Deadly Games

by Clark, Jaycee

  Dimitri Petrolov, also referred to as the Reaper, strode to the front of Nero’s Nightclub. Ivan, the bouncer, only nodded to him and let him pass. But then Dimitri really hadn’t expected anyone to try and stop him. There was, after all, a good reason for his nickname. He was Viktor Hellinski’s enforcer. And everyone who was anyone knew Hellinski was not a man to cross.

  The club pulsed. Rammstein beat against the smoked tinged air from hidden speakers. Strobe lights flashed through the darkness, and dancers, revelers, drug users alike took on a macabre glow. The club was painted black, with the only relief burning murals on the walls that seemed to glow and flicker in the black lights.

  “Hey, Dimitri, baby,” a sultry voice called.

  He looked to his right, where one of the night waitresses weaved between bodies with a platter of empty glasses. Debromil. Or was it her twin, Elsa? They were both blonde and stacked like Viking goddesses. Hopefully, they would simply remain waitresses and not wind up in Hellinski’s other jobs. He merely smiled at her. Her silicone breasts, all but bursting from the corset she wore, didn’t move as she gyrated to the music, her platter of empty drinks never wavering.

  Dimitri wove his way to the staircase at the back of the club. Women, men, college kids moved out of his way. He ignored the drugs, probably ecstasy, being passed between two girls. Another couple kissed openmouthed. His foot on the bottom step, he heard the sounds of an argument between a man and woman, but ignored them. At the top landing he looked below at the strobing spandex- and leather-clad figures, dark in the shadows of flickering bright lights. The smell of cigarette smoke and the tinge of stronger chemicals mixed and melded with too many perfumes on too many bodies, and glossing it all was the permanent smell of alcohol. It was the fragrance of greed and vice. Well, one he associated anyway. Most here tonight were simply out for a good time. At least this was Nero’s and not one of the other clubs.

  He closed his eyes for a moment before turning to the hallway, guarded by two men he personally thought of as Pit and Bull. Their jackets did little to cover the holsters or the semiautomatic weapons harnessed there. But who the hell was he to raise a brow at a weapon. His SIG Sauer P226 was in his own shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket.

  His skin itched with the knowledge that something was up. He didn’t even look at them as he walked down the hallway. The black door at the end was marked Private.

  Dimitri ignored this and shoved the door open, walking into the dark office. A low light spilled from a lamp on the desk. The tall leather chair was turned away from him, facing the large picture window that overlooked the floor of the club below.

  “What took so long?” Viktor asked, not turning.

  “I was otherwise . . .” Dimitri paused, “engaged.”

  Viktor scoffed. “Were you? Hope she gave you a good time, my friend.”

  Dimitri chose not to answer. Instead, he walked to stand at the edge of the window looking at the melee below. They reminded him of chaotic ants. Too much confusion.

  “Nice profit tonight.”

  “Yes,” Dimitri answered, not bothering to look at his boss. The man was reflected in the glass. No one could see them. To a viewer below, it looked like a giant wall of mirrors that only reflected the dancing blinking scene back to the revelers. He studied the man sitting in the chair, his hands resting on the arms, a glass of vodka in his hand.

  They both stared out at the scene below them. Dimitri waited. He never pressed for details, never asked. Questioning, in his opinion, led to others questioning him. Questions often gave more away than silence. And silence, he had learned, afforded him more.

  He watched as one man and woman screwed against the wall in the shadows. The bouncers and guards didn’t notice, and if they had, nothing would have been done.

  People gyrated on the dance floor; to him, they all looked the same. A sea of black ants. Drugs, sex, booze—just a good time, they’d say.

  If they only knew.

  “I have a job for you,” Hellinski said.

  Music from below barely pulsed through the floor or walls, there was a soft vibration from the base, but that was it. Dimitri knew these rooms were soundproof.

  As was the rest of the building.

  People came to play downstairs and some went upstairs and to the adjoining building for a different taste in entertainment that had little to do with dancing on the dance floor. It was only one of the many businesses that Dimitri helped his boss oversee.

  These days he was gone more than here, only called in for specific jobs.

  Dimitri waited in silence again.

  “’Tis annoying habit you have, Dimitri. Silence. I don’t like silence. I’ve killed others for their arrogance, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” And he had been the one to put the bullet in many of them.

  “I’m also aware I’m not the only one who gives you orders.”

  He kept looking at the dancers and partygoers below. He saw a group of young men slip something—probably roofies—into the drinks of their dates.

  “No, sir. You told me when I was brought in that I would answer to Elianya as well as to you.”

  The older man grunted and Dimitri turned to study him. Viktor did his Slavic ancestors proud. Wide slanted eyes, like those of a lion, watched him from their amber depths. Viktor’s nose was slightly crooked, broken God only knows how many times. Scars slashed across the right side of his elongated face. The ash-blond hair was pulled back in a queue. The man was one of the most feared in the Prague underground, and in time, Dimitri knew, he himself would be on Viktor’s hit list. It was simply the way the game was played.

  Those amber eyes narrowed on him, even as Viktor straightened in his chair and pulled at the maroon silk shirt he wore. “Tell me what you would do if I ordered you to kill someone you might not want to.”

  Dimitri merely arched a brow. What game was the man setting into motion now?

  He walked to the sideboard, reached into the small refrigerator, and pulled out a frozen glass. The vodka poured in smoothly. He set the decanter aside and turned back to his boss, sipping the clear liquid.

  “When do I learn the name of this . . . problem?” Someone he wouldn’t want to kill? His pulse sped. No way the man could know. Dimitri glanced at him as he sat in the chair to the side of the desk, his back against the wall, facing the rest of the room.

  Viktor frowned and propped his left ankle on his right knee, his foot bouncing.

  “Perhaps,” Dimitri ventured, “the person is not one whom I might have a problem eliminating?”

  Those eyes snapped back to him. Silence settled between them. “Perhaps.”

  Dimitri nodded. And waited.

  With a curse, muttering of whores, Viktor stood, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared again out the window.

  Apparently someone had angered Mr. Hellinski. Not wise, but then who was he to complain. This was what he did.

  On a deep breath, the other man shook his head. “Come back tomorrow night. I will give you a name then. I want it done as soon as possible.”

  It was Dimitri’s turn to frown. Why the hesitancy?

  “Hellinski.” When the man faced him, he said, “You’re a hard man, with a business to oversee and protect, and as far as friends go, I consider you one.”

  Viktor smiled, his scarred face more distorted. “And I you, Dimitri. And I you.”

  “You don’t like people to cross you.” Dimitri stared at him. “And you have no mercy for those who betray you.”

  Viktor inclined his head.

  “I’m of the same mind.” Dimitri stood, set the glass down.

  Viktor’s eyes widened in shock. “You think I would betray you?”

  Dimitri smiled. “For enough money, yes.”

  Viktor laughed, but they both knew the words to be true.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  Viktor nodded. “You’re right on what you said of betrayal. I’ll give you the name the night after tom
orrow, as I just recalled I have a prior engagement. I do want the job finished within the next week.”

  Dimitri strode out of the office, seemingly not paying any more attention to anyone than when he walked in.

  He slapped Ivan on the arm as he walked out of the club and put his head down against the cold autumn wind. He waited for a cab, noted that Ivan took out a cell phone and made a call.

  *****

  She set the phone aside and bit on her thumbnail. Now what? Damn it all to hell. She had not worked this hard to see it all go up in flames. Not now.

  One stupid mistake.

  But she held the cards. She knew, she held the winning hand.

  Kill someone whom Dimitri might object to?

  She chuckled. For all the hard-won reputation, for all the crimes the man had committed, all the lives he had taken, she knew Mr. Petrolov for what he really was.

  A savior of the weak, a champion of the downtrodden.

  The Reaper? More like the Saint.

  Oh, he killed all right. And Elianya Hellinski had no doubt that when her brother ordered her hit, Dimitri Petrolov—or so he was called—would not hesitate in carrying out his order. And probably enjoy doing it.

  Things had not ended well with them. Damn the man, they could have ruled and created their own dynasty if he’d only listened to her.

  But no. Elianya was a good fuck, but nothing more. Fine. She’d had others turn her down. Of course they were all dead. He would be as well. Pity though, the man was the best lover she’d ever had. But a woman had to do what a woman had to do. If the bastard didn’t want her, that would be his loss. No man, no matter how much he amused her, would reject her. Period. She simply didn’t allow that.

  Besides, if he lived, he might be a problem. Might? She sighed. If Dimitri Petrolov was anything—it was a threat. She knew without a doubt Mr. Petrolov would kill her in a split second if he found out what she was really doing. For all his darkness and fear, the man was one of the most honorable she’d ever met. It was very sad. Honor was well and good in certain aspects—business, business where millions could be made, no. She had no use for such as the likes of him. Besides, she’d given the man his chance and he’d turned her down.

  Ball-less wonders. Women were, without a doubt, the stronger, more driven sex. Men waited on orders, let too many things tie their damn hands.

  No one tied her hands. No one. Not Dimitri, not Viktor, not any man.

  Her heels clicked as she paced her office, the hardwood floors gleaming.

  Stopping, she looked out the window, over the inky black waters of the Vltava River. She loved the nights. The night was the only time the truth shone in this world.

  People hid behind daylight.

  She grinned. And in daylight she would make certain it happened.

  Walking back to her mahogany desk, she sat down and clicked on the address she’d paid dearly for. If this failed, there was always a backup. One should always be prepared.

  Time to hire her own enforcer and make certain at the end of the night she was the one left standing.

  *****

  New York, New York

  The Raven clicked her way through wasting time as she waited on her plane, reading headlines via the Internet.

  Her heart still slammed against her chest, but she knew enough to go slowly, to stay calm.

  The last job went smooth as butter, and all the better for it.

  Her eyes skimmed down the page, reading the weather reports. Good thing she was leaving New York and flying back home to Dublin. A storm was blowing in and she had no wish to stay here longer than necessary; already her flight was delayed. It would be early tomorrow morning when she arrived. She sighed.

  An icon popped on-screen for Raven. Three messages.

  She wanted to open it, but it was hardly safe. Not here. There were high-powered cameras all over airports these days. Though perhaps many would call her paranoid, she preferred the term cautious. Caution had saved her life more times than she cared to count and she wouldn’t toss it aside now.

  Once on the plane, however, she pulled the computer back out and clicked on her mailbox. The return address was probably as bogus as the one she herself created, but it served its purpose.

  B-Widow only had one thing to say.

  I’ve a job for you.

  Raven closed her eyes and leaned back against the soft, plush, first-class seats. The black Atlantic thousands of feet below did not soothe her.

  Nothing soothed her these days.

  Nothing.

  She took a drink of her ginger ale.

  Perhaps it was time to call it quits.

  God knew she had enough bloody money that she never had to do another thing in her life again.

  And yet . . .

  She was good at what she did. Never one to mince words, she knew she was damn good.

  But she rarely took jobs back-to-back. Not wise.

  And yet . . .

  Something called to her.

  Since the fiasco two years ago, she demanded names and information, gathering her own before she ever agreed to take on a mark.

  A little unorthodox to some, especially to her trainer, Nikko.

  But it was what she did and the way she preferred doing things.

  After all, she didn’t want some innocent man to die just because an ex-wife was pissed at him. She might kill for a living, but she had her own code of ethics, though most would never see them.

  What the hell.

  She set the glass aside and typed a reply back to B-Widow, wondering who, wondering what, how much, and wondering what excitement this next job would bring her.

  Chapter 2

  Prague

  October 30, 5:00 p.m.

  Elianya paced the confines of her office. She could hear the girls chattering out in the studio. With a glance she doubled back. Knocking, she motioned to the photographer to get on with it. She wasn’t paying him to stand still. He had a job to do.

  One girl, her bright red hair pulled in tight braids, stood sucking a lollipop. The new fluffer. Elianya sighed. She paced, waiting for the call to come through, and it damn well better. She had yet to hear anything.

  A tingle of apprehension made her pause and look out the window. Warehouses surrounded her, some old and dilapidated; several had newer façades and housed who knew what. She’d been told to leave Dimitri Petrolov alone.

  “He’s to be left as is. You take him out and all hell will break loose.”

  “You’re to make certain that doesn’t happen.”

  Silence answered her. “It might be possible.” Another pause. “Do not act until I give you the go-ahead. Understand?”

  “Of course,” she lied.

  She would do what she had to, regardless of what her contact thought or wanted. Elianya wasn’t stupid, the contact was merely covering their own ass. She checked her email once more to see if Raven had answered her, but as yet, her box sat empty. Damn. Elianya tapped her nails against her teeth. No matter. If Raven didn’t get back to her, she’d just get Ivan to carry out her order.

  Sighing and wishing she could find someone who actually did what they were hired to do, she walked out of her office and into the studio.

  Girls of various ages and looks stood dressed in their costumes. Perfectly legal to photograph a layout for a new costume pattern company.

  And even if it wasn’t, this was Prague. Anything could be bought.

  The music, normally a white noise, screeched against her nerves. She walked over to the large boom box and shut it off. Looking at the clock, she saw the time.

  “Let me see what you have so far, Leos,” she told the photographer.

  He motioned her over to the computer set in the corner and said to the girls, “Do not go anywhere. We’re not finished. I want more of the schoolgirl shots, and Rada, stay in the nurse costume. Someone is coming by later.”

  Elianya looked at Leos and wondered again if the man were gay or if he just wasn’t interest
ed in her. She’d never pushed it. It was so hard to find a great photographer who didn’t go off into artistic flights.

  He sat behind the desk, popped his camera in a base and tapped his long white fingers over keys. His hair was trimmed short, his triangular face devoid of mustache or beard. A diamond winked from his right earlobe and gold linked across his almost fragile wrists.

  Unlike her last photographer, Leos was so clean he could have been religious. Hell, maybe he was. She’d never seen him drink, he allowed no drugs on set, and if a girl was too high to perform, he sent her home.

  Leos was not only her photographer for their little side venture, he was also the studio’s legitimate photographer for both the ad layouts and other modeling agencies. He was talented and driven—a damn genius. Two reasons Elianya saw to keep him on.

  She watched the photos pop up on-screen. Leaning down, her arm against the back of his chair, her hand splayed on the desktop, she caught his stolen glance down her cleavage.

  Elianya turned to him and grinned. Let him look, she’d paid enough for these babies. Well, technically, Viktor had paid for them.

  She focused on the photos, nixed the ones she didn’t care for, told him some changes to make in positions. While his fingers tapped the keys and he moved the mouse, she leaned down and whispered in his ear.

  “I have another job for you. Are you interested?”

  His fingers paused over the keys. “Perhaps. What job?”

  She thought about what to tell him. He probably wouldn’t do it. For a man who thought of photography as an art, Leos was undeniably stiff. Even if he did film porns on the side.

  “I’ve some new clients and girls I’d like to shoot.”

  He looked at her and asked, “How old?”

  She let her gaze roam over the gaggle of women and young ladies here. She knew most of them were college age; some didn’t care and only wanted the money. A few worked in the public clubs that were aboveground for the most part. But two, two were in the corner and very quiet. Those two were hers. They spoke to no one and merely sat staring at the wall.