Page 2 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

“I heard talk of a Russian a few months back involved in some shit with that asshole Rossi who got offed. Big fucker, they said he was, like you. Deadly, too. Good with knives. Goes by the Ghost . Know him?”

The ease of a casual, friendly conversation falls away in an instant, and my whole body tenses. I narrow my eyes at him. “Felix.”

“One and only,” he confirms. His eyes shine with the mirth of a trickster—pleased by my surprised reaction to a well-executed ruse.

“I fucking knew I recognized that voice!” James interjects, sounding vindicated.

Personally, I do not think he gets to consider that a win, due to the fact that he did not fucking warn me about it .

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Wesley fires back, as if he can read my mind. “You knew we were going in blind since I couldn’t find a photo of him anywhere.”

“I wasn’t sure. I can’t see him; the angle of the window blocks that side of the bar.”

I simmer in anger, and Felix watches with a cool sort of interest meant to disguise unease.

Instinctively, I know the test is not quite over. He wants to see how I will react. I swallow the irritation and force out a calm question. “Why not introduce yourself sooner?”

Predictably, his attention is on the marred skin around the scar that twists up the corner of my mouth and disappears into my hairline through my temple. I have grown used to the surprise, the poorly veiled horror as people imagine what might have happened to me.

“Maybe I wanted to get the measure of the biggest, meanest motherfucker I’ve ever seen before sticking my neck out.”

It was a clever move on his part, I must begrudgingly admit. My physical size—height and build—and scar are excellent for intimidation, and I use them to my advantage whenever possible. Men will agree to less favorable deals and do more to keep me happy if they are afraid.

But Felix’s trick broke the illusion and forced me to interact with him first as a civilian instead of a hitman—I am no longer the aloof, dangerous, vaguely threatening presence, I am the man with whom he found common ground over a preference for large women.

Additionally, because I am still here half an hour after our agreed time, he knows I want what he has badly enough to wait for it.

My hand curls into a fist, pulling at the healing scabs on my knuckles. I do not mind being bested by a worthy adversary, as it is often the only way to improve, but I rarely suffer having my time wasted.

Still, he owes me a payment. I can swallow down my frustration for now .

He is still waiting for my reaction, tense and ready to move quickly in case I become disagreeable. When I turn my head, he flinches—the smallest show of fear. I pretend not to see it as I glance around to take in all the potential witnesses and exits.

My size also makes me memorable. I cannot afford to leave witnesses.

“If I had known it was you, I would not have choked down two bottles of this American-made piss.” I gesture at the beer.

He laughs, and the tension of the moment disappears.

“Hey Vi, take over for me, will ya?” Felix asks a small woman wearing a half-apron at the end of the bar.

She nods without looking up from whatever she is doing on her phone.

“Let’s step into my office. Tip your bartender, huh?

” he says with a wink, as if he has not been acting as my bartender.

I exhale heavily and reach into my wallet. I toss a folded $20 to cover my tab and stand. To my surprise, he pushes through the metal door with a handwritten piece of paper taped to it declaring it an “Exit to Alley.”

His office indeed.

The night air is cool but moist, and it lessens the city stink that drifts around me.

There are no signs of life except for a far-off police siren and the sound of some nocturnal creature rifling through the garbage nearby.

The rest of this derelict neighborhood is full of condemned homes, trash, and broken chain-link fences.

A few two-story buildings flank the alley, casting dark shadows beyond the flickering light of a single bulb overhead that illuminates the path to the dumpster.

In some ways, this was the ideal location for our meeting.

It is a shitty bar on the “wrong side of town.” The people who live here look out for only themselves.

It makes them wary of strangers and mind their own business.

Still, cities such as this do not ever fully sleep, so my eyes dart around for movement or onlookers.

Felix settles against the crumbling brick siding, leaning against one shoulder.

He crosses his arms. “Apologies for the stunt in there, but you can’t be too careful when your sniper buddy says he’s sending in the Russian.

I’ve known Mackenzie for years, and I know how he is.

He’s full of shit and hot air, but he knows people. Understands ‘em.”

“And what did he tell you about me?” I ask, lifting a brow.

“Nothing!” James protests. At the same time, Felix flashes me that gold tooth while he shakes his head and says, “Nothing. That’s the problem.

Anyone else he’d say, ‘he’s good people,’ or ‘watch your back,’ or ‘he acts tough, but he does pottery,’ or some shit, like I give a fuck.

But you? Nada. ” He cocks his head. “So, me? I had to wonder, is it because he doesn’t know you, or because he knows you too well? ”

I mirror Felix’s relaxed posture, settling against the door in case anyone inside thinks to join us. He is baiting me, and I will not rise to it. “If you want information about James, ask him yourself. If you want information about me, that is too bad for you.”

After a few seconds, Felix cracks that knowing little smile. “Where is Mac tonight, anyway?” He cranes his neck, looking down the length of the alley. His eyes lift to the rooftops of the buildings flanking the alley, scanning and settling on the one due east. He waves.

“Tell him he’s way off,” James grumbles.

He is not, and I will not.

Tucking his arm back into the space on the inside of his elbow, Felix grins. “Anyway, we didn’t come out here to talk about our mutuals. How’s my witness?” He glances down at my scabbed, bruised knuckles. “Still feeling chatty?”

“I find that it is difficult to speak without teeth,” I answer vaguely.

His smile turns dark, mirthless. “The literal approach. I like it. All right, Ghost . I’m a man who pays his debts.

” He reaches into the pocket of his black half-apron, produces a card of thick white paper, and holds it out to me.

The reds and oranges of his ink flash in the light, a dance of color among the gray and darkness.

The wedding invitation feels expensive, with textured paper and gold leaf lettering. I suppose that is fitting, as it is a golden ticket to the event. All our research indicates this wedding will be crawling with security, and anyone without an invitation will be turned away.

“You’re Lev Petrov for the night, in case you were wondering. The barcode at the bottom will tell them who the invite belongs to when they read it. Might want to get a fake ID made up, just in case.”

“Who is Lev Petrov?”

“Someone who’s not going to that wedding anymore, that’s for sure,” Felix chuckles.

I burn to ask how he managed to get this, but I know he would not reveal this information to me. I tuck it into the back pocket of my pants, taking care not to crease it as I slide it in, and nod my thanks. “So, we are done here, da ?”

“Square as a WASP,” he replies.

I scowl. Does that word not mean what I think it means? His tone says yes, but I do not know what is square-shaped about a stinging insect. My face must betray my confusion.

“Square like uncool… White Anglo-Saxon Protestant…” he says, lifting his brows in a way I recognize—it means there is a joke I am missing.

“I’m sensing this is a bit of a lost cause.

Never mind. Yeah, we’re good. Might call you back if Johnson buys some dentures and testifies anyway, but I’ll know way before that happens. ”

I jerk my chin. “Then we are done.”

“Pleasure doin’ business, Dimitri. Feel free to give me a shout in the future if you need anything, and I’d be happy to set up another trade like this—I’ve got plenty that needs doing, and it’s always nice to find a guy willing to get his hands dirty.”

Now that I have met Felix, I understand why James was willing to utilize his services.

In our industry, a man is only as good as his word, and trust is hard to come by since loyalty is too easily purchased.

Felix is well-connected, discreet, and efficient.

James still owes the man a favor for cleaning a crime scene for him when we were pursuing another hit months ago.

Personally, I believe a man should clean up his own messes, and the thought of owing someone a near-limitless favor makes my skin itch.

With a grunt of acknowledgment, I push off the door and head west out of the alley, towards the side street where Wesley’s van is parked.

“Hope you get your guy,” Felix calls at my retreating form, proving once again that he knows more than he should.

The white van with the faded Bugs-B-Gon decal blends in well with the scenery.

The street is mostly deserted, and the van is parallel parked next to a fire hydrant, wearing a chipped yellow boot on its tire.

On my way to the side with the sliding door, I bend down and unlock the boot to toss it into its spot in the back corner of the van.

I knock twice, and Wesley’s pale face appears in the opening a second later.

As I climb in, he settles back onto his wheeled stool and scoots away to give me enough room to sit on an overturned crate while we wait for James.

The wall of monitors on his right flicker as the screens change and cycle through the various views he finds useful—traffic cameras from nearby intersections, weather updates, police emergency call logs, surveillance photos, and mugshots of the man we have been tasked to kill. ..

How he can so easily access restricted information is not my concern, though it is very impressive.

Before I accidentally crush it, I retrieve the invitation from my back pocket and hand it to Wesley. He peruses it, whistling his approval. “This is quite posh,” he remarks. “Come have a look, Mac.”

“On my way, Short Round.”

I believe it references something from popular culture, but even after hearing it for months, the nickname rubs against me the incorrect way. It strikes me as strangely rude and inaccurate, which are not things I typically associate with James .

Wesley is neither short—though the shortest of us, he still stands over six feet—nor round.

His frame has picked up plenty of bulk since we started training together, especially impressive considering the fact that he is chained behind a screen 80% of the time.

One of the British flags amid the incongruous pattern of bright tattoos lining his arms appears distorted with the new width of his bicep in a way that gives me some private amusement.

A few seconds later, James opens the van door, slides the black case containing his gun under the desk, and turns over a bucket to sit on.

He kicks me as he stretches out his long legs, shooting me an apologetic look before nearly tilting over in an effort to stretch out in what little space remains.

Once he is settled, he jokes, “Well, this is fuckin’ cozy. I gotta tell Eleanor to stop feeding you guys.”

Wesley exhales a laugh, but I purse my lips.

“So, we’ve got our in?” James asks. With a look at Wesley, he holds out his hand expectantly. Wesley flicks the invitation towards him, and he catches it midair between his thumb and index finger. “Viktor and Katerina Volkevich invite you to the wedding of their son, Matthew. Nice of them.”

As one, we all turn to look at the face staring from the mugshot on Wesley’s screen.

I do not know him personally, but we share the same wide brow, thin lips, high cheekbones, and a rounded tip to our noses—Slavic features.

Mine are far more severe and angular, and far less balanced, thanks to the long, twisted scar.

When our handler, a man who goes by the moniker the General , sent us the email with a picture and the name of our next hit, I was more than wary.

Viktor Volkevich is the head of one of the local Russian Bratva crime syndicates operating out of Ulysses, New Jersey.

It is no small matter to kill their leader, as proven by the near-obscene amount of money in the offer .

“I am still not convinced we should do this,” I decide, crossing my arms. Now that we have the invitation, all I can see are flaws in the plan.

“Russian mafia boss fits the criteria to a T,” James argues. “And what about all that shit Wes found in his search history? He’s a fucked-up fucker, D.”

I nearly roll my eyes. His criteria—his newly discovered moral compass, courtesy of a woman he has known for less than a year. Ridiculous. We are hitmen, not vigilante heroes. “Yes, he is a bad man who does bad things. This is not the source of my trouble.”

“What’s the issue?” Wesley asks.

“A Bratva is like a sewer full of rats. Kill one, and the others will feast on its corpse and make more rats. It is not like killing a businessman or a billionaire—they are isolated, lonely at the top. In a Bratva , there are cousins, sons, brothers, and a council of men who would step in and take Viktor’s place as soon as his body hit the floor.

Killing the leader will create instability for a time, but it will not destroy the organization.

And besides, he will be protected all evening.

I will be lucky if he even takes a piss alone. ”

“Dimitri has a point,” Wesley says. “Normally we try to take down the whole lot, but three versus an inexhaustible supply of men, guns, and money? Not sure I like those odds.”

“Well, that’s what this is for, right?” James asks, flicking the edge of the invitation and leaving a small dent in the cardstock. “Recon. We can start building our files on the top brass in the Volkevich family. Then, we’ll start picking ‘em off.”

I scratch through my short hair at the thick scar.

Pick them off? He always thinks like a sniper.

“So, the plan is that I will get in, find the Bratva men among the hundreds of other guests to take discreet photos, perhaps kill the most protected of them all at his own son’s wedding, and get out without being seen? ”

“Sounds like fun, huh?” James’s grin will not be deterred .

I cut Wesley a look. He smirks, then shrugs. “We’ve done more with less.”

They both look to me, knowing that I will make the final decision because I will assume most of the risk. “Very well,” I agree.

“Suit up, gents. We’re crashing a wedding.”