Page 1 of Chad's Chase

PROLOGUE

Twelve years ago…

Rublevka, Moscow, Russia

He woke up in a nightmare.

No, notfroma nightmare.Ina nightmare.

The shrills echoing from his piss-scared little sister were jarring, rattling his nerves. The sight of his mom and dad lying face-down on the floor, hands bound behind their backs, was a merciless, bone-cracking kick in the face from reality.

Reality. This was reality.

The world was evil. Humans were sharp-toothed creatures. No better than cannibals tearing each other apart in the forests for food, instead of sharing the fucking carcass and living in lazy peace.

Evil.

Evil had a smell. Raw. Evil had a color. Black. Evil had a taste. Bitter.

Evil overpowered.

Dad was bawling actual tears. Trembling, begging, and pleading for mercy.

Mom, on the other hand, was calm, whimpering not a peep, patiently awaiting her fate. With the life that woman lived, moments like this were expected and prepared for.

“The key to living, son, is toknow that death is inevitable, and always be prepared for it,” she’d told him. “Then you will have no reason to fear or waste tears. And death shall have no dominion over you.”

Easy for her to say.

Standing at the hallway with wide, green eyes, was his little sister, screaming. Just screaming. Loud, piercing, ear-splitting. The fear in her eyes breaking him, beating him into the ground.

Ricardo tried to move against his bindings, to go to her, to snatch her up and run. Run fast and far and hard. But before he could get even two feet toward her, a sharp pain impacted the back of his knee and he face-planted, busting his nose.

Howling out like a man-bitch, he rolled over onto his back and grabbed onto his knee, his face twisted in pain. When he felt the wetness seeping through the soft cotton of his pajamas, he knew he was shot.

Well, fuck. Tonight would be the night. The night death won.

Just eighteen years old. Still a boy. And he was about to die—

A pair of shit-kickers appeared in his periphery, and before he could raise a hand to protect himself, one of the booted feet slammed into the side of his head.

Momentarily, he blacked out. Seeing nothing but blinking stars on a black backdrop, streaks of red, squiggly lines dancing up and down like a graphic equalizer. As the stars disappeared and clear vision returned, the voice above him spoke, words in their Russian tongue, “Stay down, son of a fucking traitor. No escaping. Tonight, you die.”

Resigning to his fate, he gave up all hope, all fight, and relaxed his tensed up muscles, his limbs falling limp and unstrained on the hard, black and white marble tiles.

Slowly, he turned his head in the direction of his sister, to see her face one last time before they died. To apologize through his eyes for not being able to save, protect and defend her, the way a big brother should.

His sister was only ten. Ten. She deserved none of this.

But when his eyes landed on her, he noticed all of a sudden, through the loud rushing of blood in his ears, that her screaming had stopped, the threats of the assailants had ceased, and thick silence plunged into the atrocious waves of this unfortunate night like a heavy anchor.

He watched his little sister as she watched the front door, hope refulgent in her bright green eyes, her hand halfway reaching out, as if she knew who or what she saw would save them.

Her hope revived his own hope, and so he followed her gaze to see what she saw.

And that very moment was what made it all a nightmare. Not the fact that the whole Byrd family was about to be eliminated, but that the head man in charge, the man who would be pulling the trigger, had arrived.

And this man—no,boy, because they shared the same age—was Chadrick Niiveux.