Away with You (The Revenge Series Book 2)

by M. S. Brannon

  Manny could possibly help me with this. I will get Vankin on that, as well.

  The gorilla-sized officer looks at me, returning the smug look I gave him. My gaze transforms, turning deadly. The intensity of hate grows with every passing second as I imagine ripping him to shreds with my knife. He is not responsible for my current state of arrest, but if anyone is going to stand in the way of my plan, it’s going to be him.

  I slip my black boxer shorts off, standing naked in front of this growing audience. The three female officers can’t help panning their eyes down, looking right at my dick. Yeah, it’s all there, ladies, and it’s not small. I smirk, knowing the people on the other side of the window want to fuck me, kill me, or both.

  I comply with the full body search, knowing it’s just routine yet not really accustomed to it. Then I bend down and start putting on the provided prison uniform.

  When I’m done, I’m handcuffed again then shuffled down the hall to a small interrogation room where I’m harshly placed in a chair at a table fastened permanently to the floor.

  I put my cuffed hands on the top and look around. There is one other chair across from me and a camera mounted to the ceiling in the corner. It’s a bleak, cold room meant to represent what your view will be like once you have entered your cell. It makes me laugh. This looks like a five-star hotel compared to where I stayed the past eight years.

  When the door opens, the arresting officer walks over the threshold, a cup of coffee in one hand, and sits across from me. We share the same exchange from earlier. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say.

  “I’m Officer Gabe O’Connor.” He sits down and passes me the cup of coffee.

  I don’t even look at it, only keep my eyes focused on him.

  “Do you understand what’s going to happen from here on out?”

  I nonchalantly shrug my shoulders, because whatever he presumes is going to happen is a mere assumption. The reality of our near future will be entirely different. Therefore, I refuse to talk with him. All I need is my phone call to Vankin, and I can start setting this new plan in motion.

  It’s apparent from his reaction he isn’t excited by my muted answer.

  “Well, why don’t we start with your name? I understand you didn’t want to share it at intake, so how about now?”

  Detective O’Connor’s muscles flex under his tight polo shirt, and it makes me smirk. He is trying to exude his dominance on me while trying to be the good cop. What he fails to understand is I’m more skilled than he’ll ever comprehend. I can read people clearly through their body language.

  I’m extremely patient and deadly with my bare hands. His muscles are a good form of strength, but when it comes to speed and endurance, his muscles are fucking useless.

  “The only thing I will provide you with is my request to speak to my attorney,” I reply.

  The detective’s face tightens in anger. I’m sure it is the last thing an investigator wants to hear. I’m aware of my rights in America. The moment you request a lawyer, all forms of questioning are required to cease.

  However, I want to get under his skin a little bit more, so I ask, “Unless Josslyn is available. I do have something I’d like to say to her.”

  “Like hell you will!” he shouts. Out of nowhere, the goliath jumps to his feet and slams his fist into my jaw.

  I sensed he would react, but not like this. He is sweet on Josslyn. Perhaps he has strong feelings for her, which will be a great advantage to me if he ever gets in my way. He can easily be manipulated by me if I put her life at risk. That is as plain to see as the blank walls of this room.

  I lean to the side and spit the blood out of my mouth and onto the floor. Then I look up at his enraged state and smirk. Yeah, he’ll be of great use to me. When it comes to her, he is the epitome of a loose cannon. And when you can’t control your own emotions, things get sloppy. You get dead.

  “What, detective? You can’t keep her from me. Sooner or later, she’ll be sitting right there.” I motion across the table at the chair he abandoned. “It’s not in her nature to stay away.”

  Another fist flies in my direction and lands in the same spot. The side of my face explodes in pain.

  I glare at him. If I make it to my feet, I will kill him. Even handcuffed, I will have no trouble taking him down and snapping his neck with my legs.

  As he leans forward, I make sure to get him in my sights. Only, this time, I don’t smirk; I slaughter him with my glare. I spit in his direction, blood splattering on his light blue shirt. It looks like a crimson ink blot test on his chest.

  A loud scuffle suddenly sounds from behind me, and I turn to see a Hispanic man of authority enter, looking as infuriated as I do.

  “O’Connor, now!” the man demands.

  The detective has no other choice than to obey his commanding officer.

  The door slams shut, and the sound of screaming comes from the other side. I close my eyes and focus all my attention on what is said between the two men.

  “What the fuck are you thinking?” the lieutenant shouts in his heavily accented English. “Do you realize this could let him walk? If he has the right connections with litigators, he could use this against the department.”

  “He tortured Josslyn! She is so traumatized from what happened she can’t even speak, and you and I both know Josslyn is never fucking speechless. If anything, we can’t get her to shut her mouth most of the time.” He sighs deeply, and I can imagine him trying to shake off the angry state I pushed him to. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I don’t want that fucker getting in her head again. She has enough to recover from after what he did to her.”

  Josslyn provided some useful information when she was with me. The sight of her blacking out from me simply lying on her tells me she doesn’t do well in traumatic situations. Of course, I didn’t know for sure if she had talked about her ordeal, but my instincts told me she was in no state to divulge information directly after my capture. I took a chance, and it appears I was right.

  “Detective Stowe is strong, O’Connor, and she’ll recover from this. Besides, that asshole is right.” I lean my head back and listen even harder. “If she wants to talk to him, she will. No one will be able to keep her out of this room, yourself included.”

  The sound of footsteps and voices fades then eventually dies out.

  With the back of my hand, I wipe the blood off my chin and wait for the next step in this long, drawn out process. I wait for the opportunity to speak with my attorney and eventually Josslyn.

  .*.*.*.

  August 9, 2015 7:13 a.m.

  “You have a phone call to make?” the fat detective who drove me here asks through the steel bars.

  I nod my head and walk to the opening where I turn around and put my wrists through the space. He fastens the cuffs and motions for the lock to be automatically undone. The loud click of the magnetized lock sounds as it automatically releases, and my body is soon being ushered down the hallway.

  As I assumed, they let a couple of hours go by before they granted me access to call Vankin. I was ushered out of the interrogation room, put back into a holding cell by an intake officer, and there is where I have been passing the time until the fat man walked back in.

  I’m taken to a different interrogation room, but it looks much like the other one. The fat officer aggressively sets the cell phone in front of me and stands outside the closed door.

  Along with my many skills as an assassin, the ability to remember necessary phone numbers is in the top ten for me and comes in great need for situations like this. I have fifteen numbers memorized that will get me what I request or at least get the ball rolling so I can handle it myself. I made sure Vankin was one for those numbers. After all, he has been my plan B for a while now.

  While I pick up the phone and hold it, my mind falls back to the moment I met Erik Vankin. I met him on a job I was casing for Stravinsky several years ago. He sent me to look into the benefits of adding a certain South African dip
lomat named Jean Swanepoel to our payroll. The diplomat has certain tastes in women, unique requests of what he wants them to do, and would pay top dollar for a night spent with them. It was my job to find out if it would be lucrative to have him in Stravinsky’s pocket in regards to business between South Africa and our establishment. After all, our business was girls and weapons, and it was his home country.

  I was sitting in the elegant Cape Royale Hotel in Cape Town, South Africa, enjoying my vodka martini, when Vankin sat at the table next to me. Giving him no attention, I observed he was there but continued watching for the moment. Then the diplomat walked from the banquet rooms and headed up to his suite. Time felt like it was standing still, and Vankin must have felt the same way, because he could no longer sit in the silence.

  “Do you have the time?” he asked in our native language.

  I looked at my cell phone and replied, “Seven forty-five.”

  Vankin looked the part of a privileged Russian man. From his manicured fingernails, flawless pale skin, pristine charcoal suit, and gold wrapped around his fingers and wrist, he was the epitome of wealth.

  “I swear, damn clients don’t know how to tell time anymore. I’m only their attorney.” I tried to ignore every word he was saying, but he continued to talk. “Erik Vankin.” He held out his hand for me to shake. I kept my leather gloves on yet reached out and took his hand. “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. …” Vankin hesitated then looked to me to fill in the gap, expecting actual conversation.

  To keep up appearances of blending in, I chose to speak back. However, I wanted nothing more than to get up and move. I enjoyed sitting in the silence.

  “Black. Vincent Black,” I replied. Until that moment, I hadn’t used my back up alias, and to this day, I don’t know why I did then. I think my instincts were guiding me to do so. “I understand about the punctually of inept clients; I’m an independent consultant. Some simply have no concept of time.”

  Vankin busted out in a low, jolly laugh, and I couldn’t help smiling at the older man.

  “Well, it appears you do well for yourself. If you ever need any legal assistance, please feel free to call me.” He handed me his business card then added, “But it’s not cheap, if you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed, I do, Mr. Vankin. I completely understand.” I said nothing more as he got up from the table, greeting his client at the entrance to the hotel.

  As I sat there and waited for Jean Swanepoel to show up, I thought a lot about my alternative plan. I remember feeling guilty about it, because initially, plan B would only happen if I were separated from Stravinsky. I worshiped him, and it gutted me to know I had this escape created. Still, my gut was guiding me to make Vankin a part of the plan. At the time I didn’t know why, but I still tucked his number away in my memory bank, knowing in my subconscious I would need to eventually take advantage of it.

  I made sure to keep in contact with him over the years, getting unneeded business advice, all under my alias of Vincent Black. Vankin and I began to grow a friendly acquaintance. He had no idea I was involved with the Vory V Zakone. Not until I was nearly killed in prison did he know the truth, and he was still willing to help me in any way.

  As I dial his number, I can’t think of a better opportunity to take him up on his offer.

  The phone rings four times before a groggy Vankin answers on the other end. “Hello?”

  In Russian, I speak, “This is client Black in need of your services.”

  When I hear scuffling on the other end of the phone, I can picture him getting out of bed to find a private place to have our conversation.

  Vankin replies back in Russian, “Black, what’s going on?”

  “I have been arrested and am in need of some legal guidance, old friend,” I happily say.

  “What are the charges?” Vankin is in full attorney mode, not one I’m too familiar with.

  “Murder, attempted murder, kidnapping …” I taper off, trying to recall exactly what the fat officer told me on the car ride to the prison.

  “Where are you located?” I can hear Vankin scurrying again; only, he’s not quiet about it this time.

  “Blythe Harbor, Washington.”

  “I will be there in … less than five hours. Do not speak to anyone. Not one word.” His stern voice sounds very intense.

  The phone clicks off, and I set it down. Now the waiting game begins. I will need Vankin to summon Manny and eventually get Josslyn to me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Josslyn

  August 9, 2015 2:57 p.m.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  His shoulders are taut. His back is rigid, poised, as his fists pound into the firm leather bag. The succession of hits comes in twos …

  Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  The curve of his spine twists with every controlled pound, and I watch this lethal assassin train his body for the next round.

  He keeps his feet planted as he destroys the heavy bag in front of him. The air floods with sweaty, sweet cologne, and I can taste the saltiness on my tongue. Then he turns around.

  The killer I have been searching for stands over me, sweat beading down his muscled torso, and I’m entranced.

  He leans down, grabbing my shoulders, and pulls me to my feet. With my bound arms and feet, I stumble as I attempt to regain my balance. He says nothing to me as he leans forward and puts his face so very close to mine.

  My curiosity takes over when I stare at his lips, deciding there is no time like the present. An uncontrollable force lifts my feet, putting me on the tips of my toes.

  I lean my head forward. The intensity of this moment breaks down the well-constructed wall I have built around myself. I never let people in, but with a single glance, I want to tell him my darkest secrets, though only after I taste his lips. I move even closer to him. His hot breath tickles my lips, and then …

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  My body jerks awake with a painful jolt, my eyes shooting open. Confused about where I’m, I soon realize I’m panting from the very vivid images that were just playing in my mind. I’m not sure if it was a nightmare or the best dream of my life. My sudden wakeup call will never let me know.

  I look down. My bed. I’m lying on my bed. When I look to the side, I see the old family photo sitting on the dresser. I release a breath and shake my head to clear my mind of the grogginess from the sleeping pill I took.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. The loud sound makes me jump and puts all my senses on full alert.

  I pull my cell phone off the nightstand and note that I have been sleeping for well over ten hours. I yank the covers back, stand, and the pain in my side ignites, instantly waking me from any drug-induced stupor I was living in minutes ago. Nikolai certainly didn’t hold back when he landed punches to my midsection. On that note, I refuse to look in the mirror, certain the giant bruise on the side of my face hasn’t gone away while I slept.

  I push my fist into my side to slightly ease the pain as I shuffle my feet to my front door. I shake my legs to readjust my yoga pants and look down at my shirt, noticing it does nothing to hide my cleavage. Therefore, I pull a sweatshirt from the back of the chair, covering my breasts before they decide to pop out of my tank top.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “I’m coming!” I shout from my kitchen, rolling my eyes, knowing it is probably Gabe wanting to check on me.

  On the way home, after the events at The Ruins, Gabe dropped me off and said he would be back in the afternoon, but I don’t want to see him. All I want to do is go back to bed—go back to my dream. It was all I could do to get him to leave this morning.

  He made sure an undercover cop was outside until they were able to get more information from Nikolai. I told Gabe he was ridiculous to have someone on duty as my babysitter, but there was no arguing with him. And in all honesty, I didn’t have the energy to do much once we left The Ruins. I could barely talk. I was just too overwhelmed.

  I will punch that undercover cop in the face if he�
�s pounding on my door to use the bathroom. He can go to the gas station across the street. I unlatch the deadbolt and jerk the door open. “What do yo—”

  My stomach drops to the floor. I know this man. His short stature and the star tattoo under his right eye is a dead giveaway.

  This man is the go-to person for the illegal happenings down at the ports. The criminal underworld must pay him handsomely to keep their secrets, and he has been a popular fellow lately as they take over the ports in Blythe Harbor. I have interviewed him in the past regarding missing persons cases, but he has never been very helpful. Now I finally understand why. He’s no killer, but he is connected to the men who are. And if he’s here, then there has to be only one purpose—Nikolai. I suddenly feel grateful for Gabe’s instinct to have a man outside my door. Thinking of … Where the hell is he?

  “Good afternoon, detective,” Manny says as he casually steps into my apartment like we are old friends.

  I shut the door and start running through my emergency escape plan. My dad always taught me to be prepared, and ever since the night he was murdered, I made sure I have an exit strategy in place.

  I have a dozen hand guns hidden around the place. I start recalling exactly where they are as I try to remember if I left my bedroom window open. Where the hell is the undercover cop?

  I stare as he walks deeper into my home and makes himself comfortable at my kitchen table. He rests his leather-clad hands on the table then motions for me to take a seat. Slowly, I make my way into the kitchen. Fortunately for me, Manny is sitting in the perfect place, because fastened underneath the table and across from him is my snub nose .38 revolver. If he attempts to touch me, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.