He'd figured she wouldn't go down without a fight, so he wasn't shocked when she immediately began shouting obscenities at him in Russian. The door to the hotel room burst open and a guard hurried inside, his gun leveled on them.
“Shoot him!” she was shrieking. Marc ducked behind her as much as possible.
“You shoot me and I'll slice her fucking throat open!”
“Kill him!”
The bodyguard open fired. Roksana was a tiny woman, barely over five feet tall, it was impossible for Marc to really hide behind her. As a bullet flew dangerously close to his head, he whipped back his arm and threw the knife. The blade embedded itself in the guard's neck, causing the man to drop his gun. He stood on his feet for another second, gurgling, before dropping to the floor, as well.
Well, shit. No weapon.
Roksana wasn't fazed at all. She struggled in his grip, completely unafraid of him. From outside the room, Marc could hear footsteps thundering up the stairs. Not good. He had to get out of there, and fast.
Roksana was still screaming orders, so he tightened his grip on her hair and slammed her forehead down on the dresser. She slumped to the ground and he stared at her for a second. Killing a defenseless, unconscious woman wasn't usually something he would enjoy doing – but she was one enemy that he didn't want haunting him.
The dilemma was solved for him. As he took a step towards the fallen gun, three more bodyguards ran into the room. He cursed and ducked, quickly retreating as all hell broke loose. Shots were fired, but he didn't waste time worrying about that; he turned around and hurled himself through the balcony doors.
They were several stories up, not exactly something he could just jump, but there were identical balconies marching down the front of the building. Marc kept moving, swinging his legs over the railing and glancing down once before simply dropping. He caught the bars of the balcony beneath him, wincing as pain flared across his injured chest. He thought about trying to lift himself over the rail, so he could break into the room he was dangling outside of, but at that same moment a guard leaned out above him and began shooting.
Why can't anything ever be easy!?
His next drop, he swung his body towards the building and managed to land on the balcony proper. He kicked open the French doors, earning a shriek from a woman laying on a bed. He ignored her shouts and strode through the room. The hallway outside the door was empty, but he could hear movement on the floors above him. It was an old building with an exposed staircase; he could look up and see all the floors above him. See two men jogging towards the stairs.
He ran down, taking the steps three at a time. His pulse was pounding and his head was spinning. He needed water, badly, but he pushed the thirst away and dashed across the hotel lobby. When he went out the front doors, he slid on the icy sidewalk, then regained his balance and took off down the street like a shot, zigging and zagging through narrow alleyways and corridors.
After about a mile of running, he broke into the back of what looked like a locksmith's shop. He guzzled water from the bathroom tap, then raided the place. It wasn't exactly a restaurant, he didn't expect to find much food, but there was a box of Pop-Tarts. He hid in the office, behind a file cabinet, and munched away at the sugary treats while he tried to think of a plan.
Holy shit, I made it. I fucking made it. What did that crazy bitch say? She's going to Colombia tomorrow?
South America. He hadn't been there in a long time, not since working a job in Rio a couple years back with Kingsley Law. He sighed and let his head drop back against the wall. Law. He would be a great help somewhere like Colombia. The man spoke fluent Spanish, was incredibly smart, and had a lot of contacts within the Colombian and Venezuelan governments.
It wasn't the first time he'd thought about calling Law and asking for help, but just like all the other times, he shook the urge off. No, Marc would do this himself. He would be the one to track down Stankovski and kill him. Only Marc. He'd made a promise to himself, and to the most incredible woman he'd ever met. Leaving her had been hard enough. One of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but he'd done it for a reason. It meant something. He'd honor that.
He always held onto that notion. To that justification. That by getting vengeance for her, he was making leaving her worthwhile.
If he didn't believe in that, then he didn't know what the fuck he was doing anymore.
Wherever you are, sweetheart, I hope you're praying for me. I could really fucking use it.
DAY TWO HUNDRED AND SIX
Eight Kilometers East of Salento, Colombia
Lily held on as her guide took the Jeep down the steep embankment. They crashed and careened through the jungle, following a muddy path that she hoped would lead them to the smoke they'd seen earlier. Then, after maybe a kilometer or two, the Jeep veered off the path. They mowed through bushes until they came across a fallen tree.
“Straight ahead,” her guide instructed, pointing in front of them. “You see? You follow it. You will find the way.”
“Got it. Thanks,” Lily nodded at him as she climbed out of the vehicle. Before walking away, she grabbed something out of the backseat.
A black pack with a thick strap that was made to latch across the chest at an angle. It was large, too big for her really, which made sense. It was a man's pack, given to her six months before, by a very specific man.
Lily had held onto the bag for six months. After she'd gotten Marc's lovely little kiss-off letter, she'd packed up that same bag and left Tangier the moment she'd found out Kingsley's whereabouts.
Though she hadn't flown directly to him. She'd never told him, but she and her precious bag had made a little detour. A special trip to the desert outside of Casablanca. One last errand before she said goodbye to Africa, possibly forever. Then she'd thrown the bag across her back and flown off to Thailand.
She hadn't let go of it since.
After she had the pack strapped on over her rain jacket, Lily took off through the brush. It was hard to see, but there was a definite path of sorts. A bent branch here, a depression in the mud there. She followed it all, water dripping off the brim of a hat she wore low on her head. The rain had finally opened up and it was pouring on her.
She finally came into a small clearing of sorts. She found the source of the smoke she'd seen earlier – a fire pit, reduced to just glowing embers. It had probably been roaring at one point earlier in the day, but had been left unattended and had burned down. Next to it stood a large, green canvas tent. Army style, large enough to easily fit eight people.
Jesus, who did he get to set this shit up, the actual army!?
Then again, seeing as how it was Kingsley who had arranged for the site to be set up for her, it probably had been the army. He had a lot of … interesting contacts, many of which were in the armed forces.
Lily went in the tent and started shedding her wet rain gear. There was no sense in trying to light the fire outside, not while it was pouring down rain. Besides, the tent had a stove inside it. It was cold to the touch and looked as if it hadn't ever been used. The fire outside had probably only been lit as a signal for her.
She and Kingsley had tracked Anatoly Stankovski all the way to Colombia. The Russian Bratva boss was looking to expand, and South American drug lords were the new black, it seemed. While traveling through Central America they'd heard whispers. Rumors, about a powerful man named Damiano Ledo. He controlled the majority of cocaine and illegal firearms coming out of South America, and was quickly gaining traction clear up through Guatemala. Only the cartels were keeping him out of Mexico, and even then, it was really just a matter of time.
Stankovski wanted in on the deal. Conflict diamonds and the sex slave trade in Europe, Russia, and Africa – now drugs and guns in the Americas. There would be no stopping him. He would become even more untouchable than he already was; it couldn't be allowed.
If Lily had just stuck to her plan, he would've already been dead. But no. Blue eyes and an itchy trigger fin
ger had completely derailed everything she'd had going. Thrown her off track and off course, leaving her all alone in a foreign country.
Never again. Lily had promised herself that – she would finish the job this time. With Kingsley's training and help, they'd made it all the way to South America all while building her reputation. They knew Stankovski was meeting with Damiano, knew a huge party was being thrown where the Russian would be meeting influential members of the Colombian underground and political world. Knew that was when he'd get his foot truly in the door.
Knew it was also the best chance to catch him in the open.
Kingsley's law: take your chances where you can get them, darling.
While she lit the stove, Lily smiled sadly to herself as Kingsley's voice rolled through her head. She missed him. They'd been inseparable for six months, had literally spent every single day together. It felt weird being apart from him.
He felt it was time for Lily to leave the nest. She was as ready as she was ever going to be, and Stankovski was her job, not his; he wanted her to have the satisfaction of knowing that she'd started this whole journey on her own, and now she could finish it on her own.
Also, if things went south he would be near by, able to swoop in and help if she needed. He would spend his time working on shutting any additional doors on Stankovski, and possibly even finding allies to work against him. Lily appreciated it all, she really did, but still. It was hard to let him go, and another thing – she still wasn't entirely sure she was ready. It was funny that the whole time leading up to Africa, she'd thought she'd been ready. Just wham, bam, shoot 'em in the head, done. But after doing real jobs with Kingsley, she'd realized she hadn't been ready at all. She sometimes wondered if she would ever be ready.
She even lowered herself to begging to try to get him stay.
“Don't leave me like this. I need you.”
“Kingsley's law: what you want and what you need are often two very different things, darling. Learn the difference and remember it.”
“You never stop sounding stupid when you say those things.”
“Yes, but you'll miss it.”
“So much.”
“Go to Colombia. Finish the job. Pull the trigger. And if things go tit's up, remember – there's always tomorrow, and I'm always just a phone call away.”
So he went on his way, and she flew to Colombia.
It was in Bogotá when she first heard the rumors about a mercenary. One who was surly and angry, who spoke shitty Spanish, but perfect French. No one really knew much about him, just that he'd been looking for any information about Damiano Ledo that he could find. No, he had never said anything about Russians or Africa, and no, he'd never said his name. But there were whispers. He wasn't completely unknown in those parts, he'd been in Colombia before, done work there for a dirty politician. Still no actual name, but they did know of a nickname for him.
“The Saint.”
De Sant. Marcelle De Sant. About as far from being a saint as a person can be.
But that was all she learned. Lily blatantly told people she was looking for him, that she had a score to settle with him. That she was looking to kill him for the bounty on his head, and she would gladly share that bounty with anyone who helped; anything to draw him out. Yet it was all pointless, there was simply nothing else to be told. By the time she got to Bogotá, it had been almost three weeks since anyone had seen him – he'd left the country, someone had heard. That was it.
So as Lily sat in a stolen army tent, warming herself by a stove while it poured buckets outside, her brain spun in circles.
Stankovski. Your only goal is Stankovski. One week, and your mission is complete. One week, and you'll be face to face with him. You should be planning for a party, not when or if you'll see some asshole again. De Sant fucked it up for you once before; don't let him fuck it up now. Not when you're so close. Not when he's not even here for you to blame. Eyes on the prize, Brewster. Eyes on the motherfucking prize.
DAY TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN
Brazil was hot. It was January, which meant summer in the southern country. Marc normally liked warm weather, but it was a bit much, even for him. The streets were busy, teaming with life, and while that meant it was easier for him to move around undetected, it also meant he was in almost constant contact with other human beings. He hated that, he much preferred his solitude.
Well, that's not necessarily true.
He shook his head, refusing to let her enter his mind. He had long since learned that if he let her in, then it would be a good long while before he could get her back out again. Fucking figured. She was a pain in the ass in real life, and even worse in his memories. Today. Today would be the day he would finally forget about her, he decided.
Okay, that's definitely not true.
Marc knew he'd done her dirty. Knew she was probably somewhere pissed right now. Somewhere hating him. At least, he hoped she was hating him. He couldn't stand the thought that she could possibly be hurting. Of course, Lily wasn't prone to hurting – he'd watched the woman get stabbed through the arm, then use the same knife to gut her opponent. No, Lily wasn't the type of woman to wallow in pain and self-pity. She'd probably read his note, then gotten on with her life.
That's what he told himself, every day, so he could get on with his own.
Though technically, his life had become all about her life goals. He hadn't taken a job since leaving Africa. He'd closed all his accounts, withdrawn all his money, and disappeared in every way that counted. He'd thrown all of his efforts, all of his resources, into finding Anatoly Stankovski. The man who had killed Lily's sister, then put a million dollar bounty on Lily's head. The man who controlled a large chunk of the underground diamond trade and sex slave industry in eastern Europe and western Russia.
A man who, it turned out, was very hard to find.
Marc had honestly thought it would be easy to get close to him. His original plan had been to do what Lily had tried to do – just show up in Moscow and shoot the bastard. But when he got there, the bastard had already disappeared.
It was like trying to find “Carmen Sandiego”; the Bratva leader was like chasing a ghost. Finding information on him was difficult, but actually tracking his location? Marc had spent many years tracking and killing people, and Stankovski was by far the hardest.
Stankovski had few people he trusted, and virtually never left witnesses. Paid well enough and was scary enough that people kept his secrets. Marc traveled all over the globe, following rumors and stories. Chasing down Stankovski's allies and enemies alike. He came close to him once, in Manila. He'd lain on a rooftop, his scope sighted, his aim perfect, his hold steady. But no cigar. Stankovski was at the party for less than five minutes when a fight broke out, causing his security team to shut the whole thing down.
Maybe she was right, I am bad luck.
Stalking wasn't working. Marc wasted four months following Stankovski around, and had come perilously close to getting killed by Mrs. Stankovski in the process. So he took a step back and decided to take a more passive role. Getting into Stankovski's sphere was proving too difficult, at least in a hurried manner. So Marc began delving into other areas of Stankovski's life. Who he had deals with, what sort of businesses he was investing in, what his next moves were – anything that would get Marc a step ahead.
He learned a lot, like the fact that Stankovski was branching out more and more to other countries. Particularly western countries. He had been trying for years to get his diamonds into the U.S., and he'd finally found a way. Worse than that, though, was that with his connections to politicians and the mafia, it wouldn't be long before some of his other operations started running. Sex. Guns. And, as Marc soon found out, drugs. Stankovski was trying desperately to get involved in the South American drug war. Just what the world needed.
Marc knew that if Stankovski wanted to get involved in the drug world, then that meant he had to get involved with one Damiano Ledo. A young man to be running such a large
empire, he'd risen to power the good old fashioned way – by killing everyone above him. Then he'd killed all his enemies, and all their families. From the tip of Argentina to the top of Guatemala, he owned the cocaine business.
So Marc let go of Stankovski and concentrated his efforts on Damiano. The drug lord had risen to power and seized control of the cocaine trade in Colombia, but he was Brazilian by birth and maintained larges homes in both countries. Then, while being entertained in Kiev by Roksana, she had let it slip that she was flying to Colombia. One plus one always equals two, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. His hunches had to be right, Stankovski and Ledo were going into business together. So Marc flew to Colombia and worked his way from town to town, finding any information he could on either man. He followed their trail all the way to Brazil, to Damiano's home town of Belo Horizonte. Surely, someone would know something.
“You look lost.”
Marc had stopped in front of a pharmacy, the spot where he'd been designated to wait. The voice came from behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, it was to see a hooker stepping forward. He frowned.
“I'm right where I need to be,” he replied.
“I think you will find more company over there,” she suggested, nodding her head to a building across the street. There was a rowdy bar, drunk patrons spilling out into the street.
“I'm good right where I -”
“Company who knows what you want to hear.”
Marc didn't respond, just walked across the street and began shoving his way into the bar. There were a lot of little tables with people crowded all around them, but tucked into a corner there was a two top that only had one occupant. He made his way over and sat down, grabbing the beer that was already waiting for him.
“I don't have time for bullshit,” Marc warned him. The man, whose name was Claudio, nodded.
Out of Plans (The Mercenaries #2) Page 3