Secret Santa, page 1
SECRET SANTA
by
Nia Farrell
SECRET SANTA
by Nia Farrell
Copyright 2018 by Nia Farrell
Edited by Anita Quick
Cover Design by Crystal Visions
Stock Photography from depositphotos.com
Formatting by Anita Quick
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used without the written consent of the author, except for brief quotes in reviews. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.
Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Release Date December 27, 2018
Length 9,353 words
Long Branch Books
Shattuc, Illinois
Disclaimers
This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The use of any real company, organization, and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.
Dedication
To Alida Nicholson, whose ideas shared in my Facebook group were the start of this story.
~ Nia Farrell
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Author Bio and Links
Previous Titles
Chapter One
Alexei Papanov’s Yuletide party would have made Rasputin proud. The head of the local Russian mafia had covered all the bases. Tonight, his compound in rural upstate New York overflowed with drink, food, women, and drugs.
Under different circumstances, Simon Tolliver might have indulged himself and accepted some of what was being offered. But on his last assignment before retiring, he couldn’t afford the distraction of a line of coke or a woman’s body.
Not if he wanted to leave here alive.
The Pakhan—the Bratva equivalent of a Sicilian Don—had no such qualms. Papanov had downed enough vodka to tranquilize an elephant and was snorting white powder off a rack of Double D tits.
Alexei caught him watching and motioned him over. “Peter! Peter! Come! Come! I have something I wish to discuss.”
Simon remembered to smile and nod his head at the sound of his alias. Taking care to not slosh bourbon while he walked, he approached the Pakhan with a glass in his hand and a question on his lips. “Mr. Papanov, how may I be of service?”
Posing as a mercenary, Simon had done several jobs for the Russian mob boss and a few more for his son Sergei. As ruthless as his father, Sergei was next in line when Papanov’s excesses or enemies killed him.
Simon was a little surprised that Alexei was still here. But no word had come from MI6 to authorize removal. He was here to observe and report whatever he could learn. With luck, he’d find out when the next shipment of sex slaves was leaving Russia and where they were headed.
The last one went to England. Before that, it was Brazil.
A leak in the organization had let them seize the ships and cargo when they docked. What British Military Intelligence and the CIA really wanted was a bust at the point of sale. The private auctions were attended by buyers from over the globe, filthy rich men and women with morals to match. Corrupted by excess, they thought nothing of using and discarding human commodities. Very few refrained from sampling the goods, destined for public brothels or private stock.
Supply and demand. As long as there was money to be made, there would be a market.
The Pakhan shoved his whore aside and rose to his towering height, which happened to match Simon’s six feet, three inches. Both men appreciated being able to look across at each other, even if they didn’t always see eye to eye.
“This way.”
Simon followed Papanov upstairs, past three armed guards and a half-dozen rooms. Stopping short of his private office, the Bratva kingpin opened a door and stepped inside, motioning for Simon to follow.
The room was decorated like a little girl’s dream with a fairytale four-poster bed, an ice cream parlor table and chairs, and an antique baby carriage full of dolls and stuffed toys. An ornate desk sat in front of a bank of curtained windows. Light from the crystal chandelier added to the soft glow from the computer screen of the laptop perched on the thighs of Papanov’s much-younger mistress.
Simon’s cock twitched at the sight of the pretty brunette. Dressed only in a black bra and panties and red fuck-me heels, she sat on an office chair with her face lit and her gaze locked on the screen, oblivious to their presence.
Simon felt like a dirty old man for wishing he could stand there and watch her. He was a spy. He should be focused on Alexei. Instead, he looked at the exquisite turn of Katya’s ankles and imagined them around his neck.
Katya Dostoevsky was twenty-five years old, five feet, three inches, a former gymnast, and an obedient servant to the whims of her master. Sold to Papanov when she was only fourteen, she’d grown into a stunning young woman.
Too bad Alexei didn’t share.
Or did he?
“You remember Katya.” His inflection made it a statement rather than a question.
Two sets of eyes darted to Alexei—hers alarmed and his wary. What was Papanov’s game?
Simon schooled his features. “Yes.”
“Myshka, you remember Mr. McCartney?”
She jerked her head in a stiff little nod. “Da.”
She was careful to not look at Simon when she answered. She knew Peter McCartney’s reputation. She hadn’t really seen what he was capable of, but she had witnessed a clean kill.
Alexei had backhanded her, busting her lip when she wouldn’t stop crying.
Papanov nodded. “Khorosho. Good. Myshka, I want you to pack a suitcase. Take enough to last you a week. Christmas is coming, and my mouseling wants her favorite bear fixed. I say it is time for new ones if the old ones fall apart when you ride them. Mr. McCartney will drive you to the apartment in Manhattan. I will finish things here and meet you there. Then we shop, da?”
Interesting. Katya masturbated with teddy bears. Knowing Alexei, he jacked off to the show and made her play the virgin to deflower as an encore.
Simon didn’t miss the look of dismay or the slight tremor that shook her shapely frame. She swallowed the objection on the tip of her tongue and answered meekly, “Da, Papi.”
Alexei’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s my good girl. Set your luggage by the hallway door when you have it packed. I want you downstairs and ready to leave in twenty minutes. Come, Peter.”
Katya flew into action, kicking off her heels and sprinting to her closet. Simon followed Papanov to his office one door over. Katya’s room had been chosen for the Pakhan’s convenience. When Alexei got an itch, he wanted it scratched immediately. His personal sex slave was on call around the clock, anytime, day or night, in public or in private.
Alexei thought nothing of ordering Katya to please him while he entertained guests. Humiliating her only added to his pleasure.
“Close the door.”
Simon did as ordered, questions writhing like Medusa’s snakes in his head. He was pissed. Alexei should have asked him first. Instead, he’d told him in front of Katya. Now Simon was stuck driving her down to the city. He’d spend hours on the road and in traffic, closed in a car with a woman he wanted and could never have—
Unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life as a eunuch.
The last man who’d touched her without permission had his balls cut off and shoved up his arse. Simon hadn’t seen it, but he’d heard the story, now shared as a cautionary tale.
“Sit.” Alexei pointed to the closest chair. Simon took it. Papanov rounded the heavy wooden desk and settled into place behind it.
They stared at each other, a pissing contest that lasted all of fifteen seconds.
“What the fuck?” Simon growled. This was supposed to be his last night as a spy. The final time he’d risk life and limb for his Queen and country. His goal in recent years was to be the exception to the rule. He knew when he left the SAS and joined the Secret Intelligence Service that spies didn’t live long and prosper. Retirement from MI6 was a three-by-eight piece of land and a bed six feet under, not a secret, off-the-grid cabin in the Great North Woods with a prepper’s pantry, a growing library of first editions, and an arsenal that had taken half of his life to amass.
His trip to Canada would have to wait.
Alexei let his mask drop for a moment so brief, Simon almost missed it. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
The head of the Bratva in upstate New York looked out the bank of bullet-proof windows. The clouds obscuring tonight’s full moon did nothing to dilute its effects. Driving Katya to Manhattan was lunacy.
He told Alexei so.
Papanov sighed heavily. “You are right,” he said, sounding weary and oddly torn. “You will not go there. When you leave here, you take her somewhere… and kill her.” He huffed a breath and tapped his fingers on his desk. “I do not need to know details. Send word when it is done.”
Holy fuck.
It was a bloody miracle that Simon managed to look like he didn’t care, that this was just another assignment, no different than the other jobs that he’d done for Papanov. But all of the men and women that he’d killed for him had earned it. They were criminals. Rivals. Chechen Mafia. Albanian Mafia. Hell, he’d even killed someone from the Visconti crime family who had somehow given offense.
Alexei narrowed his eyes. “You will do this, da?”
“Of course, I will. I just—”
“You wish to know.” Papanov pursed his lips and considered how much he should tell him. He rarely bothered with explanations unless his blood pressure was up and he needed to vent.
“She is… too soft for this,” he said, waving an imperious hand. “It was… mistake to bring her here.”
Papanov had had her since she was fourteen. He’d gotten bored or annoyed or both. Clearly, he didn’t like her asking to fix her broken bears. After nine years of statutory rape and forced consent, he was dismissing Katya as casually as a toy that he’d outgrown. The trouble was, he couldn’t pass his plaything down, and he didn’t dare discard her. His mouseling was a liability. She knew too much. She’d seen too much for him to ever let her go.
The Pakhan had decided to cut his losses. His favorite mistress was as good as dead. If Simon didn’t kill her, someone else would. She thought that she’d be shopping for toys when she left here. She had no clue that Simon was her Secret Santa. He’d give Katya a quick and easy death for Christmas instead of sending her out with a bang.
Pun intended.
It would be hard to hate Alexei more than he did in this moment. But Simon had already made up his mind to take the assignment. He would kill Katya. He had to. If he didn’t, he was afraid that the next assassin would fuck her, then finish her.
After everything that she had endured, she deserved better than that.
Chapter Two
Katya was downstairs in nineteen minutes, carrying an oversized purse with her favorite bear peeking out the top. Denim jeans hugged her shapely legs. A designer sweater matched the unusual blue-gray of her eyes and accentuated her tempting curves. She’d left her long, brown hair loose. Instead of fuck-me heels, she had opted for a sensible pair of winter hiking boots, black leather gloves, and a fashionable fur jacket that would protect her from the December chill.
It wouldn’t stop a bullet but the fur might help minimize the mess, absorbing more blood and leaving less for him to clean up. He’d bought his Land Rover to handle rugged terrain and snow. He hadn’t planned to kill anyone in it. What was that saying about there being a first time for everything?
Two Shestyorkas—Bratva lackeys—followed her downstairs and headed outside, carrying four pieces of luggage to his vehicle. He bit his cheek and started to say something about excess, then thought again. She was expecting to shop. Maybe she’d brought empty suitcases to haul back her Christmas presents. Thanks to Alexei, those toys were doomed to stay on a real-life island full of misfits. They’d never see the Hudson River Valley and the princess suite that was hers.
Oddly, Sergei was the one who bothered to see her off. A knowing nod alerted Simon to a disturbing thought, that the son might be the one behind this, that somehow he’d turned his father against Katya. Maybe Sergei wanted her for himself. Maybe he was jealous of any influence that she had. Whatever the reason, it was clear that Sergei was more than happy to see her go.
The rear-view mirror showed him standing there, talking on his phone and watching until they were well on their way. The private drive wound a mile through the woods before reaching a public road. It would be easy to feign forgetfulness, attempt a turn-around, and fake getting stuck. One bullet, one shovel, one grave on Papanov property was as sound a plan as any.
He was ready to implement it when the first shot rang out.
“Go!” Katya yelled. “If you wish to live, get off the road and drive! He has ordered your death, too!”
She knew. Knew that he’d been ordered to kill her.
Simon had hunted in these woods, only this time, he was the quarry, not the hunter. He wasn’t being paid to remove a rival or claim payment for a debt. Alexei had decided he was as much a liability as Katya.
He gunned the motor and turned sharply, heading for an embankment that most vehicles couldn’t handle. A glance in the mirror showed Katya racking a round into a 9mm SIG with an extended clip. He took comfort that she wasn’t pointing it at him.
“Four o’clock,” she warned. “Two men on trail bikes.” Unsnapping her seatbelt, she lowered her window, leaned out of it, and emptied her clip. “One down,” she called. Pulling back inside, she ducked out of sight and reloaded.
A bullet slammed through his rear window and punched a hole in his front.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “Can you do something about the other one?”
“I will try,” she quipped, sounding like a brat who needed the sass spanked out of her. “He keeps behind us, easy for him to shoot but harder for me. I will need to break your window.”
“Or I can veer to the right. There’s a space up ahead. A gap in the trees. You should get a clear shot. Get ready… Now!”
Simon turned hard. At the same time, Katya rose like a watery tart with a sword. Taking aim through her opened window, she fired off three rounds.
“He is down,” she said. “I do not know if he is alive.”
Dead or not, Simon wasn’t about to waste time finding out. He needed to get lost… needed to get them both out of reach of the Bratva. He needed to learn what Katya knew and tell his superiors what had happened.
They were going to be pissed but that was too bloody bad.
The upside was, he wouldn’t be killing her now.
Or not yet, anyway.
“I’m coming up,” she said. Tossing her purse into the front passenger floorboard, she did a backbend over the top of the custom seat, grabbed the sides, tucked her legs, and rolled with all the strength and grace of the gymnast that she had been. One minute, she was hanging upside-down. The next, she was kneeling backward in the seat. Twisting into place, she put her bag between her feet and fastened her seatbelt.
Katya retrieved her gun from her purse, engaged the safety, and reloaded her clips. She talked while she worked. “Sergei did this,” she grated. “He went against his father’s orders. They argued about you one night. Alexei thinks you have value, but Sergei doesn’t trust you. I do not know if I can trust you either, but I need to reach Manhattan. I promise to make it worth your while. I have no money but I can get it for you if you help me, Peter. Please.”
Simon swerved in time to miss a tree and cursed her for distracting him. The Bratva were after them, and she was set on reaching Manhattan. She offered to pay him to take her there. She said that she could get money, but it’s highly unlikely they could afford what Peter McCartney typically charged. What happened if she came up empty? How could she pay him if she had no funds?
How indeed.
Simon could think of a dozen ways, but first, they’d have to survive tonight. Alexei would likely be looking for her in the city. They needed to find a place to lay low.
“It’s Simon,” he said. Reaching the hard road, he headed north, the opposite direction from where she wanted to be. “Simon Tolliver. Peter is my… professional name.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, still holding her fully-loaded gun with her finger perilously close to the trigger.
“Somewhere safe,” he told her. “You’ve been pushing Alexei to go to Manhattan. He’ll be looking for you there. We need to get off the radar and lay low. Make plans. Change vehicles, or at least sweep this one and make certain that there are no trackers. I have a friend who can help.”
He was CIA but they’d worked together in joint operations with their governments. He was Simon’s closest contact when he visited the Papanov compound. If they were lucky, Miles would be home.
