embedded deep in his chest, the dark brown handle sticking out a couple inches. And while the wounds were certainly gruesome, they shouldn’t have proven fatal. He was a reaper, after all, and with immortality came the ability to recuperate from injuries, no matter how severe.

  So why didn’t he register any life force? The only measurable vitality present in the room originated from her and Dmitri.

  “His soul is gone,” Dmitri said, his face an impenetrable mask.

  “That’s impossible.”

  But it was true. The full weight of the knowledge settled in her stomach like a jagged ball of ice. Lazlo’s body was no more than a husk, void of both vitality and spirit. He’d yet to fully atone for his mortal sins, so if his soul had been reaped and sent to judgment, it meant automatic damnation. Was Patrick truly capable of committing such a heinous act against a fellow reaper? How? And why? Lazlo had served as the leader of his unit for well over a decade. He was a good man and a natural leader. Was this the way Patrick repaid his kindness and respect?

  “Check out the wall above the bed,” Dmitri said.

  Focused on the body, she hadn’t bothered to inspect the remainder of the room. She lifted her gaze and scanned her surroundings. It looked like your garden-variety bedroom—well, except for the light-sabers mounted above the bureau and the wall of shelves filled with Star Wars action figures. Oh, and the message scrawled across the wall over the headboard, presumably in Lazlo’s blood.

  “It looks like gibberish,” Dmitri said.

  Gwen stared at the writing. A sense of familiarity swept over her, as if she’d seen it someplace before. But where? She racked her brain trying to remember. Nearly a minute passed before the answer dawned on her and her jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

  “It’s an old form of code,” she said as she stepped closer. The years peeled back to a time when she wasn’t so familiar with death and mayhem. Well, at least not in this capacity. The memory clicked fully into place, and her mind began to translate the message. “Post–World War Two Navajo, with a little bit of Choctaw thrown in to make it more difficult to decipher.”

  Another step closer, and she could almost touch the writing on the wall. The blood glistened, still fresh enough to give off a coppery scent. “It says, ‘See you in D.C. Catch me if you can.’ ”

  “You can read that?”

  “Of course.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I wrote the code.”

  Dmitri shot her a look of disbelief. “You wrote this.”

  “Don’t look so surprised. My first job with the NSA was in cryptography.” From there, the FBI recruited her to work in counterintelligence. Back then there was a dire need for female field agents, especially those with the moral flexibility needed to wallow in the mud with the big boys. And oh, how she’d wallowed with the best of them. Without guilt or conscience, she’d committed unspeakable acts in the name of God and country. She’d taken lives. Ruined lives. At the time she believed the ends justified the means, not realizing the damage she’d inflicted on her own soul.

  If she’d stayed in cryptography, her life would have been very different. The hours were more stable, and the risk was much lower. Odds are she would have eventually settled down, gotten married, and had children. Maybe even bought a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a dog.

  How boring.

  She simply wasn’t cut out for motherhood and apple pie. In her brief career as a spy, she’d never felt so free and alive.

  That is, until the day she took a bullet to the chest.

  “Let’s go,” Dmitri said, jarring her from her thoughts. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the keys to his car. “I want to speak with the rest of Lazlo’s crew before heading out to D.C.”

  They spent the afternoon interviewing what was left of the Charleston unit. Two of them were missing. The remaining reapers were horrified by the news of Lazlo’s death and shocked by Ziegler’s actions. And while they answered all of their questions, they gave no information that could aid them in the hunt.

  “Tell me everything you know about Ziegler,” Dmitri said as they strode into the roadside diner.

  Considering the late hour, the place was busy. Over half of the tables were currently taken, and the smell of grease filled the air. Waitresses hurried from table to table, dropping off food and taking orders. Dmitri picked an empty booth in the rear by the bathrooms and claimed the bench seat that backed against the wall.

  Gwen sat down on the opposite side and grabbed the well-worn menu from the table. A blob of something orange stained the front corner, but she acted as if she didn’t notice. “His people told you everything there is to know,” she said, sounding tired.

  “No, they told me about the man he is today. The man they perceived him to be.” He paused when the waitress arrived to take their drink order, and waited until she left before speaking again. “What was he like when he first became one of us?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because leopards never change their spots.” He pushed back against his growing sense of frustration and forced his voice to remain even. “I want to know who he was before he learned to conceal his true nature.”

  Gwen fell silent for a few minutes while she skimmed over the menu, her mood impossible to read. “He was sweet,” she finally said, a hint of bitterness seeping into her words. “Idealistic.”

  “Intelligent?”

  “Well above average, and proud of it.”

  “We can use that to our advantage.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it past the first year.”

  Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Why not?”

  “He had a hard time adjusting to the stress. Not being able to intervene—especially with the more traumatic terminations—took a heavy toll on his conscience. He stopped sleeping and started drinking heavily. I had to step in when he got so wasted he missed a job.”

  “How did you knock him back on track? Get him laid?”

  She shot him a disgusted look over the top of her menu. “I don’t believe in fucking your problems away.”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I got him a library card.”

  Definitely not the answer he’d expected. “What the hell for?”

  The waitress returned with their drinks and jotted down their orders. Grilled cheese sandwich and fries for her and a bacon double cheeseburger, chili cheese fries, and a side order of garlic bread for him.

  “Because,” Gwen said once the waitress moved out of earshot, “unlike some people, he enjoyed learning new things. Stick his nose in a book, and he forgot all about his problems.”

  “What do you mean, some people?” he asked, insulted by the insinuation. Contrary to what she might think, he took great pleasure in expanding his knowledge. He’d mastered five languages during his time as a reaper, and learned the latest technologies the instant they became available. The latter had helped in his search for Elena, even though he’d yet to nail down her current whereabouts.

  It was only a matter of time before he found her. So far, his searches had yielded only indirect references to Elena, but his instincts told him he was getting close. He wanted to know what happened to the bitch after she received asylum from the U.S. government. Certainly, the Americans would have changed her identity and given her a new life in exchange for what she knew about the Soviet intelligence program. What name had they given her? Did she ever remarry? Have children? Did the KGB ever catch up to her after she’d betrayed her husband and country?

  Part of him hoped she’d escaped the Soviets and was still alive to this day. Not because he cared for her safety, but because he wanted to exact his own revenge. It was the only thing that kept him going all these years: the idea that somehow, someday, he’d make her pay for what she’d done to him. He wanted to watch while the life dra
ined from her body, wanted her to know he’d escaped damnation for the sole purpose of hunting her down.

  His gaze flicked back to Gwen, and a fresh round of hostility surged through his veins. She’d worked closely with Elena to bring him down. While posing as a waitress, she’d laced his wine with barbiturates. The drugs had taken him under before the main course was served, and when he woke he was strapped to a gurney in the back of an ambulance. What was supposed to be a romantic anniversary date with his wife ended with interrogation and torture.

  Gwen had watched while they beat him, shocked him, and deprived him of food and sleep. They’d stripped away his humanity and treated him like an animal for more days than he cared to count. By the time death finally claimed him, he’d considered it a blessing.

  “Stop giving me that look,” Gwen snapped, pulling his thoughts back to the present.

  “What look?”

  “The one you get when you’re fantasizing about where you’re going to dump my body.”

  Shit. Normally, he was much better at hiding his emotions, but being around her never failed to push all of his buttons. He blew out a breath as he pushed back against the anger, forcing his facial muscles to relax.

  “Better?” He flashed her a false smile.

  “Much.”

  The waitress delivered their meals, and they ate in uncomfortable silence. The food tasted good but it didn’t sit well, a hard, greasy lump in his stomach. Once finished, he pushed the plate to the side and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Do you know any members of the D.C. crew?” he asked as he reached for his wallet. Because of his background, he’d never worked anywhere near the capital and knew none of the reapers who worked there. He hated relying on Gwen’s connections, but the circumstances left him with no alternative.

  Mouth full of food, Gwen nodded. As soon as she swallowed, she said, “Last I heard, Reggie’s still in charge. We worked together for a few years in Minneapolis before he got promoted. I’ll try to get a hold of him as soon as we get back on the road.”

  “Good.” Dmitri slapped a few bills on the table to cover the tab. Tucking his wallet back into his jeans, he pushed back his chair and stood. “Make sure he tells his people to stay away from Ziegler. The last thing we need is another dead reaper on our hands.”

  Chapter 3

  They drove north on I-95 for three more hours, until Dmitri’s eyes started to droop and Gwen insisted they pull over for the evening. After exiting the highway, they stopped at the nearest motel.

  “There’s got to be another room available.”

  “You heard the man. They’re booked to capacity.” Dmitri strode into the room and tossed his bag on the floor beside the queen-size bed.

  The only bed in the room.

  There wasn’t much else in the room—just a television set on top of the bureau and a small table and two chairs wedged by the door. An alarm clock sat on the tiny nightstand, right next to a notepad with the motel’s logo plastered across the top.

  “Who gets the bed?” she asked, an uneasy feeling churning her stomach. Being trapped in a car with him all day was bad enough. To be expected to sleep in the same room was going beyond the call of duty. She stepped inside the room, and the click of the door closing behind her sounded louder than prison doors slamming shut.

  Dmitri sank onto the mattress, the springs creaking under his weight. A shadow of stubble covered his jaw while fatigue lined the corners of his eyes. Bending over, he unlaced his shoes and tugged them off. “The bed’s big enough for both of us,” he said. “Unless you’re afraid I’m going to molest you in your sleep.” He smirked, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

  Refusing to admit weakness, she squared her shoulders. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  His smirk widened. “Whatever you say, zaika.”

  It took a second or two for the word to translate in her mind. “Did you just call me a bunny?”

  “It’s a fitting description, is it not?” A menacing look hardened his face as he rose from the bed, and when he stepped toward her, she took a defensive step back. His voice dropped an octave, sounding low and lethal. “You’re small and skittish, and you’re looking at me like I’m a wolf who wants to devour you.”

  She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. Of course she knew how to defend herself, but she wasn’t sure how well she’d hold up against a man as large and as well trained as Dmitri. He probably outweighed her by a good hundred pounds and kept his body in peak physical condition. What chance did she have against that?

  Another step backward and her butt bumped against the door. Fear flooded her when he mirrored her movement, his body inches from hers. Raw heat radiated off his body, and the scent of him filled her head. He braced an arm against the doorjamb and leaned toward her, his large body looming over hers.

  “Is that what you want to do?” she asked, forcing her voice not to shake. “Devour me?”

  His laughter was low and taunting. “That depends on your definition of the word.”

  A few definitions flew through her mind and the last one heated her blood. Her gaze darted over the length of his body, trying to decide if she should jam her heel against his instep or go for the tried-and-true knee to the groin.

  “Relax, zaika,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in her ear. “Samuel would damn me on the spot if I dared to harm you.”

  Relief sagged her shoulders when he pulled away. Turning on his heel, he strode across the room toward the tiny closet next to the bathroom. He yanked the door open and pulled a blanket off the top shelf. “Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  Hours later, Gwen woke with a start in the dark motel room. Groggy, she glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Three thirty-eight in the morning. The room was so quiet she could hear her own breathing. In. Out. In. Out. What had woken her up? Her eyes scanned the shadows for signs of hidden danger but found nothing to sound an alarm.

  It must have been somebody walking outside the room. With the motel booked to capacity, it was probably just another guest getting ice from the machine at the end of the hall.

  She settled back against the pillow and had almost drifted to sleep when she heard a strangled noise on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “Dmitri?”

  He muttered in his native Russian, his voice sounding low, guttural. Pained. The words poured out from his lips so fast they all seemed to blend together.

  On hands and knees, she crawled to the end of the bed and peered over the side.

  Dmitri lay flat on his back, the blanket shoved away from his body. Even in the dark, she could see the tension coiling his muscles, the sheen of sweat coating his skin. His broad, bare chest heaved with each labored pant, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  “Ya vam nichego ne skazhu. Ya vam nichego ne skazhu.”

  Time might have dulled her mastery of the language, but those particular words rang clear in her mind. “I will tell you nothing.” No matter what they did to him, and no matter what they promised, he’d repeated those words over and over again during the course of his captivity.

  As a reaper, she learned how to shield her emotions, but she still hated seeing anyone in pain. “Dmitri,” she whispered in the dark. “Dmitri, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  No response. His features twisted into a look of pure agony as the words lashed out in a low hiss. “Ya vam nichego ne skazhu.”

  In spite of their differences, her heart ached for him. She’d caused this. Not directly, but she played a role in his capture, confinement, interrogation, and torture. The boys at the Pit had shown him no mercy, using every known technique at their disposal in their attempts to make him talk. Sleep deprivation. Chemical inducements. The application of physical pain. Back then, the Bureau had insisted the tactics were necessary to protect American interests and win the Cold War. But how many times had Dmitri relived that horror, all alone in the night?

  No. She couldn’t allow his nightmar
e to continue. She owed him that much. Leaning over the edge of the mattress, she reached down and gave his shoulder a gentle shake. “Dmitri, you’re having—”

  In a blur of movement, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her off the bed. The air whooshed from her lungs when she smacked against the floor, and then he was on her before she had the chance to gain her bearings. Her lungs flattened as his muscular body pinned hers to the carpet, making it nearly impossible to move. Her left arm was trapped between the floor and her back, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t wrench it free.

  His large, calloused hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

  “Dmitri!” she choked out before she ran out of air. Spots danced in front of her eyes when his grip tightened around her windpipe. Her mouth dropped open in a futile attempt to breathe. Head pounding, she clawed at him with her one free hand, but the pain didn’t seem to register in his mind.

  More pressure and her vision blurred around the edges. As an immortal, she couldn’t die from suffocation, but she could still suffer the effects. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she struggled against his hold. Her throat burned, and her heart felt like it was about to explode inside her chest. It wouldn’t be long before oxygen deprivation caused her to lose consciousness. Already, a dull haze clouded her mind, and she felt herself fading … fading … fading …

  The dream must have drawn to a close because Dmitri released his hold around her neck and pushed away from her.

  Never in her life had it felt so wonderful to simply inhale. She rolled to the side and sucked in the air, her throat raw and straining to fully open.

  Just as her heart rate returned to normal, Dmitri grabbed her by the waist and rolled to his side, dragging her along with him. He tucked her close against his chest, his right arm locked around her torso.

  Was his mind still trapped in a dream state? Gwen tried to twist her neck around to look, but the pain in her throat kept her eyes facing forward. She paused, listened in the dark to the deep, even rhythm of his breathing. He sounded asleep. But his hold tightened when she tried to wriggle free, tugging her flush against his body. His hand remained curled around her torso, his thumb perilously close to grazing the bottom swell of her breast.