Page 1 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)
Dimitri
An American, an Englishman, and a Russian walk into a bar
The noise of the late-night talk show coming from the TV over the bar competes with the low chatter and whatever rock music is softly playing—James knows the song, I am sure, since it sounds distinctly American.
The dim lights make the dingy place seem more intimate, transforming stained wooden paneling and aged fixtures into a place that the few remaining patrons might call their favorite dive bar.
It is late, but everyone left has the look of someone who makes a habit of being kicked out at closing—the bartenders busy cleaning glasses, the trio of drunk girls, an old man with a beer belly three seats over, the couple on a date that seems to be going very well, and the middle-aged man in a rumpled suit sitting in the darkest, furthest corner of the room in a booth by himself, hunched over a half-empty glass of clear alcohol.
From this seat, I can see everything, which is the reason I chose it. The mirror-backed shelves lined with bottles reflect the movements behind me and everyone who enters and exits through the heavy wooden door.
A flash of red catches my eye in that mirror, and I glance up to find a pale brunette woman in a skin-tight dress, headed straight for me like I am her mission. From the angle of her approach and the way her eyes are locked on my back, I know she has not really seen my face.
She fluffs her hair and exaggerates her hip movements into a seductive saunter. Her two friends at the table nearby are obvious as they look on, their faces a mixture of awe and envy. She is the sacrificial lamb, either the bravest of the group, or she has something to prove to them.
“Hi,” the woman purrs at me from my right. My good side, if I have one.
In another life, I would have enjoyed her obvious interest and confidence.
I would have let her talk to me and admired her pretty face.
She is not the sort of woman I prefer—too thin and short for my tastes, dainty in a way that makes me feel too large in my own skin—but even so, she is very attractive and I would have gone with her to her home and taken from her body what was being freely offered.
Another time, when I was another man.
“No,” I reply. I admire her courage in coming to speak to me, but she should have set her mark on someone else.
I remain perfectly still, as I have no wish to intimidate this woman who is less than half my size—they tend to get wide-eyed and teary about it, and I end up kicked out of a bar for doing nothing.
I have no wish to be kicked out of this bar, though my contact is late.
“What?” The woman’s mask of self-assurance slips, but she recovers after a second. Her eyes are a touch glassy from the alcohol. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I am meeting someone.”
“I’d be better company,” she slurs in a low voice, shifting her body forward so her breasts brush my arm.
“Not interested.” I jerk away from her touch.
“You sure—”
I sigh. Rudeness often accomplishes more than words, and she has not taken the first two rejections. From behind, she saw only my size, my muscles, the width of my shoulders, perhaps my expensive watch, and thought I would make a fine conquest.
So, I turn .
Now she sees more. She sees me— the jagged, pinched skin, the promise of violence in my cold eyes that normal people simply do not have.
Her eyes widen, taking in the scars that bisect and ruin my once-handsome face, and they dilate as her lust becomes edged with something else that she may mistake for excitement. But it is not excitement. It is fear.
It is a natural human response to a threatening presence. Fight or flight. Deep down, she knows she should run from the predator, and her anxiety tastes acrid; burning and stinging in my nostrils.
“Go away,” I growl.
She scoffs, a frown knitting her brow, but it feels much more performative than genuine as relief glimmers across her face, mingling with the false outrage. She did not mean to rouse a monster, and she is grateful for the out, even if she pretends not to be for the sake of her wounded pride.
“Asshole,” she spits, nearly tripping over herself as she turns to retreat.
Correct. I am an asshole. I do not waste my time with honeyed words and games of pretend anymore, because one night is not worth the effort. I am tired of ignoring their fear and being careful. It is much easier to be alone.
The audio device in my left ear crackles. I always keep the communication piece for James in my left ear and Wesley in my right, a habit I now have no reason to break. “Damn, D. That was cold. Sounded like she would’ve happily kept you company while you waited.”
I sigh at the almost taunting Southern lilt. “We have a job to do.” My lips barely move, and my voice is so low that only the high-tech devices in my ears, which pick up on vibrations in my skull, would be able to transmit the sound.
James scoffs. “Yeah… and? There’s this little thing called ‘having a life.’ You could’ve taken her number and called her later when we weren’t working. ”
“I have a life,” I mutter defensively.
“Sharpening knives and going to bed at 10 PM isn’t what Mac means. You live like a monk,” Wesley returns evenly. His British accent rounds his vowels and drops his R’s, yet somehow sounds very close to James’s Southern drawl to my ears.
“ Mudak,” I mutter, knowing they know this one in Russian. I find myself using it often.
“I know I’m an idiot, but all I’m sayin’ is… Wouldn’t kill you to get your dick wet.”
I make a dismissive noise and spin the beer bottle in my hand. “Women are a distraction.”
“You want to turn up the volume on Big D’s mic, Wes? I can barely hear him. There’s some idiot playing guitar in the apartment below me.”
“You know, you’d hear much better if you ever stopped talking.”
“You can’t see it, so just know that I’m flipping you the bird right now.”
I know it is an idiom, but I also know that James is on a rooftop somewhere nearby and has access to pigeons, so I will not guess what he means.
English sayings are ridiculous. And what makes it worse is that even though it is the primary language of both Wesley and James’s home countries, sometimes even they do not understand one another.
Every time we are together, it strikes me as the setup of one of those jokes with a punchline that is a pun. Though ours would not have a funny or witty end.
An American, an Englishman, and a Russian walk into a bar… and kill everyone inside.
However, I have no intention of killing anyone tonight.
Tonight is simply an exchange of goods for services.
Such a simple transaction would hardly justify the presence of my entire team, if not for the fact that I am meeting one of James’s contacts, Felix—who, according to James, is “a bit of a loose cannon.”
At times, I almost forget what my life used to be like before.
I used to walk into situations like this blind, with my senses sharp and the taste of bitter adrenaline in the back of my throat.
Now, I have Wesley hacking traffic cameras and monitoring the streets and James watching my back from 500 meters away through the scope of his rifle.
I much prefer the way we do things now. I have not been shot in several months.
We are a good team because we each play to our strengths.
Wesley spends little time in the thick of the violence; his weapons are a computer mouse and keyboard.
James occasionally steps out from behind his gun, but he is best suited as our backup from a distance.
Conversely, I am not able to hack security cameras or make a kill shot with a ranged weapon—my place is as the man on the ground, dealing more closely and directly with targets. This is why I prefer knives.
“Harsh,” the male bartender remarks, eyeing the small, brunette woman walking away with curiosity as he wipes the glass in his hand with a cloth. “But fair, I ‘spose. You’ve got a ‘don’t fuck with me’ thing going for you.”
I ignore his judgment and lift my warm, half-empty beer. “I will take a fresh one.” It serves a dual purpose: to drive up my bill so he will leave me alone, and it renews my reason for being here.
I feel the glares of female solidarity boring holes into my back as the woman rejoins her group. She needs something else to focus on; the sooner she gets over this slight, the better. They are attracting attention, and consequently, so am I.
In a practiced motion, he swaps my drink for a newly opened bottle.
When he straightens, I see that he is a good-looking man.
He is tall—though half a foot shorter than me, that still puts him over six feet—with dark hair and eyes that are set in a brown complexion.
He is Hispanic, given the shape of his features.
The same desire for danger that attracted the brunette woman to me will be satisfied by the tattoos on display beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves.
“You should give her your phone number,” I encourage.
“You think?” His eyes cut down the length of the bar, assessing. “Nah, not really my type. Flaca .”
I quirk a brow.
“Too skinny,” he explains, flashing a grin that reveals a gold tooth in the back of his mouth. “I’ve always said, I like my women like I like my cars—sleek curves. Redheaded, too, if I can get ‘em.”
At that, I scoff. “Women should have curves, da , but cars should have headroom. And trunk space.”
I do not expect the hoot of laughter, so when he tilts back his head to put his whole body into it, it surprises me. He whips the white towel off his shoulder and slaps it against the edge of the bar.
“I’m stealing that one.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the table behind him, holding all the unused, clean beer glasses. “Russian, am I right?”
I incline my head.