Deadly Games

by Clark, Jaycee

  “Younger than anything here,” she whispered.

  “No.”

  Elianya laughed and ruffled his short graying hair. “You are almost boring.”

  He tapped again on the keys and picked up his camera.

  Damn it, she wanted him to shoot the scenes. “I’ll pay you double what you normally make here in three hours.”

  Knowing his fees, she assumed he’d jump on that offer.

  “No.”

  “Over a grand an hour, Leos?” She raked her nails over his shoulder, but he shook her off and stood. “You need to let loose some of those morals, my friend.”

  His eyes didn’t stray from hers. “No, Elianya. Find another. I do this”—he motioned to the girls sitting around props, two on the bed, another on the silk draped floor—“but I draw the line at younger. Period.”

  She huffed out a sigh. “Please, Leos?” She ran a finger up the front of his white pullover.

  “No.”

  Damn. Elianya tapped her spiked heel against the floor. “It’s merely photos, Leos. A click of the camera.”

  He huffed out a breath, but he didn’t say no.

  “I’ll add another five hundred an hour. That’s two g’s. Where the hell else can you make that kind of money an hour, Leos?”

  His shoulders dropped. “When?”

  She smiled. “I’ll let you know tomorrow night. Probably, we shoot early on the thirty-first, no? No, that’s tomorrow, isn’t it? Then on the first.” Elianya whispered, her lips brushing Leos’s ear, “It’s merely a few photos, Leos. Don’t put me in a bind. I might have to find another photographer. Then what would you do?”

  He huffed a sigh out, glared at her and finally said, “What am I to do?”

  “Take pictures and keep your mouth shut.”

  Leos watched her; she saw the indecisiveness in his eyes, the shame. Poor ball-less wonder.

  “Leave me, I have work to finish here,” he said, shoving back from the computer.

  *****

  She went by Raven, though her passport said something different. Her hotel room was one of the nicer ones in Prague. She’d arrived yesterday and had been reacquainting herself with the old European cultural city. She only went for the best when she was on vacation. Work, unless her cover demanded it, didn’t need to be top-of-the-line. Then again, she wasn’t staying in a backpacker’s hovel either. Her digital camera sat beside her laptop, the memory card having already downloaded the photo of the possible target.

  He was in three-quarter profile, looking out over the busy street as he climbed into a sleek black BMW sedan with dark windows.

  Dimitri Petrolov. Right-hand man of one Viktor Hellinski, brothel owner, minor crime boss, and God only knew what else. She pulled up a photo of Hellinski in another window. Wanting to know everything about these two. Some marks were easy. People rarely went for revenge anymore. She frowned and rubbed the back of her neck. These days few knew how to successfully operate under true vengeance. People not of Hellinski’s ilk. Hellinski was the type who had contacts, and he was, she realized as she read further, rather high up in the whole criminal ring. Which meant his best mate was right beside him. If she took out Mr. Petrolov, she’d have to make bloody certain no one could connect her. The backlash itself would more than likely be her head on a platter handed to Hellinski himself.

  She studied Dimitri’s picture again, wondered if that were his real name. He didn’t look like a Dimitri. He was too . . . something. His dark hair was a little too long, as if he didn’t have time to cut it, his hairline receding to an M across his forehead. Dark eyes—blue? Black? Brown? They didn’t appear green. Man probably hit six feet, not too muscular, but not lanky. Lithe, like the snap of a whip—lethal. And since the streets had dubbed him the Reaper, she supposed lethal fit.

  Fine, he was a murderer, but then, technically so was she.

  Cheekbones and jawline were harsh and unrelieved, his lips neither too full nor thin. His could have been the face of a fallen angel. A dark shadow, well past five o’clock, but not quite a beard and mustache, lined his jaw and upper lip. Something was arresting about his face, yet if she saw him in a crowd, she wondered if she would have looked at him again.

  Her? Probably, but then she wasn’t exactly normal, now was she?

  She picked up her pen and jotted notes down on a legal pad. One she would destroy as she always did. There was no way anything would be traced back to her. Though in this day and age, that was iffy, and depended on luck—whether hers or the ones investigating was a matter of perception.

  Petrolov worked for Hellinski, but she was finding out that Hellinski wasn’t easily reached or found and owned several pieces of legitimate real estate. Must keep an excuse as to the money income, yes? Then there was the restaurant and several nightclubs here in Prague. Brothels in the hell-town of Cheb. And there was a woman.

  Raven cropped and enlarged the photo of the blonde woman standing between Hellinski and Dimitri. She was without question beautiful and had the same shape of eyes as Hellinski . . . Ah. Sister. Miss Elianya Hellinski.

  Did she know what her brother did?

  Raven studied those eyes staring out from the photo—bloody right the woman knew. Something in those cold eyes calculated.

  Digging deeper in her search, she was surprised to find Dimitri Petrolov had only worked with Hellinski for a few years. About five. Moved up those ranks quickly, did he?

  So where had the man been before then? Men who went by the name Reaper did not just drop onto the organized crime circuit. Where did he come from?

  She looked for another hour. Frowning, she read the flat report of one Dimitri Petrolov, who hailed from Russia. But where? Russia was a big bloody country. Family? None. Age? N/A. Raven scratched her cheek.

  No one just jumped onto the scene. Was he educated? Or just a lackey?

  Raven discarded that idea. A lackey didn’t join Hellinski and within two years become his hit man, only to gain more power and the boss’s confidence in the next three years.

  She narrowed her eyes on Dimitri’s photo.

  And why would someone want to get rid of him?

  Hellinski would have his own men to take him out. Keep it in the family. That man, with his pale hair and amber, tilted eyes, did not look like one to hire a female assassin and certainly not by the contact of B-Widow.

  Definitely a woman.

  So who? A jilted lover?

  Digging lower she read the material on what was known of the Reaper, who enforced Hellinski’s hold and power. Maybe an escaped prostitute who fled out of the stranglehold of those in charge of her?

  The Reaper.

  No one went against him. He took care of, cleanly and efficiently, any problems that arose.

  In the photo he was dressed in a gray pullover, black jacket, trench coat, and pants. Man apparently liked dark colors. But then they blended well with the shadows.

  Unease crawled under her skin.

  Why?

  He was just a mark. But reading the reports, she wondered. Something didn’t add up. He should have worked for the boss longer to be this high up in power.

  She wanted to know more about Hellinski. Her gut tugged as it did when she knew things were off.

  What?

  No real information on Petrolov—though that wasn’t too surprising—quick move up, no friends, no associates, no family.

  An idea zapped in her brain.

  No, surely not.

  But she’d worked both MI5 and MI6 long enough to spot the signs . . .

  Was Dimitri Petrolov working both sides? Who the hell was he working for?

  MI6? Interpol? The Americans? But if a Yank, then who the hell did he work for? They had more agencies than Britain had historical sights. FBI? CIA? NSA? INS? DOD?

  No, the thought was ludicrous.

  Raven stood and paced. Pacing cleared her head and focused things for her, it always had. Nothing in this whole bloody picture was clear. She’d learned the hard way to g
arner as much information as possible before the job so no complications arose.

  And Dimitri Petrolov could be one hell of a complication. She wasn’t stupid or psychic, but something told her to watch her step with the man.

  To hell with it. Stalking back to her laptop, she hacked into her old system and saw a file on Hellinski. Skin trafficking, drug trafficking, arms dealer. Well, he was just a dream-filled bloke, wasn’t he?

  She read more until her eyes started to hurt. Looking out the window at the night, she decided to go out.

  After a quick shower, she rubbed some lotion on and tried to decide on the short black dress . . . but then she’d have to wear the heels, which made her legs look great, but she could hardly run in the bloody things. Boots. And if she went with the boots, then she’d wear the black pants. Slinky lavender sweater, or as Nikko told her, slag sweater. So it drooped low enough anyone could see she had no real cleavage, but it bagged enough in the back and at the waist she could easily carry a weapon—and that was all that mattered.

  She shook her short, short hair dry—and decided she loved her new style. At her scalp, she didn’t have to do anything. No styling, no drying. She looked one way then the other. Bloody hell, it was short. Her face appeared even slimmer, her neck longer. She smiled and slapped on enough makeup that she’d fit into the club crowd. Not that she’d visited either Nero’s or Babylon’s, but she’d been in enough clubs over the years to know how to dress like she wanted to be there either with someone or by herself.

  Studying herself in the mirror with a critical eye, she made certain her gun wasn’t noticeable. Her skin reflected her mixed race, as did her black hair and pale green eyes. She’d always thought her mouth a bit too lush and wide, but she knew she was pretty. Men were rarely suspicious of a pretty woman. They saw what they wanted to see. And it had aided her enough, she wouldn’t ignore her looks. Without a doubt, she knew her eyes were her best feature; long lashes and the jade color contrasted glaringly with her darkened skin tone. She had aristocratic features, as Nikko had told her time and again. A gentle curve of jaw, high cheekbones, and straight slender nose. She was tall. But pretty or not, she stayed in shape. Her muscles were not because of the latest bloody fashion or health craze that gripped the masses. She’d learned long ago to protect herself. Her stint as a constable and then in MI5 and MI6 only honed her muscles and her skills.

  Knowing she’d do, she grabbed her long coat, made certain she had anything she’d need. Passport, room key, phone, cash, and her trusty little tool that would open any new computerized lock or start a car. Lovely little bit of technology and a birthday gift from Nikko.

  Raven left the hotel, deciding to walk a while before hailing a cab. It was important to always know your location. A quick escape had saved her ass more times than she cared to count.

  Prague was a beautiful city. From here she could see the old town square, glowing eerily green in the nightlights aimed at its medieval stone walls. The damp air promised cold and wafted with the smells of people dining at the local restaurants. She heard German as she passed a quaint little café. She thought she discerned Russian at a couple of places as people waited to be seated. English caught her ear time and again. Overall, it was a fairly quiet night with the exception of the two pickpockets, who easily made their marks and successfully lifted a purse and a man’s wallet.

  Her phone rang.

  “You taking the job?” asked a male voice, smooth and Italian as a dark rich wine.

  “Nikko, luv, always so articulate.”

  He didn’t answer her.

  She shook her head. “I’m still deciding.”

  The answering silence told her more than his words would. The man knew she didn’t make rash decisions, but neither did she normally take so long to either accept or reject a job.

  “Problems?”

  “Problems?” Hmm . . . “Not so much problems, no. At least I don’t believe so. Call it more a gut feeling.”

  He muttered something she couldn’t hear. “Tell me of this problem.”

  “It’s not a problem.” Not yet anyway.

  “Tell me, cara.”

  She debated. Normally, Nikko knew very little of her jobs unless she wanted him to. Or she at least convinced herself he knew very little. But truth be known, everything she knew, everything she did, most of it, she learned from Nikko.

  “Cara . . .”

  She sighed. “I just have a feeling the mark isn’t what he appears.”

  “Is anyone?”

  “I get a feeling, just a feeling, that it’s deeper than him working for his boss.” There, she’d said it.

  “What was the name again?”

  “I didn’t give it to you.” Even as much as she trusted Nikko, she never gave him a mark’s name. Who knew how small the world could be, and she didn’t want complications. Number one rule—no complications.

  This time he sighed. “You know, you’re supposed to mellow with age.”

  She watched her surroundings, noted the group of co-eds in front of her. The guys were watching over the girls closely, except the one joker who seemed to be telling the girls how they could dress sexier. She smiled when the blond turned around and punched Mr. Laughs in the gut.

  “Age? That would be you. Not me.”

  “I’m relieved this is your last assignment. I’m ready for . . .”

  “Stop. Not the man and marriage act, Nikko. Grandbabies and the like. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Who said it was an act?”

  Instead of replying, she hung up on him. The man might know lots of things, but some even Nikko didn’t know, and if he did, well . . . She simply didn’t need the hassle right now.

  She hailed a black cab and climbed in.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked the cabby, then thought of the phrase in Czech. “Mluvíte anglicky?”

  He turned around. “Yes.”

  “Good,” she said and smiled. “How about the club Nero’s or Babylon’s Sins?”

  He narrowed his eyes, and ran a quick gaze over her.

  She arched a brow. She’d heard about the taxi drivers in Prague.

  “Nice lady like you might not want to visit such a club, no? More like Sunsets? Or perhaps Roxy? Roxy is the best nightclub in Prague.”

  Keeping her smile, she only said, “Nero’s.”

  He shook his bald head, the lights from outside shining off it. “You pay, lady.”

  “Děkuji.” Then she added, “But don’t try to overcharge or keep me in the cab. I know where the clubs are from here and you really don’t want to test me.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “Understood?”

  He nodded and pulled away from the curb.

  She watched the landmarks, noted the times they turned and where. Not that she didn’t already have a map in her head of where she wanted to go and how to get there. The narrow medieval streets gave way to the wider modern roads, old world charm to modern ramshackle warehouses and buildings lining the waterfront of the Vlatva River. She wondered if she would meet Mr. Petrolov tonight. It was time to learn his habits if he was to be her mark, and if not . . .

  Up to this point, if she declined a job, she simply declined the job. Something told her this might be different.

  The cab pulled up in front of a club, and the red and orange lights outside gave an eerie glow. A queue of people snaked down the side of the building, and bulging men in tight shirts walked the edge. How many. She ran her gaze over them. One at the door, two more on patrol. Looking up, she searched for . . . There, just there, she saw the small black box of a security camera mounted on the light pole. Strange. Gadgets were getting smaller and smaller. No use in advertising you were watching people. Then again, most didn’t look for the cameras and the smaller, less visible cameras were more expensive. And probably used indoors.

  The driver pulled up to the front door and she got out.

  Now she wished she’d worn her slapper heels. They’d get her in faster. Bugger it.
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br />   Climbing from the cab, she overpaid the driver and told him to keep the tip because as she figured it, he hadn’t overcharged her, nor had he been stupid enough to try and lock her in the cab.

  The chilled, late October wind bit through her small coat. She pulled it tighter and looked up. A whistle drew her attention to the bouncer. He raised a brow and jerked his head to the front door. She looked down the queue, then behind her. Finally, feigning innocence, she studied the bouncer. “Me?” she asked.

  He grinned, a flash of crooked white teeth and dimples. He carried a firearm, the bulge under his jacket gave him away. She smiled back and walked up to him.

  He lifted the rope and let her in. “First time at Nero’s?”

  “First time in Prague. Is this bloody marvelous or what?”

  He laughed, his eyes appreciating her.

  Men. With a forced giggle, she muttered thanks and walked past him, blocking out the mutters and curses of the people directly in front whom she’d just cut. Life was rarely fair, chickies.

  Chapter 3

  October 30, 9:00 p.m.

  Dimitri sipped the wine and observed the nightlife of Prague. Headlights and taillights winked, like teasing young co-eds. He took another sip, the glass not much more empty than when he poured it over half an hour ago. He was to meet Viktor this evening and it looked like he just might be late.

  There was a time he wouldn’t have dared to insult Viktor Hellinski, but those days were long past. He glanced around the expensively furnished loft with its sleek, modern and very empty lines. There was nothing of him here.

  Or perhaps that was all there was of him anymore . . . Nothing.

  The only mirror in the entire apartment was in the bathroom. To look in the mirror was to see one’s self and all he saw anymore was a lie. Someone who didn’t know who they were any more than the people he was acting to deceive.

  He set the wine aside and rubbed a hand over his face, scratching the stubble he kept short along his jaw and lip.