Chapter 16
Max
I wake with my neck twisted at an angle that needles down my spine. My shoulders throb, either from the first fight, the second fight, the trek through the snow, or the third fight. At this point, I can’t keep track.
Or maybe the pain’s from my night on the not-so-comfortable couch.
I’ve slept on military cots with more cushioning.
I sit up, scrubbing my hands over my beard stubble and suppressing a groan. Half the battle of resting in enemy territory is maintaining the appearance of lethality. Waking up wobbly and achy is just asking for an attack.
My swollen right ankle pulses through the fabric of my sock, though that’s the least of my immediate concerns.
The fire died, leaving only embers in the ash-filled hearth. The sparse, dull red glow barely pushes back the gray dawn light seeping through the tops of the snow-covered windows. Maybe the shoulder-height snow’s just a drift against the glass.
I pull my parka on and adjust the gun in my chest holster.
The gesture sets off a chorus of creaks, aches, and strains as sore muscles try to stretch. All things I can’t react to.
The weight of Nika’s gaze burns through the air. If it’s chilly out here, it’s got to be frigid in there. But, fuck her. She has a blanket. She’s not dead. Given the circumstances, that’s the best she can hope for.
She’s lucky I decided I’m more curious than bloodthirsty, at least for the moment.
Grabbing three logs from the stack, I add them to the embers. Flames start licking up the sides of the well-seasoned wood.
I bask in the fresh heat, hoping I’m blocking some of it from traveling farther. Spite tastes even better than coffee first thing in the morning.
I can sense her glaring at me. The twin lasers searing into me from behind warm me almost as much as the fire.
Time to put on a show.
With a long, luxurious stretch that I push all the way down to my toes, I let out an extravagant yawn, like I’d just had the best night’s rest. In the middle of that act, I twist, catching sight of her. “Good morning. Sleep well?”
A tangled nest of white hair haloes her head, and her arms have lost some color from the cold.
So is her “I’m going to kill you and wear your skin like a trophy” expression.
Maybe the Pakhan’s princess isn’t a morning person.
Beyond that glare, she doesn’t respond.
Being the dick I am, I offer her a wide, cheery smile. “You got any coffee in this joint?” Without waiting for an answer, I proceed to the kitchen. Even if I hadn’t found it yesterday, I could follow the trail of debris from everything she threw at me.
I realize the wall is sporting a new knife. That’s fun.
I don’t know anything about this Dimitri guy Nika mentioned, but he’s got to be either a saint or a demon to live with a devil like her.
The appliances all flash twelve. So the electricity is back on but not the heater? I’ll have to check into that.
One cabinet sits open, the door lying broken under a crack in the wall. I rummage around until I come upon canned goods, pasta, rice, and noodle packets. I check the next cabinet over and locate a box of coffee pods.
A single-cup coffee machine sits by the sink, out of the path of destruction.
While the coffee brews, I head to the freezer. Sure enough, I discover boxes of pancakes, chicken biscuits, and meat lover’s breakfast bowls.
My stomach growls.
I pop an instant breakfast into the microwave, and the aroma of bacon, sausage, and eggs soon wafts through the kitchen as I open each cabinet.
Kitchens double as the perfect spot to hide things, as most people overlook them while searching for information, valuable items, or keys.
But a secret can hide behind any door, especially in a cupboard.
This house could fit in at any military station. Or psych ward.
There’s a place for everything, and everything is in its place, except for what Nika destroyed.
I continue to investigate while I eat.
Between the noises and smells, Nika’s got to be furious. No doubt she’s hungry and thirsty.
Being pissed off is dehydrating work.
Finding nothing of interest, I straighten the garbage can, dump my trash, and switch off the light.
I wander into the living room again while sipping from my coffee mug.
As I do, the “fuck you” glare hits like sunshine, warming my soul.
I add another log to the fire before dismantling the wood stack. When nothing turns up, I move on to the rest of the room.
“Any cameras I should know about? Wouldn’t want to destroy delicate electronics.” I cut open a throw pillow from the couch, extract the stuffing, and shuffle over to the next one.
In the ensuing silence, continue to ransack the room.
Finally, her voice spills out from the bedroom. “Dozens.”
So…none. She’s acting like a teenager by not bothering to hide her snark. Which means I can’t believe anything she says. She knows that I know that.
Hanging glass shelves, complete with steel hardware and filled with books, line one wall. They could be there for appearance’s sake, or to hide things within the pages. I find no knickknacks, no photos, no personal touches other than these books. The house is a stage.
Even the Kozlov safe houses have more personality. This could be a model home, designed to show off but not comfortable enough to live in.
I pull the first shelf off the wall and dump it. Nothing important shakes loose from the books, and there are no obvious hidden panels or unmarked buttons.
A noise resembling a growl comes from her bedroom.
“You like books?”
“No.” The still-present snarl in her words almost overpowers her petulance.
Guess that means she loves books. She probably spends hours here reading, losing herself in stories that aren’t about revenge and murder and her life-consuming mission. Watching me dump them on the floor in a heap must infuriate her.
Vanya’s significant other, Paige, is the same way. She’d skin me alive if she saw what I was doing. Even Roman has started taking better care of his books since she came to the compound.
Thrilled to have found a pressure point, I put the shelf back and grab the next one, emptying the contents on top of the first.
“You asshole! What the hell is wrong with you?” The bed squeaks for the first time as she throws herself against her bindings.
I say nothing as I lean over to meet her eyes through the open doorway.
Even from this distance, the cold fury in those dark depths burns. Her hands clench above her head, blood flow pinkening her arms.
As I flick my fingers over the spines, more books crash to the floor. The pile at my feet grows.
She’s rigid on the bed, every muscle taut, her breathing shallow.
This is almost as fun as last night.
Almost.
I meander over to the side table near the couch. A small fob for her truck sits on the glass. I pick up the keys and jingle them twice, then pocket them, ensuring she sees me. “Look at that. Another thing in my pants you want to get your hands on.”
She growls again.
I laugh, genuine amusement curling in my chest. I haven’t had this much fun tormenting someone in ages. “Where do you keep the guns?”
“There are guns everywhere. You’ll find the next one pressed to the back of your head soon enough.”
Disdain practically drips from her words.
Come to think of it, in all this time, she never pulled a gun on me.
Maybe she doesn’t like them. Strange for an assassin, but not unheard of.
You don’t keep weapons on hand that you’re not comfortable with, and she’s had plenty of opportunities to put mine to use after she stole my duffel.
I guess she’s a more hands-on murderer. I can respect that.
After a quick pause for a second cup of coffee, I advance down a short hallway I haven’t explored yet and open the first of three doors, which leads to another bedroom.
The space resembles hers and has concrete floors, minimal furniture, and a bed with dark linens. In the closet, I find only men’s clothes. Black t-shirts. Dark jeans. A leather jacket hanging on a hook.
I tug one shirt off the hanger and check the size. Medium. Not a big guy then. I wear extra-large. My biceps would split these sleeves with one curl. At least I know what I’m up against.
A quick search reveals the fucker spends too much money on shoes and watches.
Still holding the shirt, I wander back to the fireplace. Nika’s lips are swollen, especially along one side. She rests her face on her wrists to hide the fact that she was trying to untie herself with her teeth.
Clever, but not going to work.
Once I get the fire roaring, I venture into her room far enough to toss the shirt onto her lap. “Dimitri’s?”
She doesn’t even bat an eye.
I try a slightly different angle. “Lover?”
Her brows wrinkle, as does her nose. Even her lips curl up in uncensored disgust. “Absolutely not.”
The surprising vehemence suggests that Dimitri might be a relative. Maybe older, or otherwise off-putting in some way.
Not a lover. Just someone who lives with her.
Handler? Father figure? She disappeared when she was young. Dimitri could be the person who raised her, trained her.
I’m not willing to examine the relief that floods my chest.
I’ll deal with the rest of the Dimitri question later because I have more doors to check.
The next door is locked, which I find odd considering none of the other doors in this place are locked. I press my ear against the wood to listen and catch a faint, rhythmic noise. A hiss, then static, then a distorted voice. A man pleading.
I turn the handle with more force, shoving my shoulder against the wood.
The cheap metal locking mechanism buckles, and the bolt slides. Not all the way, but enough that the door gives once I nudge a second time with my shoulder.
Banks of screens mounted on the walls crowd the small space. They’re all dark except for the one showing the swirling storm system.
On a metal desk, a high-frequency radio sputters, explaining the noise I heard through the door. “Kai? It’s Dimitri. Kai, are you there?”
The infamous Dimitri. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say.