Without Mercy, page 20
part #4 of Running with the Devil Series
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he snarled inches from her face.
A wave of dizziness washed over Esma. “Stop shaking me or you’re going to be wearing my supper.”
Dean seemed not to hear her as he gave her another little shake. “Answer me, you stupid woman.”
She closed her eyes for a brief second before opening one eye and peeking into the hard, angry eyes that were glaring at her. She tried to sound sober, but her words still came out clipped, “In my defence, I didn’t know the asshole and his girlfriend were on their way here. I was under the impression they were holed up somewhere in the Rockies.”
Dean moved his hand from her coat to her neck, strong fingers circling her throat and cutting off her air. “You fucking show him respect, understand?”
Esma nodded quickly. She totally understood, but if she wasn’t so drunk and he wasn’t so fucking mean, she’d find a way to prevent his blonde princess from having any more of his babies.
He didn’t loosen his grip. His dark eyes bored into hers as his fingers tightened imperceptibly. Maybe he was going to kill her, but if he did that, Jackman would be all over Dean’s ass. It wasn’t unusual for agents to disappear when they became too much trouble or outlived their usefulness, but Jackman made that choice, not his grunts. Besides she heard the rumour, Jackman didn’t dispose of his agents in the field. He brought them back to the compound to make an example of them. Esma wondered if Jackman was pure Russian or if he had a little North Korean in him.
Dean seemed in no hurry to take his hand off her neck, so she brought her hands to his wrists, lightly wrapping her fingers around them. She would’ve rather brought them to his neck but didn’t think that in her current state she’d be able to break it. She increased the pressure on his wrists, her thumbs caressing the palms of his hands, then she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
He reared back in surprise, letting go of her. “What the fuck are you doing?” His hands curled into fists and for a brief second Esma thought he might hit her. But he restrained himself.
Esma smirked as her voice came out knotted from the abuse dealt to her neck, “Trying to get you to let go of me, you asshole. It worked, didn’t it?”
He grabbed her by the hair dragging her back to him, his face so close to hers that his breath invaded her mouth. “Do not ever fucking do that again or I will rip your goddamned head off!”
He was not being gentle and Esma had to move closer to him to ease the pressure on her scalp, but she was too drunk, maybe too pissed off, to back off. “What’s wrong, Dean? Not your type anymore? Or maybe exactly your type?”
He gripped her shoulder with his other hand, his fingers crushing her collar bone, “Don’t play with me, little girl. You ‘re not gonna like the outcome.” His voice was as jagged as broken glass and he breathed unevenly.
“Why not? Got a girl and baby waiting at home? Family man now, hey?” Her own breathing sped up. Her lips just inches from his. Fuck, she wanted him to kiss her. He hesitated and then pushed her away from him, throwing her down on the bed.
“You fucking drunk,” he spat with disgust as he shot to his feet. “How much do you drink? Maybe I think you have a problem with the booze. Maybe Jackman and I have a talk about that – maybe I take it upon myself to dry you out.”
Esma was too drunk, too tired to give a fuck about his threats. “Your barbie doll back home won’t approve of those kinds of activities, Dean. Now fuck off. I have to sleep.” She curled onto her side and tucked her knees to her chest. The second she closed her eyes, she was out.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Anto followed Yuri to the door as Dean came up from the basement. His friend looked off-balance and pissed-off. Anto guessed the little Turkish drunk cast an elf spell. Yuri was opening the door just as Dean hit the landing and Dean reached out swiftly and slammed the door shut. Both Yuri and Anto looked at Dean, startled.
Dean got up and personal with the older man, his body invading Yuri’s space, a snarl to his lip. “Not that I don’t appreciate your service, doc,” he growled, his voice a low-Russian rumble. “But you saw a few things tonight that you shouldn’t have seen.”
Yuri prickled, his back stiffening, his eyes darkening. “I don’t know who the fuck you are but get the fuck out of my face. My friend, Anto, pays me well to keep my mouth shut. You got a problem with that, take it up with him.” His angry eyes skimmed to Anto, who nodded but thought that Dean had a point.
Could he continue to trust Yuri? Should he? Anyone who saw Dean and Anto together was a risk to Anto’s cover, but Yuri showed no flicker of recognition, not of Dean, not of Mari. Dean should have stayed in the basement, Anto thought sourly, but he seemed determined to take the lead on this, so Anto said, “If you’re gonna kill him, can you take it outside and maybe down the road. I don’t want to have to explain blood spots to potential buyers.” His words seemed to have some affect on Yuri’s attitude as he paled.
“Fuck Anto,” Yuri said, his eyes flicking back to Dean. “I don’t know what you’re mixed up in and I don’t fucking want to. I did my job, you paid me for it. I keep my mouth shut. I haven’t survived all these years by ratting out my friends.”
Dean punched his fist past the doctor’s head and into the door, causing a dent. “You be very careful, brother. One whiff that you said anything to anyone, I will hunt you down and cut out your tongue before I skin you alive.”
Anto sighed. Dean was one of the most reckless bastards he knew. The doctor shook under the threat. “Let him go, you asshole,” he said to Dean. “And quit denting my house.”
Dean yanked open the door and Yuri stumbled through it, clutching his bag like it was a Kevlar vest. He was gone before Dean slammed the door behind him. Anto shot Dean a withering glare before he stomped to the kitchen and grabbed Esma’s bottle of scotch, bringing it and two glasses into the living room. He plunked himself heavily down on the couch and Dean took a chair to the side. He filled their respective glasses, then Anto raised his scotch in a silent salute and downed it all. Dean followed suit.
It was then that Anto noticed the blessed silence. “What did you do? Knock the Turk out?”
Dean shrugged dismissively, “Sang lullabies to her.”
Anto grinned. Maybe it was okay that Dean was here even if his little drunk sidekick was a human wrecking ball. His voice alcohol roughened, he said, “Explain what the fuck’s going on, Dean.”
“Jackman got worried, called Esma in to track you down because she was close by, called me in to talk you down.”
Anto grunted and drained his glass. He reached for the bottle, added two fingers to his tumbler, then pushed the bottle towards Dean.
“Your turn, Kharzin.”
Anto settled against the back of the couch. Dean was the only person in the world he considered a friend. The only person in the world he trusted without reserve. Back in Russia, when they were cell mates, Jackman came calling for Dean, not Anto. Dean forced Jackman’s hand. It was a twofer – both or none. “Stays between us?”
Dean poured himself another shot of scotch, then looked down at it before taking a mouthful. Anto narrowed his eyes. Dean was stalling.
“Anto.” Dean shifted slightly in his chair. “I have to tell Jackman something. Tell me what’s going on, then we can decide what I share.”
A wave of exhaustion hit Anto as he considered the man across from him. Not even a day had passed since Marisol got shot and he’d had no time to stop and take stock of the situation. All he’d done was react. He didn’t find fault with anything he did, but he also hadn’t yet reflected on it to see the flaws. He was glad that Dean was here even if he also wished he wasn’t. He didn’t want anyone near Marisol including Dean. Especially Dean. Dean would see Marisol as a bigger threat than Yuri. Anto didn’t think Dean would cross him, but doubt crept in. Dean and Jackman were close. If Dean’s hand was forced, would he choose their friendship over his loyalty to Jackman? Right now, it didn’t matter, but down the road it might. Still, Dean was wily even if he was as mean as a bagpiper on crack. He’d come in handy.
“Someone put a hit on Marisol. She is the daughter of… “
Dean interrupted. “I know who she is. Everyone in the world knows who she is.”
Anto’s heart thudded at the truth behind Dean’s words. Marisol was infamous now. She was going to hate that more than being kidnapped, shot at or fed hot dogs. He took another pull of his scotch, then rubbed at his phantom beard with his free hand. “Rusya didn’t want her dead. That would bring the cops down on everyone. He and I planned to take her off the streets, keep her safe, until we could put a stop to the crazy.”
Dean took a swig of scotch. “Worked out well, didn’t it?”
Anto ignored him. “We had to move the timeline up, which I guess is irrelevant. Rusya found out that the hit was planned for last Saturday. I snatched her off the streets, took her to a safehouse. It was all good until I contacted Jackman, Rusya and Andrew Doherty, Marisol’s father.” Anto stopped, his mind wandering to the night he drove to Rusya’s. Was that last night? He was losing track of time.
“How’d Savisin hear about the hit?”
Anto shrugged, “He has his informants, I have mine. You have yours. Trust is not a hot commodity among the brotherhood.”
“Maybe it’s him.”
Anto felt a stab of pain behind his eyes. “I thought about that. He wanted me to meet with him. I fucking regret it, but I did it.” Why? He kept asking himself, not sure if he was asking why Rusya betrayed him or why he’d gone there in the first place. “He or someone in his house tracked me back to the safehouse.”
“Are you sure about that? Esma tracked you here so it’s not a leap to think someone could connect Whistler with your hideout.”
“Fucking little suka. What trashcan did Jackman pull her from?”
Dean shrugged. “Don’t know. Wasn’t there for the op. Don’t speak the Turkish.” He grinned as he emptied his glass and clunked it down on the table. “Have you talked with Savisin yet?”
Anto wasn’t ready to change the subject. “How’d she find this place, Dean? How’d you know to come here?”
“Esma – she’s good at tracking, just not holding her liquor apparently.”
“If she found me here, she would have eventually tracked me to the cabin.”
Dean shook his head. “She only traced you as far as here. This is where she told Jackman she’d meet me. And she didn’t know anything until days after the news hit. She’s not the one that gave you up.”
Anto emptied his glass, dropped it on the table and then leaned back on the couch, rubbing his face with his hands. “I haven’t called Rusya yet. I don’t know if I can trust him, but I can’t figure out why he’d set me up like this.”
“Because he’s a fucking criminal with no scruples, ethics, or restraint.”
Anto raised his eyebrows slightly at the irony of the words. Every single person he knew, with the exception of Marisol, was a fucking criminal. Rusya had no scruples, but he lived by his own set of principles and the man was a model of restraint. Dean knew that too. “He’s also loyal and a man of his word. He wouldn’t create an elaborate bullshit operation just to get me out of the way. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead already and sent back to Jackman in pieces.”
“Maybe it’s not about Jackman. Maybe he started out playing boy scout, but then the shit got too hot. Killing you and the chief’s daughter would put out the fire.”
“And start another one, because her father wouldn’t rest until he found her killer.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Don’t know exactly where you were, but I’m guessing remote and not easy to find.” He grinned and added, “If you bury a body in the forest, and there’s no one around to dig it up, are you really a killer?”
Anto narrowed his eyes, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Ahh Anto, it’s a little philosophy.”
“You want philosophy? Here’s mine. Kill or be killed. So maybe we start with Randall Scott, work our way to Savisin, then Jackman, and then Marisol’s father, if he doesn’t back off.”
“You’ve forgot the most obvious solution, Anto.” Dean was leaning back in his chair and gazing at Anto with a hooded expression.
“Which is?”
“Kill the girl and dump her body in a public place. Then move on.”
Anto’s blood pounded in his ears and for a minute he couldn’t breathe. Anger, panic, fear snaked through him. He didn’t know which emotion to embrace first. “That’s not an option.” His voice was gun-metal steel, the edge to it unyielding.
“Why?”
“Are you that stupid, Dean, that you would fuck with me about her?” Anto’s gaze was hard and unrelenting.
Dean studied him for a minute, then dropped his eyes and reached for the scotch bottle. “I guess I am, Anto. Just wanted to know where you stood.” He poured a shot of the whiskey into his glass and drank half of it.
Anto stood up, “I need to go to bed.” He turned his back to Dean.
“Are you sure she can be trusted, Anto?” Dean said softly.
Anto stopped and turned around. “Nothing happens to her, Dean. Nothing. Don’t you fucking test our friendship.”
He left Dean nursing his drink and stalked up the stairs, opening the door to the master bedroom. He let his breath out in a rush as he saw Marisol’s inert form in the shadows of the room, her chest rising and falling as she slept. She was covered with a blanket to her chin, her short dark hair sticking up in all directions. He slid onto the bed next to her, turning on his side to face her, then wrapped his arms around her waist. “Marisol…” he faltered as he breathed her in, nuzzling her shoulder with his nose. “Marisol… love me back. I need you to love me back.”
His eyelids drooped as he pressed his body to hers. There were two things in this world he wanted right now. Marisol and peace.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Esma woke up disoriented. Where the fuck was she? On a bed, that much she knew for sure. She reached a tentative hand out and felt around her. Alone. The room was as dark as the inside of a squirrel’s nutsack. She didn’t know what time it was either. But she did know that her head was banging like Courtney Love at a release party, her mouth tasted like a camel shit in it and her bladder – well, fuck it, she had to pee. She rolled off the bed, staggering to her feet and then stumbled to catch her balance. She managed to stay upright but fate gave her head a solid punch that left her dizzy and nauseas. Didn’t matter. She knew how to handle a hangover.
She groped her way through the darkness until she found the closed door. As she turned the knob, she peeked out the crack of the door cautiously, assessing for danger or cats. All she encountered that was of any import was a dead body on the couch… or maybe just sleeping. For someone brutally hungover, and maybe even still a little drunk, her movements were stealthy, her footsteps a whisper as she made her way to the couch and peered down.
It was Dean Copeland. She frowned. Fucking Dean Copeland. No shoes, no shirt, jeans unbuttoned. At least he still had his knickers on. Her eyes traced his chest, the hard muscles, the dark chest hair narrowing into his little fun trail and disappearing behind the band of his underwear. He was a prick, an asshole, mean as a rabid dog, but he was easy on the eyes. She bit her lower lip. What was he doing here, wherever here was? She stood stock still, hands on hips, trying not to jar her head. Thinking hurt, dammit. It helped not to move and blurry snippets of the day before started to surface. Her arriving here a little tipsy. A big tattooed guy and his goth girlfriend. Then Dean. Pissed at her for some reason – nothing new there. At some point trying to choke her. But they kissed. She narrowed her eyes when she remembered. Nothing beyond that she didn’t think. There better not have been.
She sidled away from him, looking round for a bathroom. She saw a set of stairs and decided that was her best option. Clutching at the handrail to maintain her balance, she slipped quietly up to the main floor. Dean was not much of an operative, she thought derisively. He hadn’t moved a single muscle, didn’t even change the tempo of his breathing as she’d slipped by him.
It was still dark outside. She couldn’t remember what time she went to bed so she couldn’t gauge how many hours she slept. Maybe four? Enough to move her from pass-out drunk to only slightly tipsy. Enough to move her from feeling like she could party all night to feeling like shit.
She found the bathroom, dropped her jeans and sat on the toilet. As she peed, she decided she was being bitchy with Dean. After all, she kind of drank too much last night and he did fly in from Russia. She wondered where Goth and Hulk were? As she flushed and washed her hands, she remembered her orders: find but don’t engage. Screwed that up good and proper, didn’t you Esma? Hulk was Anto, Goth was the missing woman, couldn’t remember her name. Not only did she find them, she fully engaged. Jackman was going to be pissed at her for that. Not really her fault though. Anto engaged first.
She frowned as she studied herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red, ugly little bags puffing out under them. Her curly shoulder-length hair was tangled, dirty and standing up like she’d been tasered by a stalker. Her neck was bruised. Fucking handsy Dean. Fingermarks on the right side. They’d fade fast. Helped that she had a little colour to her skin, not pasty like Goth. She had to stop thinking like that. There were four of them. A team now and she had to be a respectful and functioning member of the team. At least until Jackman ordered her back to Russia and killed her.
Fuck she was thirsty. She looked around the bathroom. No glass, so she made her way to the kitchen. Her tequila bottle was on the counter beckoning her. She ran a finger down the side of it as she felt a small rush in her head. A drink would settle her stomach, but reason kicked in. Water first. She picked up her glass from last night and filled it from the tap, then swallowed it down quickly. Too quickly, as it hit the bottom of her stomach and immediately threatened to make a U-turn. She dropped to her ass on the floor and lowered her head between her knees. She had no objection to vomiting generally. But not this morning. Not with Dean in the basement being all superior.
