Bone Deep (6 page)

She clenched her fists as she struggled to contain the hate.

She had learned so much under the man who called himself Master. Abela taught her to channel her rage. He taught her to be quicker in mind and body than her opponents. He was the one who taught her lusting for death was as natural as breathing and if she accepted it, took it inside her and succored that desire, she would become death in whatever form she chose. What her father began when she’d been a baby, had found fruit and manifested first under Joseph then Abela. Master, had given her a target and she’d taken everything he taught her and utilized it perfectly.

His last look had been one of surprise.

She’d been nine years old when she stuffed the head she’d ripped from his shoulders into a knapsack and hopped a plane to Arequipa. Bone had hitched a ride to the compound and walked through the woods, avoiding all the booby-traps and cameras, until she walked into the main house and found Joseph sitting at his dinner table, a slew of guests dressed in shimmery clothing and shiny jewelry fawning over the bastard, listening to some story he was telling them.

She had taken Abela’s head from the knapsack and placed it on Joseph’s ivory dinner plate before she stepped back and stared at him.

He had clapped in delight and then had Minton string her up from the highest cliff in the mountains. She had soiled his dinner plate, spoiled his grand party, and should be punished after all. He left her in the hold of those fraying ropes for three days. It had taken fifteen men to overcome her and she’d sworn she’d never be caught that way again. Yet another lesson Abela taught her—this one from the grave.

“I killed Abela at the age of nine, Grant. Dmitry may have trained under him, but I
am
him.”

Grant winced, rubbed his chest and nodded. “We’re about five minutes out now. Are you ready?”

She simply looked at him.

He nodded again and said, “I’ll drop you off and you’re on your own. I hope to see you around, Bone.”

“Hope is for fools,” she said in return.

The car stopped and she hopped out. He drove off, and she watched the red lights disappear under the blanket of snow falling from the sky. The cold wasn’t a deterrent tonight. The material of her unitard was such that she was insulated against the weather. She tucked her hair under the hood and secured it over her head and face.

She made her way through the dense forest that surrounded Vadim Yesipov’s mansion and stashed her backpack in a secure place. The waterproof bag held everything she valued with the exception of her sisters. She covered the area with leaves and dirt and then stood and glanced up into the night sky.

“
Zeh mah sheyesh
,” she whispered to the twinkling lights piercing the blackness.
This is what there is; there is no more.
The Hebrew rolled off her tongue effortlessly.

Her father had once whispered it as she’d watched him kill a man. She’d been born to follow in her mother and father’s footsteps. They’d been little more than glorified terrorists wrapping their own need to kill all who didn’t believe as they did in the cloak of righteousness.

How life had come full circle for Bone. Her parents could have never imagined what she would mature into. They’d be delighted she was sure.

Bone opened the floodgates and let the rage that always burned under her surface consume her. The taste of it was sweet on her tongue. The feel of it in her blood was potent. The demon in her soul delighted in being freed.

She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply and once more spoke the words she’d said over Ninka all those years ago.

“Baruch dayan emet, aval n’kamah hayah mokesh,”
Bone whispered.
“Shalom, achot.”

Vadim had been expecting him. Dmitry was ushered into the main salon and offered a heavy crystal snifter of Vadim’s finest vodka. Dmitry tossed it back and let out a loud groan. The vodka chased away the headache he sported since being choked out by Bone.

Vadim laughed and clapped him on the back. “How is the son of my blood-brother?”

“I will be better soon,” Dmitry said vaguely.

The game was in play. When he’d recovered after watching Bone jump off a five story building into the canal below, he’d straightened his clothing and headed to Yesipov’s mansion outside St. Petersburg.

“Yes,” Vadim breathed out heavily. “Once we find the bitch who did this, we will all be better. My brother lies dead and my nephew had his head nearly taken off. Did you see it?”

Dmitry looked his greatest enemy in the face and shook his head. “I was being serviced in the bathroom, Vadim. I missed it. When I came out, there was chaos and people were screaming about a woman. I tried to save Boris but was too late. He was already gone when I found him among the dead.”

Vadim wiped a tear from his eye. Dmitry wanted to punch him until blood poured from his face instead of tears. He relaxed his hands lest he shatter the glass he held.

“My brother had his faults. I’m sure Anatoly is somehow responsible for this. I tried to tell him but he refused to listen to me,” Vadim reported sadly. “It seems I now have a position to fill, Dmitry.”

Dmitry barely controlled his wince. The bastard would waste no time, eh? “You know I am searching for my family’s killer, Vadim. I have no time for the
Bratva
,” he bit out.

Vadim’s face tightened, and his gaze skated away from Dmitry’s. The bastard was about to lie. It was the perfect time to take his life but something held Dmitry’s hand.

“Dmitry, there is time to right old wrongs. For tonight let’s look to the future. I need an underboss. I know you’ve been working with those Americans.” He spat the word as if the taste was foul.

Dmitry smiled. Vadim didn’t notice.

“I can forgive you working against my interests if you will but return to the fold.” He let a few moments pass before he finished with, “Your father would want that. And I’ve been fair in not pursuing you these last few years. I had to give you time to grieve. But the time to return to family is upon you.”

Dmitry was many things—patient, understanding, but in the face of Vadim’s lies and manipulations he was left with nothing but wrath. He understood what made Bone tick in that moment. What made all the women of First Team long for the death of the ones who’d created them.

Yes, he’d trained to kill. Yes, he’d dispensed his fair share of death. But somewhere in the midst of his father’s follies and the loss of his brother, sisters, and mother, Dmitry had become more than a simple desire for revenge.

It’s why the hatred caught him unaware. At that moment he
was
revenge. It beat at him, much as his lust for a killer earlier. The rhythm of that need pounded in his veins. He reached under his jacket before a man walked into the room toward Vadim. The way the big man walked, flowed in his space, reminded him of someone but Dmitry couldn’t place who. He wore the skin of a mafia enforcer but there was more under the mask of indifference and it put Dmitry on alert.

The man whispered in Vadim’s ear and Vadim’s gaze landed on Dmitry, before he veiled his eyes and nodded at his man.

“Dmitry, this is Azrael. He’s got something he wants to show us,” Vadim said softly.

Interesting. The man was named after the Angel of Death from the Koran. His senses sharpened, taking in the man’s hands, calloused with use on the edges—the hands of a fighter. Azrael held himself still and wary and it struck Dmitry who he reminded him of…Bone.

He took a slow, even breath and let it out. Time slowed infinitesimally. There were five men outside the closed door to the study. Each had three handguns but limited training in using them. Vadim was a pussy, and therefore no threat.

But Azrael, well he was a different story. Dmitry held onto his glass. He’d been stripped of his weapon when he walked in the door, but the glass was just as useful. He’d have to get closer to whoever needed killing but he would be fine.

“Come and watch with us,
syn
,” Vadim urged.

Son, he called him. The pounding at the base of his skull returned but Dmitry nodded and walked closer to the pair. Azrael turned on the large screen television hanging on the wall and there in high-definition display was Yesipov’s club earlier that night. Azrael then stepped back, head lowered, hands at his sides, waiting.

Dmitry glanced at Vadim. “What is this?”

Vadim shook his head and his mouth turned down. “It is the club earlier tonight. There you see,” he pointed at the screen, “there you are. And there! There is the woman who killed my brother! Did you not tell me you were in another part of the club and therefore didn’t see my son and nephew taken down?”

Vadim’s tone was slick, oily, and Dmitry readied himself. He judged Azrael’s stance, took the measure of the man and prepared. He’d take Vadim first. There would be no time to revel but the killing would be done and that’s why he’d returned to Russia.

For Vadim and for Bone.

Vadim’s gaze remained on the screen and from the corner of his eye Dmitry saw the entire scene play out. Vadim cursed and cried out and Dmitry made his move.

“You killed Boris!” Vadim yelled.

Dmitry was on him before the final word slid from his lips. He crashed the crystal against the other man’s skull, following him down to the ground and straddling him. He had just grabbed a shard of the glass when a pistol pressed against his temple.

“Let him up,” the man, Azrael, said in a voice so low Dmitry had to strain to hear him.

He spoke perfect English, with no accent and his voice carried the same tones First Team’s did.
Death
.

Dmitry considered going for the gun, but the man chuckled and cocked the pistol. “Do not do it, Asinimov. I know you enjoy a good fight, but tonight is not about you. Now get up and take a seat on the sofa, won’t you?”

Vadim groaned under Dmitry. It would be so easy, but what would taking Vadim’s life mean if Dmitry had to give his own in the process? Revenge would be sweet but the objective was to live to experience it.

The desire to kill thrashed inside him and there was Bone, drifting through his thoughts. No, Dmitry had more to live for than the death of Vadim Yesipov. He raised his hands slowly, letting the shard of glass slide down his sleeve until it finally fell to his waistband.

“Get up, Asinimov. We’ll have company soon,” Azrael murmured.

“Oh, you started without me.” Her voice stroked over him, the dulcet tones soothing but parlaying her intent with ease. Soon was now.

It did not surprise Dmitry she was there. Not at all.

“I would have expected to meet you on equal footing, Azrael. That you’re here indicates Joseph is getting sloppy.”

“We are not equals, Bone Breaker. I am your superior by far,” Azrael said with a smile.

She tsked and then laughed. It was a hard, caustic sound. Dmitry winced as it scraped his eardrums.

“You and your brothers are superior in your minds only. I pity that you believe Joseph when he tells you any different. What must it be like to do his bidding, thinking there is no one better than you? What must it be like to be that stupid?”

Azrael didn’t take her bait and just as Dmitry made to move, the man shot him in the shoulder. Blinding pain ripped through him as he fell to the side and rolled behind the sofa. He breathed through the sting, shoving it aside as he took in the scene—Vadim sobbing like a baby on the floor, the replay of what happened in the club earlier on the television and there was Bone, by the door watching Azrael, who now faced her.

“Did you think shooting Asinimov would hurt me?” she asked in a deadened voice.

Her face was a testament that there was a God and he knew beauty. Her tone was proof there was a devil and he’d built her from the ashes of his despair.

Her high forehead and cheekbones, straight nose with nostrils that flared just slightly, and full lips, though all perfectly formed, were simply a backdrop for the hazel glass of her doe eyes. Those eyes could skewer a man, make him forget he’d been born for anything other than gazing at her. Inside the jade-splintered blue-tinged gold were a million secrets and Dmitry wanted to discover them all, forget them and do it all over again.

He’d lost his fucking mind.

Azrael remained perfectly still. “My goal is not to hurt, sister. It is to destroy. The others are searching for you even now. The
Sicariorum
are coming.”

The hair on the back of Dmitry’s neck stood on end.
Sicariorum
was the Latin word for assassins. That they’d been named, much as First Team was named, gave Dmitry both pause and concern.

“We are all assassins in our own way, Azrael. There is nothing to fear when you face one cut from the same cloth as you. In fact, it should be your greatest joy. Put the gun down, brother,” she ordered, apparently unfazed by the fact others like her were seeking to kill her.

Disbelief streaked through Dmitry when the man did as Bone ordered. Honor among killers. Vadim’s sobs had quieted though he remained on the floor. Dmitry too remained where he was, waiting for another opportunity. He wouldn’t allow Azrael to harm her but neither would he move too soon.

Azrael never took his gaze from Bone. It was eerie the concentration the man displayed. He was too controlled by half and that more than anything else worried Dmitry.

“We could dance Azrael, but it would be a waste of effort on my part. There is nothing you can teach me. Come to me, brother, and let me ease your pain,” she said softly.

“I have no pain. I am as you now, a perfect killer,” he returned, assurance peppering his words.

She nodded, and the action was sad. “The perfection you seek is but a myth. Without truly feeling pain, knowing every nuance in your heart, body and soul, you cannot inflict it. Tell me, Azrael, where is Joseph? Close? Here already? Tell me and I will make it quick for you.”