Name Maker (Sam Pope Series Book 9), page 4
The man hadn’t uttered a word, yet Uri had already made a personal bet with himself that if any of the men in the room were likely to bring Sam down, then it was Jacob Nash who would do it.
Never, in his entire lifetime, working for some of Ukraine’s most dangerous people, had he ever been scared of another man.
But Jacob Nash, who was sitting, disinterested, and waiting patiently as he sipped on his Starbucks coffee, had changed that.
A few glances were shot between Mendoza and Brandt, both men eyeing up the competition, and Defoe, with a toothpick arrogantly hanging out of the side of his mouth, smirked.
‘If you boys are gonna fuck, why don’t you get a room?’
‘What you say, vato?’ Mendoza spat back, drawing another smirk from Defoe. As Mendoza made to stand up, Defoe nonchalantly leant back in his chair, goading the man with another smirk across his classically handsome face.
‘Sit down,’ Brandt commanded, with his thick, emotionless German accent.
‘Fucking hell, we got ourselves a German.’ Defoe turned his attention to Brandt. ‘Hey, Adolf, why don’t you sit this one out, eh?’
‘Enough.’ Nash finally spoke. His soft voice carried more threat than all three men combined. Uri stood, the only one of them who was allowed to carry a weapon in the room, and he made a point of showing it. Mendoza, with his eyes glued on Defoe, straightened his blazer and then sat back down, muttering in Spanish under his breath. Brandt turned back, but not before offering a nod of respect to Nash, who didn’t acknowledge it. Defoe chuckled as he sat forward and rested his hands on the table.
‘Tough crowd.’ He set his eyes on Uri. ‘Hey, big guy, how much longer do we have to wait?’
Right on cue, the metal door at the back of the room wrenched open, the hinges screaming for attention, and the sound of high-heel shoes echoed from the shadows, signalling the meeting was ready to begin.
CHAPTER FIVE
TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO…
Grief wasn’t something Dana Kovalenko had ever experienced.
As the youngest of the three kids, Dana had never experienced life with their mother before she’d left their abusive father and after that, the terrifying grip he held on the family was something she’d grown accustomed to. While it was never explicitly laid out to her, they all knew that the reason their father, Igor, had left her alone was due to her being a girl. To him, they were useless, and the stories she’d heard of her mother’s abuse only backed that up.
But the boys, Andrei and Oleg, they were to be men.
Act like men.
Be tough, like men.
It was pitiful. For as strong as Igor Kovalenko was physically, his mental state was a minefield of inadequacies. His brother Sergei was a rich and powerful crime lord, whereas Igor’s only use was to watch the door at Sergei’s night club and dish out a beating like an obedient attack dog. It put food on their table, but his own brother’s lack of respect and reward had caused Igor to turn to the drink and turn his frustrations on those beneath him.
Andrei had taken the brunt of it.
As the oldest, Andrei was fearless in his contempt for their father, and when their old man lashed the poor teenager with his leather belt, Andrei gritted his teeth and took it. Oleg was equally silent in his punishment, and physically resembled their father in both looks and stockiness. Unlike Andrei, however, Oleg had serious learning difficulties, and he accepted the beatings as part of his upbringing.
Andrei didn’t. He remembered every single one of them and with every laceration he added more fuel to a fire that would one day combust.
Dana idolised Andrei. With her father’s domineering control over her life, she found herself without friends or any hope of romance. It’s why she found herself falling in love with her own brother. Something she knew was gut-wrenchingly wrong but was the only conclusion to how he protected her.
Then, as she approached her mid-teens, her body changed, and she began to resemble the beautiful woman that her mother had been.
Her father took notice.
One fateful, snowy night, Igor had burst into her room, the fumes of alcohol pouring from every inch of his body. His eyes were wild with lust and as he marched towards her bed, Dana knew she would never be able to fight back. As he clawed at her bedding, his mouth salivating, he had mumbled something about always taking care of her.
That it was time to repay him.
Those would be the last words he ever spoke as without hesitation, Andrei yanked the remaining strands of their father’s hair, pulling his head back.
Then he slit his throat.
Without looking back as their father gasped for life, Andrei had led her and their brother outside, where they sat in the snow and waited for Uncle Sergei to fix things. He did, and a decade later, the three of them were running a wildly lucrative sex trafficking business in England.
All because of Andrei.
Her sweet, handsome saviour.
Then Sam Pope killed him.
After laying siege to the Port of Tilbury to find a missing girl, Pope had eliminated most of the Kovalenko crew. Dana hadn’t been there, but she read the reports and she knew what happened.
Andrei was surrounded by the police, on the verge of arrest, when Sam Pope removed his arm with a pinpoint shot from his sniper rifle. The blood loss from the injury sent Andrei into shock and he died on his way to hospital.
Her sweet, handsome Andrei.
Murdered.
The police sweep of the area soon found Oleg strung up from the ceiling of a nearby tower, with a rusty metal hook embedded in his jaw.
Both her brothers, dead.
Murdered.
By Sam Pope.
In her immediate panic, Dana went into hiding, avoiding Andrei’s penthouse, which was soon under the guard of the authorities, and his good name was plastered across the media like a monster. After a week in a state of shock, she reached out to Sergei, hoping for some comfort, only to find that the same man responsible for her brother’s deaths had finished the job.
Sam Pope had gone to her home and murdered her uncle.
Only Uri, her uncle’s trusted right-hand man, had survived the onslaught, and with his help, Dana was able to return to Kyiv and lay claim to the remains of her uncle’s fortune. For six months, she plotted and dreamt of her revenge, of being able to end Sam Pope’s life, but not before finding those who he held dearest, and making him watch as she put them through what he had enacted on her siblings.
The pain he had caused.
But then, nearly six months after her brother had been killed, word came through that the man was dead.
Sam Pope had been killed in South Carolina and his body identified through DNA.
Dana Kovalenko felt empty. All the pain and rage that had taken hold of her every movement instantly left her, and for comfort and purpose, she turned to Uri. She knew their relationship meant more to him than to her, but she found comfort in his muscular arms and soon, she went about rebuilding the Kovalenko empire. With his ex-military background, Uri guided her into the gun trafficking game and silently, she funded a Croatian mercenary called Slaven Kovac who had already infested the UK with illegal weapons and drugs.
The power was returning, if not the purpose.
For the first time in two and a half years, Dana Kovalenko felt the inklings of a life returning to her.
She had money.
Power.
A dedicated partner who worshipped her how she had worshipped her brother.
It was enough to sustain her.
Then rumours began to spread through the grotesque city of London that Sam Pope was alive. As her hope built, Sam Pope’s execution of Kovac and their business confirmed it.
He was alive.
And in returning from the dead, he resuscitated Dana without knowing it. From the very moment Uri uttered his name into her ears, she made a solemn promise that she would use whatever resources necessary to repay him for the pain he’d caused her.
Dana Kovalenko had finally experienced grief. But quite quickly she found that vengeance was a lot more to her liking.
With every click of her heel on the concrete floor, Dana felt a step closer to her revenge. As she emerged from the shadows that engulfed the edges of the room, she knew she’d drawn the attention of every male gaze awaiting her. Her pencil skirt was clasped tightly to her frame, and her open-collar shirt offered just enough to get their minds racing.
Dana smirked to herself.
All these killers in one room, yet there was nothing more dangerous than a woman.
‘Gentleman,’ she said warmly, offering her million-dollar smile. Her Ukrainian accent was soft and sultry. ‘Thank you for your participation in this contract.’
Uri leant forward and pulled out her chair for her. Dana nodded her thanks as she sat, tossing her blond hair gently over her shoulder.
‘You wanna come tuck me in, big boy?’ Defoe chuckled, looking round the room for a smile. He didn’t get one.
‘You. Funny boy.’ Dana pointed her manicured finger at Defoe. ‘Now is the time for you to listen.’
‘Anything for you, sweet cheeks.’ Defoe winked. Nash rolled his eyes. Dana stared at the man, her cold, blue eyes drilling holes through him until he frowned with annoyance.
‘Let me make clear to you all that by accepting this contract, you work for me. If you do not show me the required respect, then I will have Uri here take your balls and feed them to you. Is this understood?’
‘Kinky,’ Defoe uttered. Dana shot a murderous look to Defoe, who after a few moments of trying to hold her stare, eventually looked away.
‘Let’s get down to business.’ Dana laid her hands out on the table before her. ‘Three million dead. Five million alive. By accepting this contract, you are in it until one of those conditions is met. This man killed the only two people I ever loved, and I will have his soul for this. If you have to take it from him, then I will still pay you handsomely. If you offer me the opportunity to do it myself, then you get everything.’
‘Who’s the mark?’ Nash asked politely, even going as far to raise his hand.
‘Sam Pope,’ Brandt said without looking back. ‘Didn’t you read the contract?’
‘Hey, asshole. Our bosses don’t give us the details, they just send us here with a name and that’s it,’ Defoe spat. ‘Unlike you, we ain’t some two-bit operation.’
‘If you have his name, then you have what you need,’ Dana interjected, putting out the potential fire in the room.
‘I mean, who is this guy?’ Nash shrugged. ‘Why did he kill your brother?’
‘What is this shit?’ Defoe turned to his partner. ‘We don’t ask questions.’
‘You don’t shut up, either.’ Mendoza finally spoke.
‘Hey, Enrique Iglesias, why don’t you stick your head up your fucking ass and bailamos your way outta here, eh?’
For the second time, Mendoza stood, his rage causing his fist to clench, and Defoe grinned like a Cheshire cat. As he took two steps forward from his seat, the room fell silent as Jacob Nash stood. Although he looked reluctant to do so, he stood between Mendoza and Defoe, and the weary look on his face told the hot-headed Cuban than if he needed to, he would interject. Mendoza looked Nash up and down, clearly analysing the situation before he uttered something under his breath and returned to his seat.
Uri and Dana watched on with excitement.
In that moment, they both knew that Sam Pope was no match for this man.
As Nash lowered himself into his seat, Defoe sarcastically patted him on the back, drawing a murderous look from the man. Defoe, despite trying to shrug it off, diverted his gaze and in an instant, the cocky persona disappeared.
‘Are you boys done playing?’ Dana asked coldly. ‘To answer your question, I have five million reasons why I don’t need to tell you anything more than his name is Sam Pope and I want him alive. Dead if you have no other choice. Is that clear?’
The men nodded. Dana scowled at them before continuing.
‘He is a very dangerous man. He will be armed and, according to the press, he was active in Derbyshire two days ago.’
‘The press?’ Defoe cut in. ‘What is this guy, a celebrity?’
‘He is a murderer.’ Dana slammed her fist on the table. ‘You have everything you need. I’d suggest not killing each other, but again, I have five million reasons why I don’t care whether you live or die.’
Dana stood, and Uri followed suit, standing loyally to attention.
‘Right, well, let’s go kill this motherfucker,’ Defoe said as he also stood. ‘You boys may as well stay here. Let the pros handle it.’
Brandt turned to Defoe, who cockily winked at the bruising German.
Dana shook her head and strode back towards the shadows, disappearing behind the metal door that clunked loudly behind her. Uri marched to the other door, hauling it open for the dangerous attendees to leave, while making a show of the gun he had strapped to his waist. Mendoza was the first to leave, eyeballing Defoe as he did, who returned the gaze with an arrogant kiss. As the members of The Foundation headed to the door, Brandt cut them off, drawing a sneer from Defoe and a calculated step to the side by Nash.
Whatever Brandt was threatening to do, Nash would handle it. Uri was certain of it. However, part of him hoped he’d let the German get at least one shot in before he intervened.
‘You have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into.’ Brandt spoke as if he was at a funeral.
‘It’s called a three-thousand-dollar suit.’ Defoe looked at Brandt’s leather jacket and then reached out and straightened the collar of it. ‘You should look into it.’
Shaking his head, Brandt turned to Nash.
‘You get to this guy first. Otherwise he will kill your friend.’
‘He’s not my friend,’ Nash replied coldly.
‘Ouch, Jacob. How could you?’
Brandt ignored Defoe and kept his eyes on Nash. The two behemoths were a few inches apart, and neither one would ever back down.
‘You find this guy before I do. You better kill him.’
‘Hey, dumbass, we get more money for him alive.’ Defoe buzzed around the stare down like an unwanted fly at the picnic. Nash’s eyebrow arched slightly; his interest piqued.
‘You’ll make more than money if you are the one to kill Sam Pope.’
Nash nodded, understanding the warning that Brandt was offering them. This wasn’t a macho play by the burly German.
This was professional courtesy. Something that was clearly lost on Defoe, who screwed his face up in confusion and shrugged.
‘What else will we make if we kill him?’ he finally asked.
Brandt kept his eyes locked on Nash, knowing he was the one who needed to know.
‘You’ll make your name.’
CHAPTER SIX
Brandt had returned from his trip to London on a train straight from London St Pancras to Derby. The recently renovated train station looked like the architect had lifted its design straight from a catalogue, and as he descended the staircase to the ticket barrier, he noticed a few eyes on him.
He stood out.
As a six foot three, burly man with a thick beard, he drew attention, but there was a danger that emanated from his every movement. Brandt was a highly efficient killing machine, and although he didn’t blend in, he knew that should he return any of the gazes that were on him, those responsible would quickly turn away. He readjusted the rucksack on his shoulder which housed his weapon and shimmied through the barrier when it opened.
Masters was waiting directly outside the automatic door, sitting behind the wheel of a sleek, black Mercedes which she had rented under a fake name. Brandt placed his rucksack in the boot of the car, then dropped into the passenger seat.
‘Sir.’ Masters was a proud soldier, and her hands were already bringing the car to life. The sleeves of her checked shirt were rolled to the elbow, exposing a plethora of tattoos. ‘Good trip?’
‘I need a drink,’ Brandt replied before resting his head against the leather seat. Masters understood the request for silence, and pulled away, weaving through the one-way system that engulfed Derby city centre before heading towards the Holiday Inn they’d claimed as their base for the operation. Brandt turned his head to the window. The large Derbion shopping centre was lit up spectacularly, promising its patrons the best restaurants and the latest movies.
Secretly, Brandt had hoped nobody else would have been foolish enough to accept the contract. Having experienced Sam Pope’s expertise first hand, with a permanent reminder in the centre of his face, he had hoped that Pope’s legacy would have been enough to give them a clear run at him. There had been enough testosterone in that room to power a space station, but it wasn’t the lurid machismo of Defoe that had made him anxious.
In fact, it had been the calm, almost uncaring nature of his partner that had given him the most food for thought.
Jacob Nash.
On the train ride back from the capital, Brandt had requested Dallow find any information he could on the other hitmen, and although there wasn’t much, the man had once again pulled a rabbit out of the hat. Defoe, for all his bravado, actually had the skills to back it up. In fact, according to his CIA record, which abruptly ended six years ago, the man had a proclivity for reckless violence. Brandt assumed, logically, that was why he was recruited for whatever organisation he now worked for.
Nash, however, had an extensive record with the US Marines, buried behind firewalls and dummy folders. Dallow had found it, and it underlined exactly what Brandt had known when he had stared into the man’s eyes.
That he was one of the most dangerous men the US government had ever been able to call upon.
Again, the trail went cold, which meant Nash had been handpicked to disappear and become a contract killer but judging by the questions the man asked and his clear disdain for his partner, Brandt speculated that there was more to Nash than just money.
