The Madison Jennings Series Box Set

by Kiara Ashanti

“Um, no. My mom is a bit . . . paranoid about social media and the Internet. My computer in my room doesn’t even have it.”

  “So, if I want to talk to you I have to, like, dial your number?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tommy shook his head. “Lilly, get your dad to contact child services. This is abuse.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Despite the bright spot of new friends, Maddie struggled through the rest of the school day. All she could think about was her first dance class with Vaska. She was not sure how she would approach him or what the reaction to her proposal would be, but she was eager to find out. Minutes after the bell sounded, signaling the end of the school day, she bounced toward her mom’s car.

  “Wow, aren’t we energetic. Did you get into speed or rock salts or whatever you youngsters do these days?”

  Maddie wrinkled her lip at the mocking question. “It’s bath salts, not rock. And speed? What is that? Is that like . . . CDs? No, it’s like cassette tapes, right?”

  Tina swatted Maddie’s leg. “Don’t you call me old in a backhanded way, you parent-headache.”

  Maddie giggled, then heaved her backpack into the backseat. “Do you mind dropping me off at the studio early? I haven’t done this for a while, and I want to do some extra stretching.”

  Maddie smiled, then turned to look out the window. She did not want to plant any suspicions in her mother, which she knew would happen if she looked too self-satisfied. She was under no illusions about how Mr. Popov would react initially. A flat no was the first answer she expected. Throughout the day she had mentally tried to game several different responses to any negative reaction to her plan.

  Only one thing was certain: She would need to convince him. This would be no small feat, given what she would be asking. Getting agreement might require a good lie or just the plain the truth. Between the two choices, she knew her mother would say lie. Of course, if she knew what Maddie was up to, Tina would have a cow.

  The moment the car pulled in front of the studio, Maddie bolted. “Thanks, Mom. Bye.” If Tina responded, Maddie did not hear her. She was as focused as when hunting and about to pull the trigger.

  Maddie walked into the studio and saw Vaska among a group of young girls standing in the fourth position. Butterflies exploded in her stomach and turned her wave of hello into a manic window wipe.

  “Ah, Madison. You are early, no?”

  “Just wanted extra warm-up time.”

  Vaska looked at the clock on the wall and raised a dubious eyebrow. “Thirty minutes is a little long to stretch. But you can change upstairs and stretch on the dance floor there. I come get you when I finish the class.”

  “Thanks,” said Maddie as she dashed up the stairs. When she reached the second floor, she berated herself. She was acting like an exuberant fool. She went into the small women’s changing room and threw on a shirt and a pair of loose nylon pants. Maddie sat down and started a breathing exercise she used before all shooting competitions. She needed to clear her mind before talking with Vaska. She needed to convey seriousness, as her proposal was a serious matter.

  After a few moments, she felt centered enough to go out to the dance floor. She performed several exercises to warm up and stretch her muscles. She could feel her nervous energy coming back, so she started to bounce up and down, like a boxer readying for a fight.

  Maddie looked into the mirror and moved into an apkubi seogi, the first pose in tae kwon do. Then she snapped out a punch. She did not scream “Kai” like you are supposed to do. She did not want the class downstairs to hear her. Instead, she sent a strong, hissing breath through her mouth. A snap kick followed the punch, which flowed into a high-spinning roundhouse kick. She was pleased to see her execution and form were perfect.

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled, she turned to see Vaska’s son, Victor, looking at her. Embarrassment shot through her at being caught doing kung fu moves in a ballet studio. She covered it with snarkiness. “Practicing my fight moves, dancing boy.”

  Victor burst into laughter. “Yeah, well that explains the black eye. You need better moves.”

  Anger swelled inside Maddie, but Vaska’s timely appearance forestalled a response. She was here for a purpose that did not include a back-and-forth with her teacher’s son.

  “Victor, go downstairs,” said Vaska. After Victor scampered down the stairwell, Vaska turned to Maddie. “Those sweats are good for many things, but not for ballet. I cannot see the proper form in them.”

  Maddie’s moment had arrived.

  “Um yeeahh. About that . . . can I talk to you in private before we start?” To emphasize the desire to speak alone, Maddie glanced toward the stairs apprehensively. She felt satisfied when, after a moment, Vaska nodded and headed toward his office.

  Maddie’s stomach filled with dancing gremlins as she followed the large man. Once in his office, he sat down in his chair and stared at Maddie across the desk between them. His bushy eyebrows flexed down as a frown formed on his face. She knew he was staring at the bruises on her face.

  “Is that why you wish to wear sweats, to cover more of those?”

  The question threw Maddie off guard. Her eyes widened when the implication dawned on her. “Oh no. No, I don’t have any other bruises. Well, I do, but not from what you’re thinking. Oh God, no. My parents would never—this is something else and a conscious choice.”

  Vaska slid back from the desk and brought one hand up to stroke his chin. Maddie could tell he was thinking something through. He held the pose for what felt like an eon to Maddie before he turned his eye to her pants.

  The moment had arrived. There would be no better opening, but Maddie found all her rehearsed lines forgotten. Panic began to build inside, but she squashed it. She would handle this the way she had handled everything else in the last six years: Plow ahead like a semi with no brakes.

  “I didn’t come to learn to dance.”

  That brought her a raised eyebrow. “Is that so? Then why are you here? If you think to cost your parents money while you sneak away to . . . someplace else . . . I cannot allow that. And your first meeting did not give me the impression that you would hang out in mall shopping, so I’m not sure what you would sneak out to do, but I will not pretend and take parents’ money for that.”

  “Yeah, shopping,” Maddie snorted. “My mom would actually love that. But no. I came for that,” she finished, pointing at Vaska’s arm.

  He glanced down at it. “What do you think you know about that?”

  “I know it’s not a tattoo of the Bat-Signal.”

  “No, it is not. That does not answer my question.”

  The frost that began to form between them didn’t stop Maddie from her mission. “I know that’s the mark of the Spetsnaz, Russian special forces, one of four groups seen as the toughest and best military units in the world. The others are the SEALs, British SAS, and IDF. No one gets that tat without being in the unit. You teach ballet now, but you were and are Spetsnaz.”

  The temperature lowered as Vaska narrowed his eyes. His hand moved toward the tattoo like one would move their hand toward a pit viper. He was slow, waiting for the bite. “A lifetime ago. Better left in the past. What does this . . . the knowledge you think you know about my past have to do with dance?”

  “Nothing. I want you to train me . . . and before you say a word, not in dance.”

  Vaska’s head snapped back. “What? No, no this is not possible.” Further words failed him, leaving just his shaking head as an answer. He reached for the phone on his desk. Maddie reacted like a snake striking and flung her hand down on the receiver.

  “No. Mr. Popov, please hear me out. Let me explain.”

  He hesitated but relented. “Explain yourself, but the answer will still be no. You think you know what you ask. You do not.”

  Maddie looked at him, then stood up from her chair. She paced back and forth as she spoke. “Every day, that is every morning, I get up and train. I run. I exe
rcise—push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, whatever will make me strong. I strengthen my mind with reading—that’s why I know about Spetsnaz. I know about all the special units.” She held out her hand to forestall the comment she knew was upon his lips.

  “Yes, reading is not knowing. I’ve taken kickboxing, tae kwon do, a little traditional kung fu. I hunt, camp, and I’m a crack shot already. It’s not enough. I need to know more. I need to know the things a warrior knows. Spetsnaz are one of the best; some say the best. That means you are one of the best. No one short of a SEAL could train me better.”

  “Young lady, Spetsnaz are not warriors. They are killers.”

  The words had heat and sharpness. Each was blunted against Maddie’s resolve.

  “Yes, they are, and I need the knowledge of a killer.”

  “Why would a young girl need to know what killers know? You think this is an action movie or video game? You live in free country, in the suburbs with good schools and safe streets.”

  Maddie snorted. “A fat lot of good that did me six years ago.”

  Vaska’s hand froze midstretch toward his phone. He looked at her with questioning eyes.

  Without invitation, she walked around his desk. She grabbed his keyboard and opened an Internet browser. She could have used several keywords, but true to her personality, she decided on the most direct: “The Christmas Day Massacre.”

  Eighty-one million results came up in Google Search. Maddie clicked on the first link and an image considered to be one of the most historic and iconic from that day appeared on the screen: a small girl with black hair running into the arms of her mother with the smoldering ruins of a movie theater behind her. Maddie had seen the image a thousand times, and each time she did, an inferno of pain and anger flooded her. She turned the computer screen toward Vaska and channeled the heat raging through her into words.

  “My name is not Madison Jennings. It’s Madelynne Collins. That’s me running . . . right after this.” She skipped Google Search and typed in a specific web address she knew refused to take down any footage from that day. When the site came up, she clicked on a video link. The video showed her last moments inside the theater: A black man stood between her and two men with guns. He was using his body as a shield against gunfire.

  Maddie did not look at the video. It played enough in her own mind. Her eyes were trained on Vaska. She was gratified to see an angry fire in his eyes as he watched the video play.

  “My mother changed our names, all of us, and moved us a half dozen times to keep me out of the news, to make me disappear. She did not want the history of that moment to follow me. She has succeeded to some degree. I haven’t been interviewed or bothered by a reporter in seven years. But she has failed in other ways. It still follows me every day, even if the press does not. I’m not a child anymore. My childhood ended on that day. It was stolen from me—that and much, much more. Why do I need the knowledge of a killer? To never be helpless again, and if necessary, to stop terrorist pieces of shit!”

  She was breathing heavily when she finished. Vaska stared at the computer screen stone-faced as he took the mouse in hand, moved it around the site, and clicked on random images from the attack and enlarged them.

  “I remember that day. I rushed home. I wanted Victor to turn the computer off to stop watching. I could not look away as he ran out on screen.” Vaska had reached the last picture in the slideshow. Maddie was all too familiar with it; she had a copy of the image sitting on her desk at home. It showed a smiling Zavier Hunter standing next to her right after a Girl Scout Jamboree. News agencies had copied the photo from Zavier’s Facebook page.

  Maddie muffled a strangled cry in her throat. Some people in her position would fight the tears; she did not. It was one way of honoring the love she knew Zavier had had for her and his sacrifice; the other way was why she was talking to Vaska.

  Vaska stood up from his chair and wrapped her in an embrace. He did not know her, but there were only two paths he could take at this moment. A hug was one. The other was simple.

  Vaska opened a drawer and grabbed a tissue. “Wipe your eyes, little one. Training starts today.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Maddie’s elation was short-lived.

  Instead of the immediate imparting of badass, hand-to-hand combat skills, there were instead rules.

  No lethal or crippling skills.

  No gun or firearm drills. Maddie responded to that rule with a sarcastic, “No duh.”

  A cuff on the shoulder for the comment led into the next rule.

  No talking back or disobedience. Listen, practice, and learn was the motto.

  The last rule was simple: No fighting at school. If Mr. Popov learned she ever used what he was teaching her in school, he would cease training her.

  “What if someone else starts the fight? I didn’t”—she pointed at her bruised eye—“ask for this.” Strictly speaking, the statement was false, but the question was valid in her mind. Vaska’s response was crisp, cold, and pointed.

  “There are two ways to end a fight: End it or walk away. The first is for war. You are not in a war. You are in high school. Walk away.”

  Embarrassment and a massive dose of humble pie followed. Vaska decided to put her through an evaluation to gauge her skills, strength, and fitness by having her spar with his son. Annoyance swirled through her veins. Victor was younger and shorter than Maddie. She did not consider sparring with him a good way to evaluate her fighting skills.

  Quickly, she would find that her learning would start with not making assumptions. Victor knocked Maddie on her butt time and time again. Push-ups and pull-ups showcased her strength—she thought. But then Vaska had her hold several dance poses. She held each for a miniscule number of seconds before losing the proper form.

  When he was finished, Vaska ticked off her deficiencies, as he called them, like a laundry list.

  “You’ve watched too many Jet Li and Jason Statham movies. You are jumping around like a jackrabbit with your high kicks. Real fights are not like that. You are strong for a girl your age, but you lack strength in supporting muscles and endurance. Fighting is not like running a mile. It tires you out faster.”

  The next few weeks settled Maddie into a routine. She arrived at the studio a half hour early every day. She spent the first hour on real ballet lessons. Vaska may have agreed to train her, but he insisted on providing the lessons her mother was paying him to give her. Maddie balked to no avail. Vaska was ironclad in his decision but did take the time to explain the benefits that ballet training brought to combat training and fitness. He even gave her a copy of a book by his favorite author, Greg Rucka, who describes his main character learning ballet as part of the training he received from an assassin.

  It was exhausting, forcing her to reduce and then cut out her morning workout routines. She was getting more than enough at the end of each school day. She was tired, sore, bruised, and loving every second of it.

  She did not, however, love the endless hours of high school hell she had to endure. She was breezing through most of her classes—a testament to her intelligence and her mother’s teaching skills—and found she was ahead in many of her subjects. The two exceptions were Mr. Bilson’s class and Mr. Y Leiro’s. She was convinced that the latter was a communist. The former, on the other hand, was the source of her current migraine as she and Tiffani sat in study hall working on their women in combat paper.

  “Argh!” Maddie grunted and raised two fisted hands in frustration. “I cannot believe he wants us to argue against this stupid idea. It’s just so, so stupid!”

  Tiffani tossed her blond tresses over her shoulder and fixed Maddie with a serious stare. She waited a beat before pushing all their study material for their paper to the side.

  “Is it?” asked Tiffani.

  “What? Of course it is. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just asking the question. Not for the paper, but for like real. What’s wrong with women being . . . mor
e traditional?”

  “Traditional how? Like stuck in the house traditional or needing men to protect them traditional?”

  Tiffani sighed then shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know. My parents . . . they believed that they each had roles. Gender specific yes, but each had their own power and burden in their roles.”

  Maddie tilted her head to the side as confusion and annoyance scrolled over her face. Annoyance won out. “What the hell is your deal all of a sudden? Has working on the other side for this dumb project got you mentally twisted now?”

  “Don’t go all Mad Maddie on me,” answered Tiffani, her own irritation bleeding through.

  Maddie leaned over the table. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed.

  “Then stop being so . . . I don’t know, you! You’re always so intense. About everything. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before you make it out of high school.”

  Maddie leaned back in her chair. She knew the words were true. “I’ve had an intense life,” she said. The moment the words came out, she regretted speaking them.

  “Whatever, Madison. I’m not sure how you would expect me to know that. You barely talk about yourself.”

  The truth in the words made Maddie flinch. She knew Tiffani was right. She did it on purpose. After six years, she had become an expert at avoiding any deep reveals about her past or family.

  Maddie reached out to touch the hand Tiffani was reaching with to gather back their notes. “Sorry. After moving around so much, I’ve never felt I’ve had anything to share.”

  “Are you kidding? All those new places. Never needing to conform to what people expect from you because you’re always meeting new people. You can change who you are anytime you want. It sounds like freedom.”

  Freedom was not how Maddie saw it. A rat in a maze could move around, but it was still surrounded by walls. That is what she felt like. What she said was, “I never looked at it like that. But I can see what you mean.” She paused before continuing. “Do you mind telling me what happened?”