19. Killian #2
“I finally had enough. For years, it was the women,” Aleksei says. “They were his girlfriends. But then he turned his attentions onto someone new—a young girl who had not reached eighteen. She was frail and weak. I could not stand by and allow it to happen. I interfered and stopped him.
“Fedorov deemed me a traitor. He took my eye and banished me from the Bratva. Said if I ever returned I would lose the other eye… and more. He is a monster in human form. He has no mercy or care for anything but himself. So yes, I will help you take him down. And when he is dead, I will spit on his grave.”
Lochlan clears his throat and then steers the conversation back to strategy. “We need to know his weaknesses. What are they?”
“He has many. His pets—he is obsessed with them. He cannot stand the thought of losing them. Rare valuables—art, jewelry, things that make him feel powerful and cultured. He spends millions on them. It was the reason for the Bratva’s financial troubles in the early 2000s.
But in his old age? His greatest strength is also his greatest weakness. ”
“Which is?” I ask impatiently.
“The men he surrounds himself with. Without them, he is nothing. A frail old man with delusions of grandeur.” Aleksei leans forward, his one eye gleaming. “Men like The Deathless.”
“The hitman?” I say. My mind goes back to the business card Ronan found in Simone’s coat pocket months ago.
“We call him Koschei. He is Fedorov’s most valuable asset. A Soviet-trained assassin, raised from childhood to kill without hesitation or remorse. He is the one Fedorov sends when he wants to send a message.”
“You mean like murdering my father in his hospital bed,” Lochlan snaps.
“Yes. Only Koschei could pull that kind of job off.”
I lean back in the booth, my mind racing. “Then we take him out first. Cut off Fedorov’s right hand before we go for the throat.”
Aleksei nods slowly. “It is a sound strategy. Without Koschei, Fedorov loses his greatest weapon. He becomes vulnerable.”
“Do you know where to find him?” Lochlan asks.
A rare, grim smile crosses Aleksei’s face. “You are in luck. I know exactly where to find him.”
Lochlan heads back upstate. The elder Callahan brother admits he’s paranoid as fuck and doesn’t like leaving Chantal in their estate alone for too long, even with his hired security.
I don’t push him on it—as far as Jhene’s concerned, I’m just as paranoid.
Aleksei and I hit up the location he claims Koschei visits every Sunday evening. One of the few known places the assassin can be found in the city when he’s otherwise untraceable.
I cock a brow at the ex-Bratva enforcer when we arrive outside the Russian Orthodox Church. It sits on a quiet street in Brighton Beach, its golden onion domes rising against the dusk sky.
It’s admittedly picturesque and reminiscent of a fairytale.
Not the location I’d expect to find the most dangerous assassin in New York.
“You’re sure he’s here?” I ask as we approach. “This is a church.”
Aleksei nods. “Yes, it is. Koschei comes every Sunday. He visits the cemetery behind the church. Even killers have ghosts they cannot escape.”
We slip through the heavy wooden doors and into the church’s low-lit interior, the smell of incense and melted wax thick in the air.
The place is almost empty.
A few old women in headscarves are scattered among the pews, their heads bowed in prayer. Candles flicker in ornate holders along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the painted icons of saints and martyrs.
We stride through the main church building and head out back to where the plot of land that’s the cemetery is.
The cemetery’s less impressive than the church, crowded with weathered headstones and crooked crosses. A wrought-iron fence surrounds the perimeter, its spikes rusted with age.
Standing alone among the many graves is The Deathless himself.
He’s dressed in all black, his dark hair falling past his shoulders, head bowed as he stares down at a headstone I can’t read from this distance.
Instead of the mask I’m told he often wears, he’s got a chunky knit scarf wrapped around his neck, coming up to the bottom half of his face.
It has the same effect—only his eyes and brows are visible.
He holds a candle in gloved hands, head bowed as if in the middle of prayer.
Aleksei and I exchange a glance then start moving through the cemetery, weaving between headstones. We keep our footsteps as soundless as possible on the overgrown grass.
We’re maybe twenty feet away when Koschei speaks without turning around.
“You should not have come here.”
I glare at his back. “We’ve got business with you. The kind that ends with you in the ground.”
Koschei slowly turns to face us. Though the thick scarf he’s wearing obscures most of his face from view, I can make out distinct Slavic features.
Sharp angles and void-like eyes.
“Many men have tried to put me in the ground,” he says calmly. “They are all dead now.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Aleksei growls beside me.
Koschei’s gaze shifts to the former Bratva soldier, recognition flickering in his dark gaze. “Ah, yes. The traitor. The sovietnik will be pleased to hear you have finally crawled out of hiding.”
“Fedorov can choke on his own blood,” Aleksei spits. “I am going to enjoy watching him die.”
“You will not live long enough to see it.”
Koschei springs toward us before I even register what the fuck’s happening.
One second he’s standing still as a statue, the next he’s a blur of motion, leaping through the air at us. His leg shoots out as he strikes a fighting pose and lands a hard kick to Aleksei’s chest. The ex-Bratva soldier’s sent stumbling back.
Koschei follows up with a spin and then a punch to Aleksei’s jaw. His fist connects, packing power but impressively fast.
Next second, he’s rounding on me, launching another attack.
I’m ready for him—or so I think—as I throw up my fists and go offensive. But Koschei dodges the punch I throw, easily sliding to the side then even anticipating my next blow. He blocks that then kicks out his leg in a sweep that takes me down.
Fucking hell, he’s fast.
I’ve trained for years on my footwork. On my defensive maneuvers.
In the boxing world, I’m one of the fastest, most agile heavyweights.
Yet Koschei puts us both to shame as he ducks and dives any blow we aim his way. He does a backflip as Aleksei rushes at him with both fists raised, throwing punches as chaotic as The Tank had during our match.
Koschei’s long out of the way by the time Aleksei’s fist slams into a crumbling statue of some saint. The stone cracks even deeper, chunks of marble scattering to the grass.
He circles around the ex-soldier and takes him out with some kind of complicated grappling move involving his arms wrapped around Aleksei’s neck.
I’m up and going for round two, more strategic on the approach. I launch a series of combination punches. He manages to block or evade every single one, moving more like he’s dancing than fighting. Anticipating every strike before it’s even made.
He’s an intuitive fighter. But he’s also obviously trained in various styles.
He uses a headstone as leverage as he jumps off it and executes a spinning kick. I’m finally a step ahead, grabbing at his leg and using brute strength to toss him to the ground.
When he lands, he’s back up no less than a second later. He’s leaping up and landing a strike to my throat. The exact right pressure point to cut off my air.
I cough, choking on my own breath, and am immediately rendered fucking useless.
Frustration surges through me as I grip at my own throat and force myself to breathe like normal.
Aleksei scrambles back onto his feet, fresh blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He looks around wildly, his good eye searching for the assassin.
It’s too late; he’s already long gone.
At the far end of the cemetery plot, his dark figure can be seen sprinting off and then hopping the wrought-iron gate.
“DAMN IT!” I roar. I turn around and throw a fist at the same stone statue Aleksei had accidentally hit.
“Told you,” Aleksei says begrudgingly. “He is good. He can handle entire crews of men.”
“We were bigger. Stronger. We should’ve had that in the bag.”
“Not with Koschei. He is Fedorov’s prized soldier for good reason.”
“He’s mortal. Which means he can be taken out. So can Fedorov. We keep fighting ’til we finally make it happen.”
I’m clenching my fists at my sides as I turn and stride off, back the way we came.
“That’s right, Kill! Go for the weak points—you’ve got this in the bag!” Malone grunts days later.
I’m attacking the heavy punching bag, in the middle of another long and intense session at the gym. I’m hot as a fucking furnace and dripping sweat all over, but I’ve got no plans on stopping any time soon.
Lately I’ve been imagining Sharapova’s face on the punching bag. But ever since the trip to the Orthodox Church in Brighton Beach, Koschei’s masked face is on it.
He might’ve come out on top for round one, but I’m not a quitter. Not as far as fighting’s concerned. I’ll always return for a rematch.
Next time, I’ll be the victor.
Jhene’s off in the corner with one of her puzzle books.
It was another case of no buttonmen being available. Ronan’s been less willing to offer anybody up for Jhene’s private guard, stating our soldiers are needed elsewhere.
Fine by me. I’ll always protect what’s mine, and Jhene as good as belongs to me.
She’s mine in the way anybody you care about deeply is.
She watches me train when she thinks I’m not looking. Little does she know, I’m aware every damn second.
Sometimes, I show off for her. Flex my might and prowess so she knows I’ve got her. They call me The Kill for a reason, even if I lost that confrontation with the Russian assassin.
After another fifteen minutes of punishing the bag, I finally step back and wipe the sweat from my forehead with a towel.
Jhene’s still pretending to focus on her puzzle, but I can see the way her eyes keep drifting in my direction.