Without Mercy, page 18
part #4 of Running with the Devil Series
He had little choice but to call Yuri Dubov, a contact of his, a mob-doctor. It was such a huge risk because the minute the sleazy little butcher saw Marisol, he’d know and that would put her at risk again. But Yuri had a strong survival instinct and was loyal to Rusya in theory and at least as far as Anto could tell, in actions. The problem was whether Rusya could be trusted.
Anto stared blankly at Marisol, his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts. He had no choice. Not true, he had many choices, but none would have a happy outcome except one – calling the fucking doctor. He had the number in his head. In case of emergency, extract from his alcohol-sodden brain cells. That thought spurred him to action. He hadn’t bought vodka, nobly deciding he needed to stay sober until Marisol was safe. The sooner she was out of harm’s way, the sooner he could have a drink.
He looked wistfully at the bag of Chinese he’d purchased from a little shithole diner. He should wait until Marisol was awake and eat with her. He glanced over at the bed. She was sound asleep and the food was hot now. Why should the first decent meal he’d eaten in days be ruined for both of them? He’d just eat enough to take the edge off his appetite, he decided. He took a burner cell out of his saddle bag and plugged the cord into an electrical socket before opening the bag of Chinese and sifting through it. He pulled out the fried rice, grabbing the accompanying plastic fork and scooping the contents rapidly into his mouth. Rice fell off the fork and onto his beard. Didn’t matter. The beard was about to come off anyway. Not that easy for Anto to hide, but he could do a couple of things to change his appearance. He looked over at Marisol as he flipped open the lemon chicken. He didn’t think she was going to like what he had in mind for her.
After he polished off the chicken, he reached for the phone and powered it on. The battery was still low, but he could make the call with it plugged in. Fuck, it messed with his mind to give up his location to anyone. Rusya trusted the asshole and Anto would pay Yuri well, but anyone could be corrupted.
That gave Anto pause. What about him? Who was he really working for? He’d been undercover so long that he often felt more allegiance to Rusya. They liked each other, even before Michael Black killed Rusya’s right-hand man, Lukov. Rusya was enraged by it, but at the same time, Anto knew Michael had done the mob boss a favour. Lukov was loyal and lethal, but also mean as fuck. While mean was good, it had to be measured and Lukov didn’t understand the word restraint. He was cruel to his men, cruel to his wife, and cruel to other woman who had the misfortune to catch his eye. The only two people he was cautious around were Rusya, because his life depended on it, and Anto, for the same reason. With Lukov gone, it was easy for Anto to take over second-in-command.
Anto looked at the phone again, dwarfed in his large hand. He was stalling. He didn’t want Marisol in the line of fire again. They were sitting ducks in this hotel room if the doctor had mixed allegiances, but if he didn’t call him, Marisol might die. Which meant he was risking her life anyway. Mind made up, he tapped the numbers on the keypad and listened to it ring. A voice answered. Male. Doctorish, arrogant, lacking in bedside manner as it snapped, “What!”
“Yuri, it’s Anatoly Tarasovich,” Anto said in Russian.
The voice on the other end lost its hostility. “Anto, my brother. How’ve you been?”
Anto knew the friendliness was a façade. “I’m well. I have a problem.”
“Don’t we all,” Yuri cackled then coughed. Dedicated smoker. “I heard a rumour you were off the grid.”
Anto scowled. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Here and there,” the fuck said. “Sounds like the rumours were wrong.” He paused and Anto waited. “Not like you to call me out of the blue. What’s the problem?”
“I need you to meet me in Whistler. I have someone that needs fixing.”
“What kind of fixing?”
“A bullet in the shoulder. Has to come out. Not sure if it hit bone on its way in.”
“You?” He was fishing.
“No. Someone.” Anto wasn’t rising to the bait.
“When and where?”
Anto thought about this. He was giving up the location of his safe house. He should have sold it after Michael Black and his woman, Isabelle Sterling, holed up there with him, but he’d figured they were half-way across the world and he trusted Michael, both to keep his mouth shut and keep his woman in line. Now he would have no choice but to sell. He liked that fucking house. He liked to go up there sometimes and just veg on a chair by the private pool. By himself. It was peaceful. His mind flicked to Marisol. He’d never brought anyone there before Michael and Isabelle or since. But Marisol, he would have brought her there. The two of them in that house made his heart beat a little harder.
Anto gave up the address. “We’ll be on the road in an hour. See you in two and a half. Don’t be early and don’t be late.”
“Gotcha Anto. I’ll be there.”
“Yuri. This stays between you and me, understood? No one knows, not even Rusya.”
Yuri didn’t immediately reply so Anto added, “You fucking show up, do your job and keep your mouth shout and you and me, we’ll be good friends. You can use a few good friends, can’t you, Yuri?”
“Yes,” Yuri said faintly.
“Good. We understand each other. You fuck with me, I’ll hurt you so bad they’ll have to scrape you off the sidewalk with a shovel.”
Anto ended the call, then unplugged the phone. He gathered up Marisol’s clothes, then shoved everything into the saddle bag. He pulled out the last clean T-shirt he had as he looked down at himself. His own shirt was blood-stained and grimy from his sweat and the dusty roads, but it would have to do until he got to Whistler. Marisol needed the T-shirt more than he did.
He grabbed the first aid supplies off the table and approached the bed. She was deeply sleeping and he watched her as she drew her breaths in and then let them out. Even in her present state, she was beautiful. He thought that if he lived a full life, if he spent every day of that life with her, he would still never drink his fill of her. If he believed in soul mates, which he didn’t, she would be his. He felt the word love edging around his brain and for the first time, he didn’t fully resist. Still, if he had an icepick, he might have shoved it in one of his ears. Someone should have done that for Michael and Dean, he thought as he sat on the bed, facing her and giving her a little shake. It was enough to get her to open her eyes. They were immediately clear and aware.
“What?” she said softly. So much nicer a tone than Yuri.
“We have to go. I have a doctor who’s going to meet us in Whistler. He’s gonna fix you up.”
Marisol pulled herself up slowly and leaned against the headboard. The blankets pooled at her waist and her nipples hardened as the cool air caressed them. He couldn’t help himself. He gripped one her breasts with his hand, then leaned down and drew a nipple into his mouth, sucking it hard, his tongue circling it, his teeth nibbling. She groaned, he hardened, then he pulled away, his eyes meeting hers. Yep, he wanted to savage her. Fuck her ‘til she screamed his name. He kissed her lips, gently and loving. Apparently, there was some decency in that rock-hard cock of his. Later, he told it. After she’s fixed.
“We have to do two things before we leave, Marisol. We need to disinfect and wrap your shoulder, which is going to hurt like hell. And we need to cut and dye your hair.”
Marisol frowned. “Both will hurt like hell, Anto. The one thing I know is that I have fantastic hair. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to love what you’re going to do with it.”
Anto grinned. He liked this Marisol. She was feeling safe with him, maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the reality of the situation, but she was treating him like her mate, not her captor. It gave him a little thrill. “If it’s any consolation, I am going to shave my beard.”
Marisol considered him, her eyes stroking his facial hair. “I don’t know about that. If you asked me a week ago, I would’ve told you it was unattractive and scratchy. But now, well…” she blushed and didn’t finish the sentence.
He ran a thumb down her cheek, resisting his horniness. “It’ll grow back. Like your hair.” Forty-five minutes later, they were on the road in their stolen Chevy Impala.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mari sat next to Anto as he drove toward Whistler. Her shoulder was feeling a whole lot better. She thought that part of it was that her mind was finally coping with the pain, her body was trying to heal itself, and also Anto had plied her with several extra-strength Advil pain killers, which seemed to make her just high enough not to mind that her hair was now short and black as a coal miner’s face at the end of a work day. And Anto! His beard shaved. It was disconcerting how different he looked and she wanted him to keep talking to her so she believed it was him.
She didn’t like it one single bit, even though she’d thought she might. He was handsome either way, but his beard… well… she was sure she was a little bit high. Now all she could think about was his smooth face between her thighs, his tongue on her pussy, no scratchiness, no whisker burns. She’d giggled aloud at the thought and when Anto asked her what was up, she told him.
She’d flustered him as he faced forward, not responding to her lustful comment. That made her giggle again. She didn’t think she’d ever out-lewd him. Maybe he didn’t like her when she was hopped on pills. But she sure did – she liked herself a lot this way. If this is what a high felt like, maybe she should consider doing more drugs, drinking more alcohol. Maybe some of that marijuana the feds were so keen on legalizing. All at once, she was proud of her country for being so cool. Fucking awesome prime minister. She wished she could text him right now. Tell him not to worry about the asshole press who were constantly badgering him about pipelines and travel expenses. Tell him she was helping him take the heat off by being kidnapped and almost murdered. Fucking press.
Anto look over at her, clearly startled. Did she say that out loud? Which part? “Fucking press,” she said again to check if that’s what she said.
Finally, Anto spoke. “What about them?”
“They’re assholes,” her words sounded a little too mellow, but the pain was gone and she was happy, here with her man, in this stolen car… and then at that thought she let out whoop of laughter. Anto grinned at her and gave her thigh a little squeeze.
“I think I like you this way, Marisol. Maybe I should get you high more often.”
Mari pretended to pout. “Maybe you should just like me all the time, Anto.”
He grinned again, his eyes focused straight ahead on the road. “I do Marisol. All the time.” He squeezed her thigh again and she grabbed at his hand when he attempted to pull it back to the steering wheel. She held it to her as she shifted the T-shirt she was wearing up over her breasts, exposing herself, her panties. Her running clothes were missing again and she had to put on another one of his fucking T-shirts. But that was okay. She loved the T-shirt now.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Anto asked but his words were thick, not angry. Whatever she was doing, he was interested.
She tried for raucous laughter and failed miserably and then thought that the sober Mari would be appalled. She would have to have a chat with the silly redhead about her fucking inhibitions. She brought his hand back to her thigh and said, “Anto, don’t move your hand unless you need it to prevent us from crashing into a ditch.”
She watched as his teeth flashed in the darkness. Fuck, she loved him. She should tell him. She wiggled out of her BRAZILIAN panties and then kicked them over her feet. She brought her hand to her pussy, shoving her fingers over the folds, massaging her clit, finding her vagina. Anto had wrapped her other arm and shoulder up like he was embalming a mummy so she had no movement, but one good hand was enough.
“Okay,” she breathed. “I’m ready.” Then she pulled his hand to her pussy. “Make me come,” she demanded.
Anto swerved and she had to let go of his hand to grab the “holy shit” handle.
“What the fuck, Marisol,” he growled once the car was under control.
“I need to come. I could do it myself, but you’re better.”
He preened. She knew he would. Such a fucking bastard, so smug, so self-assured, but totally merited. His fingers started dancing, sliding through her folds, tapping at her clit. He never looked at her, not once. Her eyes were glued to him, his eyes were glued to the road, yet he knew exactly what she wanted, needed. A finger then two sliding into her vagina, pumping her. Then sliding out and using the lubrication to brush across her clit. She grabbed his hand as he eased off, forcing him back to her, forcing him to pleasure her. It was her turn for the blowjob. She giggled again even as she inhaled her growing desire. The pussy job.
“What do you really want, Marisol?” His voice was gruff as he eased off the gas, rounded a curve, then accelerated. “Do you want me to fuck you? Make you come harder than you’ve ever come?” As he talked to her, he handled her roughly with his fingers. He KNEW exactly what she needed. He was the one and only, he was her GOD! He removed his hands from her vagina and attacked her clit, slamming it with his fingers, forcing her up, past the dullness of the pain in her shoulder, past the drugs, to the edge of her orgasm. Then over. She free-fell, the tremors ripping through her, pummelling her. They were Anto, slamming her against a wall, taking her from behind, making her blow him in her prison. They were everything. She bucked her body with wild abandonment and then heard her voice, disconnected, reckless. “Fuck Anto. I love you so much.”
She crashed fast, but not before her brain registered the stillness of his hand on her pussy as she cried her words. She slid into darkness as the drugs punched her in the head and dropped her like a lead balloon.
When she woke up, the high was gone, but not the memory. She tried to pretend she was asleep, staying still as possible, but Anto knew. He broke the silence dramatically. “You owe me a blowjob.”
Mari felt the heat rise to her face. She didn’t mind owing him a blowjob. She didn’t actually mind him saying it. But he was sidestepping the elephant in the back seat. The one that blew its trunk and said, “I love you, Anto.”
“Where are we?” she muttered, happy to let the elephant sleep in the corner for a while.
“Almost to Whistler, so you better get to it. We won’t get another chance for a while.”
She looked over at him to assess how serious he was. He was grinning. A quick glance to her and then back to the road.
“Later, I promise,” she said managing a pale flicker of a smile. What else could she say? She couldn’t blow him while he was driving no matter how big the temptation. She didn’t come this far to have them killed over a blowjob.
He said, “Okay.” Then added. “I like you Marisol. But I don’t like your fucking haircut or dye job. Why you gotta do that to yourself?”
The tension was good and truly broken and Mari laughed at him and with him. He was a good man and she loved him for it. But this time she kept her thoughts to herself.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Esma told the cab driver to roll past Hugh Medford’s house. It was shrouded in darkness and seemed completely deserted. A high-falutin’ neighbourhood where all the homeowners had enough money to flaunt their wealth, but not so well off that the community was gated. Win-win if she were a thief, which she wasn’t.
She was a little behind schedule. What a surprise. It was when she went to have a drink, but after she figured out that she was chasing a kidnap victim. There was a rowdy game of darts and the losers bought the winner drinks. She was the best at darts. Well, no, she was the best at pool. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she won, which she did, every fucking game. And then the drinks. Those Canadians. They knew how to party, they knew how to play with their women. They liked to screw as much as the next nationalistic asshole, but for the most part the men behaved themselves. It disappointed her a little. She was into a good shag, but she wanted a take-charge man. Canadians were legislated to death. Their idea of taking charge was making sure their lattes were extra hot. Then her thoughts turned clumsily to Dean Copeland. Not Canadian, American.
Didn’t matter. The good ones were honourable fuckers. She won at darts, they bought drinks. It was a fucking good time until she looked at the clock on her phone. SHIT. Dean Copeland was well on his way and it didn’t matter that he was mean, unyielding and drank like a fucking possum, no wait, that wasn’t the joke. It had something to do with Canucks and road kill though. She giggled then sobered. He would not like it that she was staggeringly drunk. She bade… bid… fuck… she said goodbye to her new northern friends, promised she would see them tomorrow and headed off. Not to her jeep rental. She was far too drunk to drive. She called a cab, gave the driver little Hughie’s address, then had a helluva good chat with herself until they arrived.
The cab dropped Esma off half a block past the house and she liked that it happened that way, even though she staggered and fell into a bush. She had what she needed in her backpack. Scotch for Dean, tequila for herself and… and… oh yes, her lockpicking tools. Even in her rather happy state, she understood stealth. She kept to the shadows and made her way up to the house. It was shrouded in darkness; even the air had the smell of neglect. No one was home and hadn’t been for a while. She didn’t bother with the front door. In this neighbourhood, all the houses would be alarmed and even though she was pretty good at disarming an alarm, she didn’t feel like she was totally on her game tonight.
Instead, she broke a little window. Funny thing about alarms. They were attached to doors and bigger windows. Little windows that big bad burglars couldn’t crawl through were neglected, but she was a little bad burglar. An inch past five feet, a couple of pounds past 100. Not bony though. She prided herself on her suppleness even if it didn’t often get caressed. Fuck, she was drunk. She needed to sober up before Dean arrived.
