Secrets Inside Her: Running with the Devil Book Two

by Jasmin Quinn

  Michael watched impassively. “Remember to stop before you kill him, or we’ll never find Nika.” As Finn pummeled him, Michael wandered out of the room, back towards the office. Finn barely noticed. His rage blazed through him. He had to get this asshole to tell him where Nika was. He threw another solid punch at the Russian’s head with such force that it toppled Lukov over backwards.

  Finn drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He was losing control again. This time for the right reasons. He needed to cage his fury, he thought as his heart hammered in his chest. He had to get a grip, so he could think straight. He had the Russian; he didn’t have to destroy him. But he wanted to. For Nika, for Kelsie, for himself. This man didn’t deserve to continue breathing. He pulled Lukov and his chair off the floor and yanked the gag from his mouth. “Where’s Nika?”

  Lukov stared at him, his face was pulp, one eye already swollen shut. “You will kill me anyway. So why would I tell you?”

  Michael re-entered the room, his gun drawn, and without ceremony, shot Lukov first in the chest and then in the head. Finn watched in horror as the Russian slumped, his weight toppling the chair. He laid at Finn’s feet, dead. Finn twisted towards Michael, “What the fuck did you just do?” he shouted. Michael efficiently holstered his weapon as he considered the body in front of him.

  “We didn’t need him anymore; the information was in his office.”

  Finn’s blood rushed to his head. Not because the man standing in front of him was a remorseless killer, but because he still didn’t know where Nika was. “Explain,” he demanded through his haze.

  Michael pulled a folded paper from his suit pocket and handed to Finn. “It’s a note scribbled in Russian,” he replied calmly. “Nika’s name is on it and it also says Izba.”

  “That means nothing to me.”

  “It wouldn’t unless you understood Russian. An izba is a Russian house, but not the main residence. Nika is not at Savisin’s house. She’s at his country residence.”

  Finn looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. It was not much to go on. “You better be fucking right about this.”

  “I am,” Michael said with confidence. “Once we’re clear of here, I’ll contact my technician and get the address. It won’t take more than a minute or two.”

  “You sound so fucking sure of yourself.”

  “I am sure of myself, McQueen. I know everything about Rusya Savisin – he’s a hobby of mine.”

  Finn was relieved at Michael’s assurance, even if it was bullshit. He was getting closer to Nika. He was going to find her, and god help anyone who got in his way.

  And as he thought this, he heard the garage door opening. Both he and Michael froze. Michael put a finger to his lips and drew his pistol from his holster. They stood stock still as a woman’s voice floated down the hall.

  “I have to go now, Ally. My husband’s not going to like that I’m so late. I’ll have to sweet talk him.” As her clacking heels drew near, Michael looked hard at Finn, his weapon ready, waiting.

  Finn gave Michael a small nod and turned away, walking back through the kitchen and out the French doors. They had no choice. She would raise the alarm and Savisin would hide Nika so deep that Finn would never find her again. The cold wind whipped at him, hurling a few leaves his way. He looked up into the dark sky, the street lights pressing futilely against the murkiness. It smelled like snow, he thought absently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Nika was tied to a chair in the middle of a large, cold garage, empty except for a few chairs and some stacks of boxes in the corner. A small bare table was placed next to her. After being taken back to her cell, she tossed and turned for what seemed like hours until she finally slipped into a troubled slumber. But not for long. She was rudely awakened by rough hands, not Peter or Lukov. Two others, pulling her out of the bed and dragging her down a set of stairs to this room.

  She was forced to sit on a chair with no armrests, her hands tied to slats in the back, her ankles strapped to the front legs. She had no coat, no socks, just Finn’s shirt and her thin leggings. She shivered violently, both fear and cold snaking through her. She knew that Rusya was passed the stage of asking nicely. She remembered his barely leashed anger last night, but also his iciness. He didn’t touch her, didn’t hit her, didn’t do anything to her that would have made beg him to stop. He was not predictable and that made him a dangerous enemy to have.

  Rusya Savisin came to her then, alone. He was dressed to go outside – heavy wool coat, leather gloves, a hat on his head. He towered over Nika, looking down at her thoughtfully, his black eyes slightly softer than when she last saw him. She dropped her head letting her hair frame her face like a veil, a small protection against his scrutiny.

  She didn’t know what he was planning to do; didn’t know how many chances she would be given before Rusya tired of her stubbornness. Then she would be killed… she hoped. Because that was her only choice. She could not share Mr. Jackman’s secrets with Rusya Savisin. If she did, she would die either way. Had she been kidnapped by Rusya, taken from the compound or while guarded and on a sanctioned leave, Mr. Jackman would forgive her. But not now. She had walked away from the compound willfully, fully knowing her worth and the potential danger she might be putting herself in. She was stupid – she deserved to die.

  And Finn… tears stabbed at her eyes. Finn was wrong, hearts did break. She felt hers shredding, pain fluttering up from her stomach, piercing her chest. She was shattering at the thought of never seeing him again. She could live with her death, but she could not live without him. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Didn’t know if he was laying out in the snow, hurt, unable to move, unable to help himself. She tried to steady herself, steady her breathing, knew she was wilting under Rusya’s scrutiny.

  She flinched when he reached his gloved hand out and touched her hair, softly, like a whisper, then slid it down her cheek, taking her chin gently in his fingers and drawing her face up so that she had no choice but to gaze into his black eyes. “Goodbye, Nika Petrova,” he said, sombrely. Then he turned on his heel and walked away. As he opened the door, the wind blew in the promise of a storm and an icy terror slid down Nika’s spine.

  Later, after she stopped shaking, she sat unmoving, waiting. It was excruciating – her body was tense; arms and shoulders aching. An hour or more had passed since Rusya left her and still no one came. Her nerves were fraying. Any reserves she had from what little sleep she did get were quickly disappearing. Was this part of it? she wondered. She tried to engage her brain, assess this torture, the benefits, the drawbacks. The benefits were obvious. Her mind was screaming, she thought she might not be able to breathe. Her body ached from abuse – from yesterday and now today. Her wrists were bruised, her face was bruised. And the dread of waiting for what was next, not knowing what was next, was beyond terrifying.

  She turned her brain in the other direction – to the drawbacks. Giving her time like this also gave her time to escape or time for someone to find and rescue her. But she had tested her binds, of course she had. They were impossible to break – they needed to be cut. She could try to break the chair by falling over in it. It was a cheap ordinary kitchen chair. Not well built, would not last long in a kitchen with rambunctious children. Or she could try to kick with her feet, at the slat between the legs. The binds would score her skin, but that was irrelevant. If she freed her feet, she could stand up. Then what? Slam the chair up against the wall or the table and try to break it? That would cause noise, draw attention. She could step outside instead. Her fingers were free to grasp the door knob and twist it. As long as it wasn’t locked from the outside – probably not. Doors locked people out, not in – well usually, she thought, her mind flitting back to her bedroom cell.

  Even if she could do this, once she got outside, what then? She didn’t know where she was, though she was certain it was rural – no traffic noise, little light from outside. No one to hear her cries for help. And she had no shoes or coat,
how far could she go before succumbing to the cold. She felt the burn of tears and blinked them away. Why could she not think of a way out of this? She silently cursed Mr. Jackman and then immediately took it back. But this was his fault. He kept her like a prisoner in his compound. Paid her well enough, but never allowed her freedom to experience life. She had no practical knowledge of almost anything. Not that she would have sought out this particular kind of experience.

  The opening of a door drew her out of her head and she looked over as a man entered the garage. Not Peter, not the asshole, Lukov. She blew out a breath she’d been holding. The man was older, perhaps age 50 or 60. His hair was white, his hairline receding. He was stocky, but not fat, pale but not white. He carried a case, which he laid on the empty table as he gave Nika a kindly smile. He looked around then saw the chairs and brought one up placing it slightly off to the right of Nika, drawing the table with him. As he sat, he said, “Nika Petrova,” in English, with a Canadian accent. “I am not a fluent speaker of Russian as you are of English.” He crossed his legs, then picked a piece of fluff from his pressed trousers.

  Nika watched carefully, pressing her lips together, not trusting her voice. She felt like a cornered rabbit.

  “Oh, you really must answer me, Ms. Petrova. I value politeness above everything else.” Again, he smiled kindly, but it didn’t reach his flat cold eyes. “I think we’d both like to bypass the lessons in politeness and go directly to the conversation Mr. Savisin has asked that I have with you.”

  Nika willed the fear from her eyes, willed the tremor from her voice. “I value politeness too,” she said to him, in English. “And yet, you have failed to introduce yourself.”

  He laughed, an amused chuckle. “You are clever, Nika, and of course correct. Perhaps I need lessons of my own. I’m Dr. Branson. Emmet Branson.”

  “Are we on a first name basis?” Nika knew she was being too bold, but it was the only way to keep her terror at bay. It would make no difference anyway. This man would do to her whatever he planned to do, whether she was fierce or weak.

  The doctor looked startled at her question. “Oh… of course we are Nika. Please call me Emmet.”

  “Emmet,” she repeated. It rolled awkwardly off her tongue. Not an easy name for her to pronounce. Two other men entered the garage through the same door the doctor had, drawing Nika’s and Emmet’s attention.

  “Hello,” Emmet said as he waved them over. Then he turned to Nika. “I think you have met these men earlier when they brought you here. This is Vanya.” He waved his hand to a short, broad Russian, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from his shirt sleeves and collar. “And this is Aleksandr.” He indicated the other man, taller than all of them, and thinner. Both had guns in holsters strapped across their shoulders and both gazed at her with cold unfriendly eyes. “They are here to assist me should I need it. That’s all you need to know about them.” He shrugged dismissively.

  Vanya and Aleksandr moved away and sat in the chairs against the wall, like they were readying themselves to watch a show. Vanya lit a cigarette and offered one to the other Russian. Emmet grimaced and then switched his attention back to Nika. “I abhor smoking, but what can I do?” He shrugged. “Let’s get to work shall we, lovely Nika.”

  “Shouldn’t you gag me first, in case someone hears my screams.”

  Emmet chuckled – it was a warm, friendly laugh and contrasted horribly with his dead eyes. “No one can hear your screams where we’re at. And I’m hoping I won’t have to make you scream. I’m hoping you will see sense.”

  “I am dead either way,” Nika said, swallowing her despair.

  “No,” Emmet replied as he stroked Nika’s thigh, looking at it, not her. “Mr. Savisin has asked that I not kill you.”

  Nika licked her lips. “I will not talk to you.”

  Emmet gave her thigh a gentle squeeze and brought his gaze to hers, his face sombre, no warm smile this time. “Everyone talks to me eventually.”

  Nika pressed her lips together tightly to hide the terror that was snaking up her spine. She was not a field operative like Dean Copeland. He’d gained a bit of notoriety among the others at Jackman’s compound for the beating he took at the hands of the Russians. He was almost ruined and yet he somehow managed to make it to the extraction point. But she was not him, she was no one. And she was alone and abandoned. When the Doctor opened his case, and showed her his tools, she started trembling and couldn’t make herself stop.

  “Ah, Nika. You don’t want to shake. I won’t be able to make neat deep cuts. I might nick an artery and then you might die before I can control the bleeding.” He ran his hand down her cheek tenderly as he gazed dispassionately into her eyes. “And the scars would be ugly. I pride myself on my precision. I don’t want your trembling to soil my reputation.”

  Ice snaked through Nika’s body and fear gripped her brain. Even if she had a reply she doubted the words would escape her paralyzed throat.

  Emmet shifted his attention from her to the table, mulling over the tools in his kit before choosing a small scalpel. He held it up to Nika. “Let’s start with this.” He scooted his chair closer to her, so he could stroke her right arm with his hand, like a lover, squeezing it almost tenderly. Tears slipped from Nika’s eyes. She couldn’t contain them, and Emmet tutted at her. “Save them, Nika. You’ll need them later.”

  He circled his fingers around her bicep and held it tightly. “Nika,” he said, looking at her arm like a savage pit bull. His voice was still kind, but his face betrayed his sadism. “Mr. Savisin would like you to talk to me about the knowledge you hold in your head – he gave me a list of names. He wants to know their precise locations. Some are people your employer has hidden, some are his operatives. He also wants to know whose names are not on the list. He wants to know everything.” He paused, looking to Nika’s face, his smile grotesquely caring. He stroked her cheek, rubbed at her tears with his thumb, then ran his fingers gently down her neck, to her shoulder, and then back to her arm, circling her bicep again, squeezing it tightly. “But he is not happy about his conversation with you last night. He thought that you needed to understand the seriousness of your circumstance.”

  Nika drew in a breath and held it, staring into Emmet’s eyes, looking for compassion, or empathy, or anything human. She found nothing but emptiness. He took his scalpel and ran it down the shoulder he had just touched. When he reached the top of her arm, he pressed a little harder, cutting through the fabric of Finn’s shirt and then through the surface of Nika’s skin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Michael Black’s technician was extremely efficient. Before they were out of Langley, he called with two addresses. Both izba’s owned by Rusya Savisin.

  The first izba was deserted. Not even a guard. Finn kicked in the door as if it were made of matchsticks and they went from room to room, not stealthily because they already knew she wasn’t there. But they had to check in case they were wrong. As they walked back to the SUV, Finn snarled, “If you’d waited to shoot Lukov until after we got the information, we would have known the right one.”

  Michael shrugged. “Too late, isn’t it? Besides, they won’t kill Nika tonight and Nika will hold out for a while. She knows this is her fault, so she’ll try to endure.”

  Finn narrowed his eyes as he forced himself not to punch the son-of-a-bitch. “What the fuck does that mean? She holds out until she can’t take the torture anymore? She gets battered and abused? For fuck sakes, do you have any compassion in that black soul of yours?”

  Michael’s eyes flashed his anger for just a few seconds and then his mask of indifference slipped back into place. “I am simply stating the facts,” he said coolly. “We can’t change Nika’s fate until we find her, so we may as well work with what we have.”

  “And just so you’re clear about who’s fucking fault this is, Jackman’s to blame, not Nika. He treated her like a prisoner and didn’t give her the space or freedom she needed.”

  “Jackman won’t
see it that way, and Nika won’t either.” Michael shrugged a shoulder. “It doesn’t matter – she’ll take some lumps because it’s what she believes. She won’t hold out indefinitely, not many do under the Russians’ torture, but long enough for us to get to her.”

  “You’re a fucking cold-hearted bastard!” Finn spat.

  “Thank you,” Michael replied and then glanced over at Finn, who was still seething. “Oh, that wasn’t a compliment?”

  ✽✽✽

  Michael turned the lights off on his rental as they approached the second izba. This one was definitely not deserted. Four cars parked in the driveway, outside lights sweeping across the grass, keeping watch for unwelcome guests. He stopped the SUV a half kilometre past Savisin’s property and they walked in silence towards the house. They stayed to the shadows as they crept forward, Finn scoping out the yard. Good-sized property, isolated, just the faint glow of distant houses. He shuddered. No one would hear Nika’s cries. As they slipped from a copse of trees, a guard rounded the corner of the house, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Finn crouched down abruptly, pulling Michael with him. He pointed to the guard, who was emerging again from behind one of the vehicles. He leaned casually against the wall of the house and lit a cigarette.

  Michael pulled out his pistol, silencer still attached. “I’ll have to get closer,” he whispered.

  “Give it to me,” Finn said tucking his gun into the back of his jeans and reaching for Michael’s pistol. He crawled forward several feet, careful to stay in the shadows. Yes, he was a crack shot, and yes, he shot Overton between the eyes from a distance of thirty yards, but it was under the bright lights of an airplane hangar. On the other hand, he was standing up when he killed Overton and had little time to aim and shoot. He held his hand steady and squeezed the trigger. The guard dropped. No writhing, no noise. A kill shot.