Sold to the Hitman Page 17

  It isn’t difficult to find one, and I quickly carry my man inside and close the door behind me. The room seems to be used for food storage, as there are crates of dry goods and fresh produce laid out on tables, presumably for the reception of Kasym’s funeral.

  I set the guard onto the ground and strip him in a matter of seconds. In less than a minute, I’ve donned his coat and trousers, and I’m able to pull the collar of the jacket up to obscure my face. To the staff, I won’t be distinguishable from any of the other guards newly brought inside for this job.

  After binding and gagging the guard with a spare tablecloth, I store him inside a pantry and head back out.

  As soon as I’m in the hallway again, my heart skips a beat as I see a maid a few yards ahead of me. She turns to glance at me as I come out...and to my relief, she turns back and carries on her way.

  I make haste in the opposite direction.

  I make my way swiftly up several flights of stairs, moving as quietly as possible. I’ve had the good fortune of having been to this manor before.

  And a hitman never forgets the layout of a building.

  The smell of fine wood and rich, expensive carpeting accompanies me as I move up the stairs. It’s a strange contrast for the Sergei I know, the sleazy, skeevy Bratva boss on his way to some other hedonistic diversion. But the relatively pristine state of the house is telling that he spends very little time here; the place hardly seems lived-in.

  But I know my information is good. He’s here, and he’s scared.

  He has a study-office on the top floor. I make my way to the floor just below that, then take a left into the long hallway. The security on the top floor will be even tighter right now, if I know Sergei.

  So I make my way down the hall towards a bedroom I stayed in the one time I visited this place. I was here on business, one of the first times I met Sergei. A mutual friend was introducing us, and I remember loathing the man from the very start.

  But even with that gut instinct, I never thought I’d be where I am today.

  I push open the door to the old guest room, and the door bumps into the butler who was half a pace to the door handle.

  He looks apologetic for a moment, until he gets a good look at my face.

  “Wait, you’re not —”

  I’m on him in an instant, one of my hands wrapping around his head, covering his mouth, the other hand pointing the gun at his head.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” I whisper as the man trembles in my grasp, his eyes focusing on the gun barrel. “I’m going to end this. But I need information.”

  I feel his head give an almost imperceptible nod, the man clearly too afraid to make any sudden movements.

  “That window there,” I nod my head towards the open curtains at the far end of the room, near the bed, “will the guards be looking up at them? Monitoring the windows, the roof?”

  There’s a pause as the butler thinks, then he gives his head a quick shake, looking up at me in no small measure of terror — but honesty.

  “Good. I’m about to release you. Go into that closet by the door and hide. You’ll know when it’s time to leave.”

  I let the man go, and he takes a breath, grasping his throat for a moment before scurrying off to obey my orders without a moment wasted. I make my way towards the window.

  Sliding it open, the night air greets me, but I only savor it for a breath before climbing up on the railing and crawling up the side of the brick wall.

  I glance at the grounds below as I go. The gardens are crawling with guards — it would have been impossible to get here without my allies on the inside.

  Gliding along the wall like a shadow, keeping far out of the lights from below, I move past the top floor and leap onto the slanted rooftop, crouching low as I make my way to the opposite side of the house.

  The butler was wrong, I realize as a noise pricks my ears. There was at least one guard up here. I press myself up against a chimney in the darkness and wait for him to walk by before slipping up behind the man and dispatching him with the blackjack as I had the first.

  Without any more time to waste, I move to the opposite edge of the rooftop.

  A small trail of smoke is spiralling up from the balcony below. I know who it belongs to.

  As I crane my neck over the side, I see Sergei Slokavich, leaning on the balcony railing and surveying the grounds below with a cigar in his hand. He’s wearing only a silk bathrobe. When I speak, I address him in Russian.

  “Even if you scream, the guards won’t be here in time.”

  As Sergei whirls around with the pistol he was hiding in his robe, I’m already halfway down upon him, snatching the weapon as if it were a toy and turning it on him an instant after landing.

  He holds his hands up, his face pale as he sees me standing over him, his own revolver pointed at his skull. Nevertheless, there’s something troublingly calm in his eyes as he watches me, and after a moment, he even begins to smile.

  “So,” he answers in our mother language, “the attack dog turns on its master.”

  “You still think I ever cared to be a slave to the likes of you?”

  “I know you do. It’s in your blood. I’m your family, Andrei,” he hisses, “the Bratva brought you in, raised you, made you what you are! You owe us everything, and this is how you repay us?”

  My mind flashes to the faces of Cassie’s parents, coldly giving her away to be sold off like a piece of meat at the market. “Sometimes, family ties have their limits. You’ve gone too far, Sergei. The common soldiers of the Bratva know that.”

  “Bullshit,” he snarls back, sneering. “You are just like the rest of them. You know what all of you are? A bunch of minnows swimming in a sea of big fish.” He pounds his chest, narrowing his eyes at me. “Sharks like me? Sometimes we let you little fish swim alongside us. We give you food from the kills we make, we give you protection from the other sharks that would have you for lunch if you were left alone, and we even go out of our way to give you a little fun on the side. You, Andrei? You’re just my shadow. The shadow of a shark that some of the other little fish want to flock to.”

  Now it’s my turn to smile.

  “Had time to think that one out, did you? Is that what you tell yourself when you’re selling off women’s lives as if they were cattle? Letting people get slaughtered for your pet project your son was? Something you should have remembered, Sergei,” I say as I cock my gun, “if you treat people like animals, don’t be surprised when they hunt you down like one.”

  He lets out a cruel laugh into the night. “Heroic, but too late, my shadow.” I arch a brow, and he nods to the cell phone sitting on the balcony railing. “You don’t think I knew you were coming for me? Didn’t think I’d find your little safehouse?”

  My heart stands still a moment as Sergei’s eyes narrow at me, his grin showing off his rotting, stained teeth. “I gave the order before you even jumped down here. Your little bride is already dead.”

  With a roar, I lurch forward and seize Sergei Slokavich by the neck, hurling him over the side of the railing and off the balcony, watching his face contort into a scream as he falls down four stories, and there’s a sickening sound as he lands on the tip of the fountain below, the stone point sticking out of his impaled body. His lifeless eyes stare up at me as a handful of alarmed guards gather around him, looking up at the balcony and pointing.

  But I’m already gone, flying through the house like a spectre.

  A shadow cannot exist without its light.

  24

  Cassie

  I’m sitting in the office of the warehouse in the dark, the room lit only by the unnatural glow of a laptop screen. The little digital clock in the corner of the screen reads 2:27 AM. My nails, formerly smooth and painted bright pink at one of the many salons Andrei took me to, have been bitten down to the quick. I’m shivering, even though I’m perched under three blankets, my legs folded under me on the bedroll. At this point in my pregnancy, this is the cl
osest to comfortable I can possibly manage. Standing up for too long is agony. I’ve tried lying down on my back, my left side, my right side — nothing works. So I just sit.

  If I’d been spending all this time alone, I surely would have lost my mind by now. The cold silence and dull, tedious surroundings make a powerful case for cabin fever — a term I learned from a series of excessive, boredom-induced Wikipedia searches. But with Andrei around, the time has been significantly less awful. He’s been so sweet and attentive, even talkative. But now he’s left me here. I’m not sure where he’s gone to, but I know exactly what he is going there to do.

  He’s going to kill the man who’s forced us to hide here.

  Underneath the pile of blankets, my left hand rests on my stomach, gently rubbing slow circles over the protruding bump there. These motions are just as much to soothe myself as they are meant to comfort the baby inside. He kicks every now and then, as if to remind me that he’s here with me still. And my right hand… well, it’s wrapped around the handle of a gun.

  The safety is off and I dare not even approach the trigger for fear of accidentally firing the shiny little widow-maker. I wonder to myself if my unborn son can sense how frightened I am, how close he is in proximity to a powerful weapon. I hope with all my racing heart that he can’t tell where we are or what’s going on. I would never wish this kind of terror on anyone, much less my own tiny child. The laptop screen goes dark as it’s sat untouched for too long, leaving me totally blind. A shiver runs a cold trail down my spine.

  “It’s okay, little one,” I murmur, my voice thin and shaking. “Daddy will be back soon, I’m sure. He’s going to make everything alright and we’ll get to leave this place for good. And as soon as he gets back I’m going to throw this stupid gun into a dumpster. Or a volcano.”

  At first when Andrei showed me — carefully — how to use it, I told him over and over that I would sooner die than fire a gun. But then he reminded me that I’m not just carrying it to protect myself — it’s our son’s life I must protect, as well. He told me that once this is over, I will never have to so much as look at a gun again for the rest of my life. He promised me that this would be the end of the terror, the end of the war.

  For that’s what it feels like right now. I am a fugitive, hiding in the dark. The forces of evil are stalking me, desperately trying to pin down my location so they can finally put an end to me and my baby. But I refuse to give in so easily. The old Cassandra would be cowering, completely inconsolable, totally hysterical with panic.

  But right now I am surprisingly calm. Sure, my hands are shaking and my stomach is twisting in knots, but I’m done hiding. My strong, noble husband is out there somewhere, finding the big boss so he can chop off the head of the snake and put an end to this. He’s on the offense.

  It is my job to maintain the defense here.

  I know I’m in danger. Andrei has already explained to me that these men are totally ruthless, that they’ll do anything in their power to stop him — to hurt him. And he says that they know about me now. They know how to hit him where it really hurts: his heart.

  That means me. And our son.

  So I’ve got to be strong, for the three of us. I clench my teeth, staring into the darkness expectantly. I don’t know what is going to come through that door first: my husband, returning triumphantly from battle, or some lowlife criminal, hell-bent on using me and my baby as bargaining chips. Or as collateral. Or… just to kill us for the sake of killing.

  I shudder to myself but won’t look away from the direction of the door. I must stay vigilant and patient while the war rages far beyond these walls.

  “I swear I’m going to give you the happiest life any little boy could have,” I whisper, patting my stomach. “You’re going to have a toy boat, and a teddy bear, and a —”

  Just then, a small sliver of light pierces the darkness.

  The door is slowly, slowly opening. I hold my breath, too afraid to even blink. Under my left hand, my baby kicks. I pray silently, desperately, that it’s because his father is approaching. It must be Andrei. It has to be.

  Still, I tighten my grip on the gun.

  The shaft of light across the floor widens ever so slightly as somebody walks into the warehouse. I strain my eyes and ears, watching and listening for any hint, any trace of my husband. I listen closely to the approaching footsteps, hoping to somehow discern from their weight and rhythm whether they belong to Andrei. But it’s a futile attempt. In my current state of paralyzed terror combined with the pitch-black darkness, I have no idea who is walking in.

  The footfalls are heavy, dragging. They don’t sound like my husband, who is surprisingly light-footed in spite of his size. But I could be wrong. What if it is Andrei, and he’s hurt? A limp of some kind would certainly account for the change in gait. My heart pounds so loudly that I worry the intruder might hear it and be able to find me that way.

  The column of light suddenly dissipates, leaving the three of us in total darkness: me, my unborn son, and the mysterious, possibly lethal stranger walking slowly toward us.

  My head grows fuzzy as it dawns on me that I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. My lungs are so tightly constricted in my chest that my body aches, from more than just pregnancy pain. I have to take a breath before I pass out.

  So I do. One quick, sharp inhale.

  And that’s all it takes.

  There’s a deafening crack — the unmistakable sound of a gun firing at mid-range. In the split second following, I gasp and close my eyes tightly, wrapping my left arm around my stomach, my mind going totally blank with fear as I brace myself for the inevitable pain.

  But it doesn’t come. Instead, the office window breaks with a hail of broken glass and the laptop to my right shatters in a spark of electrical light, plastic bits flying. I scream involuntarily, and in response I hear a deep, cruel laugh.

  He yells something in Russian that I don’t understand.

  “Leave us alone!” I cry, fumbling to get a solid grip on the gun. Everything is still totally dark — I can’t even tell what direction the voice is coming from, other than vaguely in front of me. Trembling, gritting my teeth so hard it makes my jaw ache, I lift up the gun and point it weakly before me.

  “Vremya umirat!” he snarls.

  I hear the distinct, horrifying sound of a gun cocking.

  Before I have even a nanosecond to think about it, I pull the trigger.

  The gun pops with such a powerful, loud jolt that it falls from my hand. There’s a strangled shout and then the sound of something heavy collapsing to the floor. I hyperventilate, rocking back and forth with both arms wrapped protectively around my belly. I have no idea if I have killed my attacker or if he is simply wounded and preparing to shoot at me again — but I know that I simply cannot bring myself to fire the gun another time.

  Just then, the warehouse door swings open with a bang, admitting a wide column of moonlight to break through the shadows, the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man in the doorway. Several yards in front of him, the dim light just barely illuminates the still, lifeless body of the intruder.

  “Andrei?” I call out, my voice wavering. I am too frightened to even consider the possibility that this second person might be yet another enemy.

  “Cassie!”

  It’s Andrei’s voice. My heartbeat quickens and tears burn in my eyes as I struggle to get to my feet. I need to be near him, now. I need to hold him in my arms and make absolutely certain that he is real, that he’s alive.

  He bolts toward me, sidestepping the dead body in front of him, bursting through the office door and sweeping me into his arms. He smells like gunpowder, like death — and yet, when he kisses the top of my head, I feel more alive than ever.

  “Moya lyubova, are you alright? Oh, my sweet zhena!” he murmurs, covering my face with kisses, his hands gripping me like he is afraid I’ll dematerialize at any moment.

  “I — I shot him,” I reply through a thick l
ayer of tears.

  “You did, malyshka, and you got him. You did so well, and I am so proud of you.”

  “Is he — is he dead?”

  “Da, angel. He’s dead.”

  “And Sergei?”

  “We will never see the likes of him again,” Andrei assures me, his hand reaching down to rub my pregnant belly. “Our son will be born into a much safer world now.”

  “Oh, Andrei!” I gush, burying my face in his strong chest. He strokes the back of my head, gently weaving his fingers in and out of my blonde hair.

  “I promise you things will be different now. We don’t have to live in fear anymore. I’m going to protect us, and I’m never leaving you again.”

  We cling to each other this way for what feels like an eternity, simply soaking in each other’s presence, breathing in a shared relief. I never want to let him go.

  “Ya tebya lyublyu,” I mumble into his shirt.

  “I love you, too.”

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  “Smile, Max!”

  Andrei stands in front of us holding his iPhone, the camera flash lighting up and making the ten-month-old baby in my arms blink in confusion. I beam at the camera, tickling him to make him giggle. An infectious, delighted peal of laughter comes out of his little mouth, causing both Andrei and me to burst into laughter, too.

  We’re sitting on a woolly blanket in Central Park, the three of us bundled up in thick sweaters, mittens, and scarves. My little son’s chubby, cherubic face is all rosy-cheeked from the brisk cold, so I reach into the diaper bag to retrieve his knit beanie with ear flaps. He hates the hat, I know, but the last thing we need is a sick baby on our hands. Especially since we are just about to leave on a trip tomorrow!

  “Oh, that’s a good one,” Andrei says, grinning. Sometimes it still catches me off-guard to see him looking this way — so happy and carefree. He used to smile only rarely, and when he did, it was a tentative, fleeting expression. Like he was afraid to be happy. But nowadays he’s almost always smiling, laughing, making silly faces and sounds to entertain baby Maxim.