Prequel Kage

PREQUEL

KAGE

The job is simple. Find the girl. Get the information. Kill the girl. Dump her in the lake.

So many bodies have been buried in the frigid watery graveyard of Lake Tahoe that another one won’t matter.

It’s a seven-hour flight from the city to Reno-Tahoe International Airport with a stop in Kansas City to refuel. I fly the turboprop Pilatus PC-12 because I love the way it handles and the way it sounds. The flight is smooth, the landing uneventful. A black SUV waits for me on the tarmac when I arrive at the small private terminal.

The sunrise drive up Mt. Rose Highway into the small alpine enclave of Kings Beach is pretty. At least it would be, if I were paying attention to it. My mind is occupied with other things. This job Max has tasked me with is an important one.

“Ya rasschityvayu na vas,” he said. I’m counting on you.

The boss of the Russian mafia has always counted on me to do the work others can’t or won’t. I’m the best at this kind of thing because I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. After so many years living this life, any conscience I might have once had is long dead.

Most importantly, I never make the rookie mistake of mixing business with pleasure. Business always comes first. I never fail.

I’m Max’s right hand for good reasons.

When I arrive at my destination, I cruise slowly down the street to have a first look. It’s a quiet neighborhood. Unlike the flashy lakefront places where the millionaires live, these are small, rustic homes on the hillside, A-frames and cabins surrounded by trees.

I’d say they’re charming, but I can’t be charmed.

I spot the address of my target. The house is unassuming, like the rest. I know Damon too well to be surprised. He’s smart. He wouldn’t advertise the fact that he stole one hundred million of Max’s money by buying a flashy house or expensive cars. He wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself.

People in the Witness Protection Program need to be careful that way.

I drive on by, then head over to the shabby motel I passed on the way in that had a vacancy sign lit up in its front window. I pay for a room in cash, give the old man at the desk one of my many fake IDs, then collect the keys. The room is indistinguishable from a thousand others I’ve stayed in over the years when I’ve been on assignment. It’s small, bare, and ugly.

Like my heart.

For the first time in weeks, I smile.

I lie down on my back on the rickety queen bed and close my eyes. I never really sleep, so I’ve learned to catnap. I keep my boots and jacket on, and my semiauto within reach. Listening to the clock tick and an owl hooting somewhere outside, I rest until my stomach starts to rumble, then I rise and drive back to the quiet neighborhood with a briefcase of cash.

When I knock on the door, an older woman answers .

“Hi there. How can I help you?”

I hold up the briefcase and tell her I’d like to make an offer on her house.

Two hours later, I’ve got the keys and Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan have more money than they’ve made their entire lives. They took their clothes and some personal belongings, but left everything else.

That’s the thing about people: Everybody has a price.

Which is why trust is for fools. That and “love,” which is even stupider.

The first thing I do is raid the refrigerator. I eat sliced deli turkey right from the package, standing in front of the open fridge door. When that’s finished, I polish off a container of egg salad, devour a rotisserie chicken, and guzzle a liter of Coke. Then I prowl through the place, looking for the best spots to set up my cameras and security equipment. I find a dusty boxer’s punching bag in the garage that probably hasn’t been used in thirty years and install it in the room that faces the side of my target’s house.

As I’m doing that, I spot my mark.

Standing on her front porch, she’s wearing a white sweater and pajama pants with cartoon images of smiley strawberries all over them. Her long black hair is tousled, partially hiding her face. Her feet are bare. She’s watching a big shaggy dog sniff around in the bushes, and her arms are wrapped around her body as if she’s cold. Which she probably is. September in the mountains has a bite.

Then she steps out from under the porch overhang and turns her face up to the sun, and my heart stops beating. As if it’s been stabbed, the fucking thing literally stops dead in my chest.

She’s beyond beautiful. There’s not a word for what this woman is. Artificial intelligence couldn’t even create a goddess like this.

Frozen, I stand and stare at her in disbelief.

When she stretches her arms overhead, yawning, and her sweater rides up so I glimpse a flash of her flat belly, my heart decides it’s alive again and starts thumping so hard, it leaves me breathless.

I turn away abruptly and stare at the blank wall until my vision clears of the image of her that’s burned onto my retinas.

I blow out a hard breath and shake my head. When I turn around again a few moments later, the girl and the dog are gone.

I walk unsteadily into the bedroom and sit on the bed until my hands have stopped trembling and my heartbeat has slowed.

Then I have a nice, long talk with myself about what a fucking idiot I am.

I remind myself I’m ruthless. I’m a killer. I murder people for a living. I don’t have ridiculous things like feelings, and even if I did, I’m much too fucking tough to get knocked sideways at the mere sight of a beautiful girl.

When that’s done, I feel better. Just to boost my mood even more, I make a list of my favorite memories.

Recalling all the creative ways I’ve ended lives always gives me a boost.

I spend the next week observing her. I note what time she leaves for work, what time she comes home, what time the lights go out when she goes to bed at night. I tell myself this is necessary reconnaissance, and that to be successful at extracting the information I need, I must get to know her habits, but I know it’s bullshit. I could walk next door and make her talk in five minutes if I wanted to. This whole enterprise could already be complete.

The fact that it’s not is concerning.

By Friday morning, I’ve consumed every bite of food in the house, so I make a stop at the local grocery store. By dusk, I’m crawling the walls with restless energy. I decide to go out for a beer. I drive to a joint called Downrigger’s on the lake, park, and take a seat at the bar.

That’s when the black-haired beauty walks through the door .

Fuck. She’s even better up close. And those legs…

Shut the fuck up about her legs. She’s a job, idiot. What’s the matter with you?

Clenching my jaw, I watch her walk to a table near the window. She’s with a brunette about her age who struts through the place like she’s on a fashion show runway. They sit for only a minute or two before my black-haired beauty stands up again and heads toward the restrooms.

After five minutes, she hasn’t returned.

What’s taking so fucking long? Why’d she go alone? Is she making a phone call? Is she talking to someone? Or… could someone else have gotten to her first? Am I not the only one on this job?

Is she in danger?

An unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation tightens my chest. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t fucking like it.

“Hi, handsome. I’m Sloane. How’d you like to buy me a drink?”

“Not interested.”

Without glancing at her friend, the confident brunette who just sashayed up and stuck her tits in my face, I slide off the barstool and follow my mark.

As I’m about to barge into the women’s restroom, she comes out. She’s not looking up, and she crashes right into me.

She jerks back, stumbles, and loses her balance. Before she can fall, I reach out and grab her upper arm to steady her.

“Careful.”

She looks up at me and drives a sword straight through my chest when she smiles.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Her eyes are the blue-gray of thunderclouds. No. A stormy sea. Her lips are full and red, her skin is gleaming and poreless, and oh fucking Jesus God, I smell her . I’ve got her sweet scent in my nose, and my mouth is watering, and what the hell is happening to me because I need to taste every fucking inch of her. I need to run my hands over her naked skin and bite those pretty lips and shove my hard cock deep inside that perfect goddamn body.

She raises her brows and gives me a look that no one in my lifetime has ever given me.

Sass.

She’s fucking sassing me. Just with her expression.

Then she says, “Excuse me, please,” in this tart little way that really means, “Get the fuck out of my way, dickhead,” and I almost lose my fucking mind and kiss her. I’m this close to crushing my mouth to hers, pulling her into the bathroom, and bending her over the sink.

But although I’m a monster, I’m not that kind of monster.

I brush past her into the men’s room, where I lock myself in a stall and fight the urge to take out my throbbing dick and jerk off to the thought of that sassy red mouth of hers.

What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t understand this!

Maybe I’ve been drugged. Or poisoned. Or I hit my head and forgot about it but the damage was done. Is it the elevation? Do I have altitude sickness? Am I having a stroke?

I kick the stall door so hard, it flies off its hinges and crashes into the row of sinks.

I stalk over to the sink and glare at myself in the mirror. I point at my reflection and snarl, “Pull yourself together!” Then I go back outside and bark at the hostess to get me a table.

She seats me on the opposite side of the restaurant from my mark. Unfortunately, the restaurant is small, so I’ve got an unobstructed view of her from my table. I force myself to study her, to imagine what it will be like to put a bullet in her head, wrap her body in a tarp, and dump her into the lake.

It makes me feel sick.

Physically sick to my stomach.

When the waitress arrives, I tell her to get me a Guinness. Whatever tone I used, it scares the shit out of her, because she takes off running. She returns in two minutes with my beer, then runs away again.

I nurse it, staring at my mark and considering the situation.

I’m an assassin. By nature and by trade. I don’t cry at sad movies, I don’t coo over cute babies, and I don’t fry every brain cell I own over a girl. Even if she does smell sweet. Even if she does look like a fairy-tale princess. Even if she does have a supernatural ability to reduce me to a giant walking penis just by smiling at me.

I’m Kazimir fucking Portnov! I don’t lose my shit!

Except apparently I do, because she just looked up and locked eyes with me, and my dick is hard again. That thing inside my chest where a heart’s supposed to be is alive and kicking. My blood pulses fast and hot through every vein in my body, and I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I know it’s dangerous.

For me, for her, for everyone.

Dangerous.

I watch her and her friend for over an hour. I can’t take my gaze off her. I know they’re talking about me, and that’s dangerous, too, but she’s quicksand, and I’m sinking fast.

I like the way she eats. I like the way she drinks her wine. I like the way she laughs with her friend, her sweet, easy smile. I like the flashes of darkness I see in her eyes, too, the way she stares out the window every once in a while, lost in a quiet little bubble of melancholy before she snaps out of it and smiles again.

She’s performing for her friend. Trying to look strong. But there are cracks in that facade I can see because I’m looking so closely. More than anything else, I want to see those cracks. I want to explore them.

I want—fucking stupidly—to make them go away.

This girl, my mark, this Natalie Peterson… she doesn’t deserve what I came here for. She’s not like the others I track down and take out. I already know she’s good. Whether or not she knows anything about Damon’s whereabouts or the money he stole, she’s got a soft heart and she deserves better than what I have to do to her .

My cell phone rings. I pick it up without saying hello because I never do. The voice speaking Russian in my ear says something I can’t pay attention to because I’m too busy staring at Natalie.

She’s staring back at me.

Someone just lit a fire under my chair.

And I shouldn’t fucking be calling her by her fucking name because this isn’t fucking personal…

Why is she standing up? Why is she walking over to me?

She holds my gaze as she moves closer. I couldn’t rip my eyes away from the sight of her if someone put a gun to my head and ordered me to. I tell Pavel I’ll call him back and disconnect.

“Hi. I’m Natalie. May I join you?”

She sits without waiting for an answer. When I say nothing and only stare at her, she shifts uncomfortably in the chair.

I want to kiss her. I want to pull her onto my lap, kiss her hard and deep, and slide my hand underneath her skirt and into her panties. I want to feel her wetness on my fingers, listen to her breathless moans as I stroke her clit.

“My girlfriend and I have had a little too much wine and we can’t safely drive home. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. We’d take a cab and pick up her car tomorrow. But she just told me that unless I leave here with you she’s spending the night at my house.

“Now, there’s a whole long story about why I don’t want that to happen, but I won’t bore you with the details. And before you ask, no, I don’t usually demand rides from total strangers. But I was told that you bought the place next door to me up on Steelhead, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and ask you for the favor of a ride home since it won’t be out of your way.”

I stare at her, needing to feel her in my arms.

Blushing, she adds sheepishly, “I swear this isn’t a pickup line. I really am only looking for a ride home. Also, um… welcome to town.”

So here’s the icing on this awful shitshow cake: she’s kind. She’s not afraid of me, she’s welcoming me to town, she’s gorgeous and down to earth and feisty, and I’m so fucked it’s not even funny.

I’m so fucked, I might as well go out to the parking lot right now and shoot myself in the face.

You have a job to do, Kazimir. Stop this before it’s too late.

Past clenched teeth, I say, “Sorry, princess. If you’re looking for a knight in shining armor, you’re looking in the wrong fucking place.”

Then I stand and walk away, knowing I have to do what I came here to do but hating myself for it.

I spend hours that night working out my frustration on the heavy bag.

It doesn’t help.

In the morning, I’m in bad shape. I didn’t get any rest. All I did was stare at the ceiling and think about Natalie. About that body, that sweetness, that sass, that smile. It feels like some awful cosmic joke is being played on me, like the universe decided it’s my turn to pay for all the terrible things I’ve done by putting an angel in front of me and seeing if I’ll be able to pull the trigger.

Only a few days ago, there would have been no question.

Now… my world isn’t the same place.

No wonder Damon fell for her. He’s a thieving rat, but he isn’t stupid.

I’m lying on the bed feeling sorry for myself when someone rings the doorbell. It’s a UPS driver, leaving a parcel on the porch. When he drives off in his truck, I open the door and take the package, expecting it to be for the Sullivans.

Because the universe is fucking with me at the moment, it’s not.

I stare at the label with Natalie’s name and address on it, feeling my heart thud and knowing that this is a moment of decision I’ll revisit for years to come, one way or another .

It’s a short moment.

If I’m being honest with myself, I made my mind up the second I saw her.

For better or worse, the angel’s got the devil on her side now. If there is a god, not even He can save us from what will come of this.

I walk next door like I’m walking to my own execution, because I am. I ring the doorbell knowing I’m fucked six ways to Sunday but strangely at peace with it. I’ve never been one to dwell in the past.

From somewhere in the house, Natalie calls, “Come in!”

I enter the house, stopping in the living room to look around. The place is neat, simply furnished but with a distinctly feminine flair. Catching her sweet scent, I greedily sniff the air.

The big shaggy black-and-tan Shepherd mix lying sprawled in the middle of the floor lifts its head, makes a half-hearted woof of welcome, then goes back to sleep.

If she got this animal for protection, she needs a refund.

“Back here!”

I head toward the sound of her voice and find her in a bedroom in the back of the house. The moment I lay eyes on her, I have a fucking heart attack.

I’m fucking dead .

On the opposite side of the room, she stands in front of a full-length mirror wearing a white wedding dress. It has a cinched waist, an open back, and little sparkly shit all over it.

She’s so knockout beautiful, my eyes burn. Someone punched me in the stomach because I can’t catch my breath.

She sees me gaping at her in the mirror and gasps in horror.

Whirling around, she covers her chest with her arms and demands, “What the hell are you doing in here?”

The lone brain cell I have left functioning operates my mouth. “You told me to come in.”

“I thought you were someone else! ”

Those curves, that gown, the way it clings to her body… I’m going to rip that wedding dress off with my teeth.

She’s staring at me, trembling with anger, waiting for a response. I should say something about the package in my hand, but I’m so stunned, I’m barely functioning.

So I default to asshole mode and growl, “You getting married?”

She snaps back, “None of your business. What are you doing here?”

The sass again. Fuck, how I love it. “UPS left this on my porch. It’s addressed to you.”

All the anger drains out of her when she realizes I have a box in my hand. Now she looks confused. “Oh. Okay. Thanks. You can just leave it on the dresser.”

I would but I’m incapable of moving. My feet are rooted to the spot. Every cell in my body demands that I stand here and drink her in, so I do.

If asshole mode is my default, feisty mode is hers. When I don’t respond to her command, she folds her arms and sticks out a hip, staring defiantly at me.

It’s adorable. She’s this tiny thing compared to me, like a kitten facing a lion, but she’s not scared of me at all. From the looks of it, she’d like to kick my ass.

Now I know what it feels like to be struck by lightning. I’ve got a million volts of energy supercharging my body. I wouldn’t be surprised if I spontaneously burst into flames.

I flick my fingers toward her dress. “It doesn’t suit you.”

She blinks, then says, “ Excuse me?” all haughty and holier-than-thou, and I’m lost.

This is it. This is the way the dreaded Reaper meets his end, at the hands of an angel with a sword for a tongue.

“Too fussy.”

I don’t know if it’s my words or my delivery, but it pisses her off even more. Stormy sea eyes flashing, she snaps, “For future reference, if you see a woman wearing a wedding gown, the only acceptable thing to tell her is that she looks beautiful.”

“You are beautiful, but it has nothing to do with that fussy fucking dress.”

Jesus Christ. I told her she’s beautiful. Next, I’ll be spouting poetry. I’m a goddamn pathetic mess.

Before I can make more of a fool of myself, I toss the package onto the dresser and storm out of her house. I go next door, slam the door shut behind me, tear off my shirt, and set into the punching bag with vicious intensity, hammering it over and over with my bare fists while visualizing it’s Damon’s face I’m pulverizing.

I want to kill him for stealing that money.

Not because of loyalty to Max. Because he put in motion something so dark and powerful, it has the potential to take down the entire Russian mafia and maybe the whole world with it.

The Reaper put a target under his protection. None of the old rules apply anymore.

I don’t know how long I work on the bag, but when my arms are aching and my body is drenched in sweat, I let out a roar of frustration and stop because it isn’t helping.

Then I glimpse Natalie in the window of the bedroom I left her in next door and freeze.

She’s still wearing the wedding dress. Our gazes catch and hold, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that she feels it, too.

The need. The connection. But most of all, the danger. This is a new chapter of a very old book, and there’s no predicting how the story will end.

I’m too much of a realist to imagine it will be happy, but I’m too far gone to care.

Natalie Peterson is the brightest flame, and I’m the moth flying straight into her fire.

Okay, baby. Let’s see how hot we’re gonna burn.