Chapter 9
nine
. . .
When I finally opened my eyes, the room swayed.
Tilting, bending, blurring at the edges.
Hearing the sharp grunts, the curses and the heated whispers, I didn’t immediately lift my head, I couldn’t.
My pain threshold was second to none, but fuck did everything hurt.
Another bullet, another cry, another curse had me forcing my head up, gritting my teeth at the pain that came with it.
Hands spread out, my wrists still hung from the chains, my legs still strapped to the chair, the pungent smell of blood mixed something close to piss and shit, filling my nostrils.
My vision flickered in and out as I focused my good eye.
Yet the snap of my neck from side to side wasn’t fast enough to discern the movements of something that was clearly taking down the Cartel.
A flash of black. A glint of silver. A clink of steel.
Animal or human?
I jerked my head trying to catch a better look and cursed as pain shot down my spine.
Then I saw it. A human, dressed literally from head to toe in all black, ran forward, used a man’s chest as a springboard, vaulted over him and landed behind the man, the same time a sword slashed through the air, hitting his rear.
In the time it took the man to faceplant, the figure stabbed him twice on the upper body before leaping through the air to catch the last man off guard while the others writhed in pools of their blood, their moans music to a killer’s ear.
Intrigued, my vision sharpened at the precise moment the figure paused, standing over the prone man.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, gawking at the hourglass shape of a woman dressed in a dark catsuit with an attached hoodie.
Even if someone had to argue I was delirious from having my head pummeled by these Cartel assholes and seeing things, I’d know a woman’s body blindfolded.
There was no mistaking the curved ass, perky tits and shapely hips beneath the leather suit.
She lifted her head then and my insides went cold. Staring back at me was a mask, hiding her identity. One half black, the other white, distinctly resembling the yin and yang symbol. Unable to look away from her penetrative stare, I licked my lips, tasting blood.
Recognition dawned a second later. The masked woman I’d fucked in the cemetery. It had to be her. Was she ready to play her cards, show me the reason we’d met in the first place. Or was she here to kill me too.
Keeping her gaze locked with mine, I yanked hard on my bound hands, but the cuffs were tight as shit, metal biting into my skin. The trickle of blood into my fingers served as a lube yet not enough leeway to free my hands.
Gun shots rang out, breaking our stare down as another five men ran into the building.
Unfazed by their appearance, the woman stepped away from the man she’d just killed.
Then with the methodical approach of a slow-motion scene, she brought her legs together, the sword flushed to her chest with the blade touching her nose and stood perfectly still.
“What the fuck is she doing?” I muttered. Even if she were going to kill me too, I had to admit, her bringing a sword to a gun fight was fucking stupid.
What followed had me eating my words.
The men opened fire and I stared mesmerized.
In a series of perfectly timed flicks of her wrists, the sword danced in front of her body, deflecting every single bullet.
The clang of metal on metal challenged the rounds leaving the chambers of their weapons, not stopping until they were scrambling to reload.
She didn’t give them a chance to.
Moving without thought, she took them down, one by one. Agile, skilled and so fucking flexible, it was hardcore porn in motion for a fucker like me.
When she finally stopped, her unruffled demeanor was a mind bend.
No ragged breathing, no gasps for air, no search for water.
Instead, she approached each man, ignored his cry for mercy and straddled his chest. Unfazed by my observation, she whispered something to them, her cool apathy giving new meaning to look your killer in the eyes, before her sword plunged through their necks, ending their lives.
Done, she rose above the last man with her back to me and slowly turned, her eyes finding mine. There was no pause in her next move. The sword pointed away from her body in a downward angle as though ready for action, she approached me and only one thought came to mind.
Angelo della morte
Angel of death, a fitting name. Not much scared me, not even the knowledge I was about to meet my maker.
Yet my breath was slowly ripped from my lungs as she drew closer.
In fact, I don’t think I was breathing at all.
When she stopped inches from my spread thighs, she stood there wordlessly.
I angled my head, trying hard to see the face beneath the mask, wanting to look my killer in the eye while she took my life.
But she was well concealed, hindering what little vision I had.
“We meet again?” I tried to grin, my bust lips hurt too much. “You’re my stalker, aren’t you?”
Silence.
Her body a confident poise of grace and danger remained motionless, betraying no hint of fear or hesitation.
As my gaze drifted up and down her body, I noticed the little details.
The color of her suit was a deep shade of purple, not black and so was the dark part of her mask.
Red eyes, a shade lighter than blood, might be the only vibrant color to her monotonous ensemble, they possessed a distinct coldness.
Then I recalled the woman I fucked at cemetery had blue eyes. Contacts probably. “I’ve been inside your pussy, don’t I get a name at least?” I mocked.
The stare remained.
I clenched my fists, bunching my muscles, aware I was being toyed with. How many times had I done the same fucking thing? When I was about to fuck someone for pleasure or pain, I’d play with their emotions, string them along until I was ready to unleash my neurotic side.
Still, I held my ground, keeping her gaze, not willing to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had me at a disadvantage.
Whoever this woman was, her patience was admirable.
If the excruciatingly calm manner she just offed a room full of men was any indication, she excelled at indifference too.
And fuck if that didn’t give me a hard on.
I forced a grin, wasting the effort of trying to show her how much she was affecting me and cleared my throat.
“Get on with it, Katana,” I taunted, figuring I had to call her something.
She blinked at the name perhaps acknowledging my words yet made no move to touch me.
We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before she leaned forward, bringing her face close to mine.
A faint smell of something sweet, a vaguely familiar incense I couldn’t place right now veiled the scent of blood I usually welcomed, tickled my nostrils, begging for recognition.
I didn’t give it much thought, my eyes tracing the yin and yang mask, looking for something I couldn’t see before she angled her head until her chin touched my shoulder.
“You’re mine, Remo Rossi,” she whispered in a voice that was as alluring as her mastery with that bloodstained sword.
As her words floated through the various channels in my ear, I didn’t recognize that harsh inhale or the expanding of my lungs, my gaze focused on the swish of the sword in a sharp downward flick, stealing my breath.
In the time it took to register there was no ensuing pain, I felt the cuffs on my hands and ankles give way and another moment to realize I was still alive.
Slowly, I rubbed my wrists to get the blood circulation going and glanced behind me. She’d disappeared as soundlessly as she’d appeared.
“You’re mine,” her words spun around my brain in a loop.
Hers in what way? Was she the fucking stalker or someone who wanted me dead?
She’d confirmed nothing. Confused why I was still alive; I stood and staggered a little.
Woozy, I sat down again, closed my eye until my balance evened out.
Rising, slower this time, I reached for my discarded jacket behind the chair.
My phone clattered to the floor along with my wallet and watch.
Stuffing both in my pants pocket, I switched on the phone and the second the screen flared to life; I dialed my brother.
“Where the fuck are you, Remo?” Lorenzo barked on the second ring. “I got a call—”
“I need you,” I muttered, knowing it was the only words that would stop his rant. Missing a meeting with the Columbians wasn’t important, we had much bigger problems.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” he replied, his tone softer.
“Step on it,” I heard him growl at someone before the call cut out.
Aware the tracker he’d installed in my phone, a safety net we both employed years ago, had activated the moment I switched on my phone, I slipped into my jacket, pocketed the device and glanced around.
Body hurting like a bitch, I walked the room slowly, inspecting the bodies.
Frowning, I crouched and steadied myself to take a closer look.
Each kill was precisely the same. Not a cut out of place.
It was as though she knew exactly where to hit.
Given the speed of her movements during the fight, I was surprised. This kind of perfection was a rarity.
I stood to fast and groaned as the world tilted.