Ripped: A Blood Money Novel

by Edie Harris

  One mistake was all it would take now, and she didn’t dare be reckless with the second chance Tobias had gifted her. Whether he knew it or not, he was the reason for the breath in her lungs and the rapid pounding of her heart. Releasing her death grip on the life he’d given her proved an unforeseen challenge, so she waited, calming her riotous emotions as best she could.

  She’d have only one chance to get this right. To make this right. Her sins would never be erased, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her Toby muttering in his sleep anymore, apologizing to the sister he’d just barely saved. The sister Chandler had nearly killed.

  Lifting her chin, she inclined her head respectfully to the Priest. “I apologize for shooting you,” she murmured in perfect Russian, and then lied her arse off. “I aimed not with the intent to kill, of course.”

  The Priest said nothing and returned to staring out the window once more.

  “Where have you been, koshka?” Movement beside her, and she felt her hair being lifted from her shoulder. Chandler didn’t react as Kedrov rubbed the strands between his fingertips, trying not to wonder if he felt anything at all with that scar-deadened tissue gloving his hands. “We look for you everywhere.”

  “I scored some molly, had a bad trip.” He would believe it—he’d seen her do lines of cocaine before, and other hard drugs, as well; not often, and certainly not of her own volition, but her cover had demanded so many sacrifices. “Woke up in England next to a dead guy and decided to lie low for a while.”

  Kedrov appeared delighted. “Did you kill him?”

  She shrugged, having decided upon this particular lie on the flight here. “Probably.”

  “But you did not answer your phone when I call.”

  “Didn’t turn my phone on ’til I was sure the dead guy wasn’t going to be a mess.” She’d guessed that Kuznetsov had tracked her to the estate and then the bed and breakfast by tapping her mobile somehow, and the sly gleam in Kedrov’s eyes told her she had guessed correctly.

  He seemed to accept her excuse without question, and she fought not to glance over at Kuznetsov. What had he told Kedrov about where she’d been found? Did Kedrov know about her sister? Had the Priest held his peace and merely delivered her to the bastard, no questions asked and no answers provided?

  “You hear about John?” The touching of her hair continued, though she maintained her nonchalant position, one leg crossed over the other, her head propped in her hand and a bored expression masking her face.

  “No. What about him?”

  “John Nash is no longer with us. I think maybe you know why I have the svyashchennik bring you home now?” When she looked at him, Kedrov smiled, his lips shifting unevenly to stretch across his face. “You were his protezhe.”

  Protégé. The term made her ill. “I don’t have Nash’s...finesse.” Chandler chose her words carefully, her face blank. Why was it so difficult to slip back into character? She struggled to gather the pieces of Mary McCallister, the monster programmed deep in her genetic code. Gesturing emptily with a flourish of one hand, she ordered herself to get her shit together. “He had style, did Nash.”

  Kedrov chucked. “Yes. Style.” Without warning, he switched to Russian, his gaze moving from the Priest to the Accountant before returning to Chandler. “You know better than anyone the work John performed for me. Important work.”

  She swallowed back her bile. “I know.”

  His bent forefinger twisted within her hair, wrapping the strands around the digit before loosening again, then repeating the process. Twist, and release. Twist, and release. Twist—”I want you to replace him.” When she didn’t respond, he didn’t release. “In time, I’m sure you’ll develop your own style. You’re young yet, Mary. You’ll learn as you go.”

  Her mind raced. Rejecting him wasn’t possible, but saying yes too quickly would raise suspicion, and alive was still her endgame. “I want money.”

  “Of course, kitten.” He released her hair, and she struggled not to exhale in relief.

  “My own flat. Not that I didn’t enjoy staying in Artyom’s,” she amended with a nod to the Accountant, who had always genuinely liked her and fretted over her, as if he could see beneath her false exterior to the frightened woman underneath, “but a girl needs her space.”

  “Understandable,” Kedrov agreed mildly. “Perhaps if you’d felt more at home here, you wouldn’t have returned to England.”

  She murmured her agreement, each even breath a test of her control as she closed the deal. “I will admit, it took leaving Moscow and then coming back to you to show me who I really am.” Her truth, hiding in the midst of a host of falsehoods. “I accept your offer.”

  Clasping his hands, Kedrov slowly stood from the sofa, his body stiff and in obvious pain. “Excellent. We must celebrate. Artyom,” he directed the Accountant, “our Mary has no clothes with her. Find her a fur and a Visa card. After the morning meal, take her shopping.”

  Artyom beamed at Chandler before moving to the office desk, scribbling notes in what appeared to be a clothbound day journal. Chandler managed to find a smile for him.

  Holding out a hand to her, Kedrov arched a brow. “Are you hungry, Mary?”

  “Famished.” Nothing for it but to play along, so she slipped her hand into his and allowed him to help her to her feet, following when he moved to the office door with his halting gait. Her stomach growled lightly, reminding her that she was, in truth, starving, but the reminder served only to beckon forth a mental image of Tobias as he’d looked the morning before when his stomach demanded nourishment, naked and content and utterly pleased with her as she teased him in her towel.

  Her mouth got the better of her. “May I ask a question, Pakhan?”

  “Of course, koshka.” On the other side of the office door was an iron walkway running the length of the warehouse, connecting the second-story rooms in one hangar space to another. A set of mesh grate stairs started immediately to the left of the doorway, leading down to the main floor, and it was in that direction Kedrov led her now. His hand dropped hers as he gripped the side rail to steady his descent, his tone almost playful as he added, “But I warn you, I very well might not have the answer you seek.”

  “Are you planning to finally come out of the shadows and lead us once more?” Her us was deliberate, her training automatically kicking into high gear as she sought to align herself with the most powerful man in Russia. The potential for success itched at her fingertips; this was her mission, her original mission, the one MI6 had demanded of her. “I wouldn’t mind...making a splash in the press.” The daughter of the Scottish Slasher would never mind a bit of fame, in theory. “For you, of course, Pakhan.”

  Except...success for MI6 meant failure for Tobias. If Kedrov lived, Beth Faraday would have no justice, no real sense of safety, when more than anything that woman had earned the right to be free of the mastermind behind her near-fatal torment. But if Kedrov died...

  If Kedrov died, Chandler’s last chance at serving her country with honor died with him.

  Footsteps behind her, two sets, indicated the accountant Artyom and the Priest followed them down the stairs and onto the first floor of the empty warehouse. Apparently, they were all breakfasting together. Awareness prickled at her nape, her gut suddenly clenched in warning.

  Kedrov hadn’t answered her question.

  Ah, fuck. Calm, calm, stay calm. She walked between them, the silent pair at her back and the wheezing Kedrov in front, moving across the hangar toward a hallway on the opposite side.

  She’d been down that hallway before. On the other end lay Nash’s torture chamber, more rustic than the bunker in which he’d held Beth, less sterile. In that chamber, Chandler had murdered her first civilian, and she knew, with absolute clarity, that it was in that chamber she was going to die. Like, now.

  She almost laughed. How q
uickly hope fled, her hubris at thinking she could save her career as shortlived as her career itself. A few years as a spy, a handful more as a soldier: Chandler was twenty-nine and not even a blip in the history of the universe. There would be no light winking out when she left this world.

  Mentally, she bid goodbye to the only two people she loved, thanking them for what they’d given her—home, freedom, happiness, comfort, meaning to a life that probably ought to have been snuffed out when she was nine by none other than her father’s hand. Pippa’s face flashed before her, looking as she had only two days earlier, sodden and in her white wedding gown and staring at Chandler like she was a stranger, a stranger all too familiar when seen through the lens of Reggie’s evil legacy. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, only to see the open awe on Tobias’s darling face as he whispered, You stop my heart, Chandler.

  So focused was she on her inner turmoil that she almost missed what Kedrov was saying as they traversed the hallway, only a few meters now from Nash’s old stomping grounds. “We have a visitor, Mary. I’d like to see you practice your...style.” Something slipped into her hand from behind, and she looked back at Kuznetsov, startled, before staring down at the men’s black leather belt with its square, sharp-edged silver buckle draped across her palm.

  She didn’t need to recognize the belt to know to whom it belonged.

  A scream of rage caught in her throat as she entered the chamber. A man, naked from the waist up, his feet bare, knelt upon the cold floor, his arms outstretched. On either side of him stood a guard, neither of whom she knew, bearing chains linked to the leather cuffs banding the man’s wrists, long chains with their ends buried deep in concrete. Muscles shifted and tensed beneath honeyed skin as she drew closer.

  Oh, Toby.

  Kedrov murmured something she didn’t catch to the guards holding Tobias, but she was too caught up in staring at him to care what was being said.

  Perfect gray eyes stared back at her. “Are you all right?”

  Her mouth tightened as she reined in the need to blurt out everything she had just agreed to with Kedrov, to beg him to run and forget she ever existed, to yell at him for coming to her rescue, because that was what he’d done. He’d hopped atop his white horse—or into his swanky private jet, same thing—and raced off to play hero to her damsel in distress. And fuck if she wasn’t in distress, but this was not part of her plan. “Ask me tomorrow, Toby.” Ask me when I’m dead.

  As if reading her mind, Kedrov gripped her arm, reminded her of his presence, and she flinched.

  Tobias lunged, hatred blazing in his icy eyes, only to be yanked backward like a dog on a leash by the goons holding his chained arms.

  Kedrov’s voice came at her ear, but his words were for Tobias alone. “Ah-ah, Faraday. Do not be rude. My pet is not for you to touch.”

  She was a pawn, she realized with dawning horror. Brought here not for her skill with a butcher knife but to entrap yet another Faraday in Kedrov’s web. First Beth, now Tobias. The motivation went beyond her understanding, but the pattern had been set: Kedrov carried a torch for the Faradays. A really sick torch.

  Tobias’s chin lifted defiantly. “This woman is not your pet,” he stated with conviction, his gaze flicking to hers. For the briefest of moments, she swore she saw pride for her warming the chilly depths of his eyes.

  “No? Well, then, koshka.” Again, Kedrov threaded his fingers through the hair falling around her shoulders. She sensed him studying her blank expression, searching for chinks in her armor. “You know what you must do, yes? To prove the American wrong?”

  The belt. Nodding as her fist clenched around the leather, she watched as the guards used the chains to force Tobias lower, baring his smooth, strong back to her. Muscle flexed as his jaw clenched, and understanding acceptance flitted across his face before he bowed his head.

  Oh, God. She was going to be sick. Too aware of their audience, she cracked the belt at her side like a whip, and prayed she wouldn’t cry. Prayed she wouldn’t break. Prayed she could get him out of this alive.

  Of the two guards at his sides, the one on his left had the looser grip on his chains, while the one on his right watched her with suspicion, his eyes narrowed. She was aware of Kedrov immediately behind her, no more than three feet away, while Kuznetsov and Artyom hovered at the edges of the room, out of the glowing ring of light made by the bare bulb hanging overhead.

  His eyes shot to hers, dark and stormy, and she shook her head at him, well aware that she needed to play this role to the last possible second. “What did I tell you about me, Toby? From the very beginning, what did I make clear?”

  Jaw working, he recited precisely what she wanted to hear. “That you’re a self-serving bitch.”

  Ah, the sting of her own words. “Excellent memory.” She drank him in one final time, greedy, desperate. Longing. She swallowed against the fear rattling her, the knowledge that this was the last sight she’d ever see in this life. As much as she wished she could look upon his face forever, she needed him lower. Only one way to manage that. On a shaking breath, she imbued her voice with every real, honest emotion he evoked in her. “Toby?”

  With a roar, he lunged for her once more, his body shaking, sweating as he fought against the guards, but they yanked him down, so low that his forehead nearly touched the floor. The guard on his left had let go of the chain with one hand to actually grip the cuff around Tobias’s wrist, as though that gave him better leverage. As covertly as possible, she flipped the belt so she held it by the tail end, leaving the heavy buckle to hang down.

  A pistol cocked behind her. Kedrov had run out of patience. “You have five seconds, koshka.”

  It had to look real. That was the only way this would work. Issuing a silent apology, Chandler looped the belt over her knuckles and shook out her arms.

  “Do it,” Tobias growled, his head bent, his body braced. “Do it, and be done.”

  One.

  She pinwheeled her arm and brought the belt down across his naked shoulders with a violent snap, the buckle immediately drawing blood as the length of leather left behind a vibrant red welt.

  Tobias grunted in pain.

  Chandler bit open her lip to keep from sobbing.

  Shaking out her shoulders, she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, hoping to conceal the tremor in her voice. “How many lashes do you think he can take before he begs for mercy, gentlemen?”

  The Accountant cleared his throat. “Five?”

  “Ten!” the left-side guard volunteered cheerfully. Chandler decided she wouldn’t feel a sliver of guilt if he died tonight.

  Two.

  The belt cracked again, the force of her blow leaving another dangerous mark, but Tobias only hissed this time, his hands fisted as his body trembled.

  “What is your guess, koshka?” Indulgent amusement colored Kedrov’s rasp.

  Relaxing her wrists, she kept her gaze trained on the damage she’d wrought, the blood dripping across the broad planes of his back, and exhaled deeply. “Three. I think he’s done on three.” Gathering the length of the belt, she snapped it between both hands.

  Three.

  The whip cracked, and she spun.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chandler in motion was a thing of fucking beauty.

  Pivoting on her heel, the heavy end of the belt lashed out with an expert wrist flick to snag the barrel of Kedrov’s handgun and, with a firm yank, ripped it from the disfigured man’s hands. She snatched the gun midair, flipped it and pointed at Kedrov’s head.

  All in the space of a second.

  Tobias didn’t have time to admire her as she deserved, needing to cash in on the advantage she’d given him. His back burning, the stinging pain burrowing down to his bones, he gritted his teeth and threw all his weight against Lefty. The guard’s
balance already impaired by how he gripped the cuff and chain, he stumbled, and Tobias kicked at the backs of his knees, toppling him. Tobias looped the length of chain that Lefty dropped around his neck, tugging the guard up and over to act as a bodily shield between himself and the right-side guard.

  The right-side guard who’d pulled a gun. He aimed it at Lefty’s head and fired.

  Tobias dropped Lefty’s dead body and watched as Gavin Bok turned his gun on the fifty-something man who’d entered the room with Kedrov and the Priest, putting a round high in his shoulder. The older man fell back against the wall, clutching his shoulder and groaning as he slid to the floor.

  Quickly, Gavin knelt next to Tobias, producing a key from his pocket, then went to work on the heavy metal-and-leather cuffs. “About goddamn time you came in from the cold, Bok,” Tobias muttered as one wrist was freed.

  “It’s always cold in Russia, pal.” Gavin flashed him a quick grin, but the sobriety in his blue eyes negated any humor, however ironic. The second cuff unlocked and fell away from Tobias’s chafed wrist. “Who’s the girl—”

  A massive black blur tackled Gavin to the ground, smacking into the concrete with a grunt as Tobias scrambled to his feet. Kuznetsov pounded a fist into Gavin’s jaw, and the operative’s head snapped to the side before he managed to lock his legs around the Priest’s tree trunk waist and force the bigger man into a roll. Each landed blows on the other as they scrabbled across the floor, bone and muscle demanding penance with each forceful thwack.

  From the corner of his eye, Tobias saw the older man, whom Gavin had earlier disabled, had crawled to the dead guard and was reaching for his belt—or, more accurately, reaching for the Makarov pistol tucked there. Quickly, Tobias lunged, landing sprawled over the body and managing to snatch it away from the man’s desperate hands. He rolled onto his back, ignoring the burn of the branding Chandler had dealt him, and pointed at the man’s chest. “Do you speak English?”