Page 26 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)
Dimitri
Something is wrong
The two men in charge of digital security the night of the wedding have gone missing, and Wesley suspects they were interrogated and killed for “losing” all the camera footage.
The police continue to search for the murderer of Ivan Minnov, the bratok I killed, and now suspect his murderer is also responsible for the gunfire.
No one was shot, but three people were hospitalized after being trampled in the panic that ensued.
Felix is also missing. Though, in his case at least, it is possible he is only temporarily unreachable—lying low, as I am.
And Kyle is dead. The family is keeping it quiet, but a report from the coroner’s office confirmed it.
My chest constricts as I consider the implications, and find only questions with perplexing possible answers.
Were Kyle and Felix working together, or did I come across an innocent conversation? My instinct is that theirs was not a chance meeting. I have not survived this long by ignoring my instincts.
Assuming they were working together, did Kyle have time to speak to Felix before he died? Does he know I was the one who threw that knife? Will there be repercussions for killing a man in his employ?
Does Felix know about this USB? If they were working together, it is logical to assume that he knows about it and that he wants it.
Perhaps it is the reason he was at the wedding to begin with.
Whatever it is, it is important enough that Kyle planned to smuggle it out in the dead body of his date.
But does anyone else know Nicole has it?
To whom is this USB important—only Kyle himself? Felix? Volkevich? Someone else at the wedding? We cannot know until we find out what it contains. I must return to shore and let Wesley look.
Until we know what is on this USB, Nicole is not safe.
Remaining on this boat would be far safer for her than anywhere on land, but she is terrified of the water, and I cannot leave her alone and adrift while I drive to Ulysses and back.
It is storm season, and every atom of my being refuses to allow her to weather another without me.
Something about that storm seems to have fixed the electrical connections, so I lift the anchor with the flip of a switch, plug our destination into the automatic navigation system, and make my way back down the stairs.
My stomach tightens, seeing Nicole on her side, facing away from the door, still asleep.
It was a difficult 24 hours for her. The storm began sometime around midnight, and the sun only parted the clouds around mid-afternoon. Hours of sustained fear make you exhausted, and she did not fall asleep until mid-morning.
I want to return to her and live for a while longer without responsibilities or impending danger, but frustration is making me too antsy to sit still, and things are different after last night. I do not believe I have the self-control to contain myself anymore.
When I close my eyes, I feel her weight, her soft warmth. I see her naked desire. I relive her shivering against me in cold, then heat.
If I put my hands on her again, I will not be able to stop myself this time; I promised myself last night that I would be a better man than I have been in the past. The kind of man who could deserve her.
I will have her, but it will be on a proper bed, where I can take my time, and her cheeks do not taste of salty fear .
I go to the closet and change into some new clothes.
She continues to rest, and I move about the cabin as quietly as I can so I do not disturb her, readying things so that we can leave—collecting laundry and trash, righting things that have fallen over, cleaning the bathroom.
It will take hours to arrive at the second marina, and then several more to return to Ulysses.
We should be home just before morning breaks.
We. She is coming with me. It strikes me with deep satisfaction, right in the center of my chest.
It should feel more like the wrong decision to bring her to the mansion. How will I explain this to James and Wesley?
I will simply have to… make them understand. I cannot trust that she is safe unless she is with me, but I need the expertise of my team to sort this mess out. She ought to be the least of their worries, anyway—we have a Pakhan to kill and a Bratva to destroy.
I continue to move through the lower cabin, performing the small tasks to prepare the boat to be shut down for some time.
The hours pass, and eventually I hear the musical dinging that notifies me we have arrived at my selected destination.
The auto-nav system is not good for areas with many other boats, so I have to manually navigate the last portion.
Before I make my way back up, I sit on the edge of the bed.
Her breathing changes, so I know she is awake. She has slept the day away.
“We are almost to the dock,” I tell her, lifting a hand and reaching for her hair. I leave it suspended for a second, deciding, then lower it against the strands that are such a curious texture—smooth, yet rough.
She flinches.
With a small frown, I pull back. “Nicole?”
“The dock? Are you… um, can I go home?”
My chest tightens at the tentative hope in her voice. I do not want to rob her of that, nor can I confirm it. “Until we know what is on the USB, it is safer for you to”—stay with me—“avoid places where you could be easily found. You understand this?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
“Nicole, are you—”
“How far?” she asks, ignoring the note of concern in my voice and remaining in her protective curled position.
I understand her question is not one of distance. Only Americans ask about distance but expect an answer in time units. “You have 30 minutes to ready yourself. When we reach land, we will go to another safe house.”
“Where?”
One corner of my lip quirks. Always so many questions. “A safe house is only safe if no one knows where it is,” I remind her.
A breath puffs out of her, nearly a laugh. “Of course,” she whispers.
My hand flexes, and I tighten it into a fist so I do not turn her around. I want to see her face. I do not like this distant tone. “Nicole—”
“I’ll be ready, thanks. Is there enough water left for a shower?”
“A short one,” I allow, mollified. She wants some personal time before facing me. She is feeling vulnerable, perhaps. “I will see you up on deck.”
There is a strange hollow feeling in my chest as I sit in the captain’s chair and take over navigating.
I find myself splitting my attention—driving with half my mind and completely attuned to her as she showers and moves through the lower cabin with the other half.
The hollow feeling digs deeper when she does not come up to speak to me or keep me company for the final stretch as I dock the boat among the four others.
I have grown used to having her nearby. She… eases me.
Perhaps she is still upset. Perhaps I should not have spoken so harshly to her, or kissed her. Perhaps she regrets letting me kiss her.
That thought twists my brow.
I will convince her to explain herself to me in the car.
This marina is much smaller. It is privately owned by a man living in a trailer nearby, to whom I pay cash for the rental of my space.
Using the spotlight to illuminate the shore, I tie us off at the portion of broken cement with nailed-in tires that is mine, and the boat bounces around as the wake I created catches us, lapping at the shore.
I hear Nicole stumble and fall against something, and I nearly climb back into the boat to check on her, but then she appears on the top deck.
She looks very unwell, and her arms and legs shake as she climbs down the stairs, refusing my offered hand.
“No more boats,” I say, hoping she will feel some comfort in knowing that.
Her silent nod is emphatic enough to convince me that this is the source of her discomfort.
All she carries is what she had with her when she arrived—a stained golden dress and a small purse, gripped tightly.
I can see that she has changed into a fresh set of my sweatpants and T-shirt.
A pair of my thick socks serve to protect her feet from the ground of washed away gravel and sand, which I know is littered with bottle caps and broken glass and other unpleasant things that it is far too dark to see.
“Do you want me to carry you to the car?”
Her head whips up, and she appears alarmed by the offer instead of pleased. “What?”
I believe she heard me, so I just wait for her to catch up with what I said.
She shakes her head. “Y-you can’t. I’m too heavy.”
My lips purse. “I assure you, Nicole, you are not.”
She winces. I frown. She sees it and drops her gaze.
Wrong. Something is wrong. She seems so on edge.
“No, thanks. I’m… I’ll be fine. I’d rather walk and get used to being back on land again for a minute.”
“Very well,” I say, keeping my eyes on her.
We will have plenty of time to talk while we drive, and perhaps once I explain everything, she will…
well, it will not calm her, but it may help co ntinue to build the bridge of trust between us.
I hold out my arm to indicate she should go first, and steer us towards an old sedan parked half into the tall, weedy grass that encroaches on the cleared parking area.
It is an old car, covered in a fine layer of dust and salt.
One tire appears flat from the divot I dug underneath, and the rust and faded, flaking tan paint make it appear abandoned.
The shape is boxy, common in older cars, and I much prefer it to the newer models.
The key fob battery died long ago, so I must physically insert the key into the trunk to pop it. Once it is open, I toss my bag inside.
I keep her in my periphery, aware of every shaky breath and jerk of her head as she responds to the sounds of the night around us.
So jumpy. So anxious.
Wrong.
“Nicole—”
I hear it then. A police siren a few miles away. That in itself would not be so odd, but it is the dead of night, and this area is very remote. There is only one other car in the parking lot.
But when I meet her wide, teary eyes, I see it. Terror. Guilt. Without meaning to, she displays a tell when she clutches her small purse more tightly.
“What did you do?” I roar.
She is shaking as I jerk the purse from her grip.
It rips open, and the contents spill out onto the ground.
The phone lands face up in the sandy dirt, the screen illuminated with an active phone call.
Faintly, I hear the emergency dispatcher.
“Ma’am? Are you all right? If you can hear me, please remain calm; units are already on their way to your location… ”
For a suspended moment, I am frozen in a whirl of betrayal and fury. She called the police? She had a phone all this time? They are coming for her? Why? Why would she do this? Why would she—
I am unable to continue processing what is happening because she darts away, sensing her freedom is imminent. The sirens grow louder .
I curse and reach for her, but she slips through my grip.
“Stop!” I growl. I pause for precious seconds to grab the phone off the ground and end the call. In that time, she makes it to the edge of the parking lot.
The beast inside of me that is always waiting to be let out urges me forward— hunt, catch, claim —and I close the distance between us in just a handful of long strides.
She is in an unfamiliar place, not wearing shoes, being pursued by a monster made and honed through violence, and she thinks she can run from me?
I grab the back of her shirt and some of her hair, jerking her back into me. Her head snaps forward and comes back from the momentum, and she hits the wall of my body with a low-pitched oof . There is a small metallic noise, like something has fallen, but I cannot stop to worry about it.
“Nicole, stop!” I growl. “Why are you—”
“You think I’m just going to let you take care of me ?”
Her limbs are flying, kicking back at me and trying to find something soft or unprotected. She is a captive wild animal, clawing and biting for freedom. “Nicole, stop!”
“Help! Help!!”
With a hiss, I cover her mouth with my hand, and it muffles her voice. “You are—”
Fire. Fire in my side explodes under my skin, stealing my breath and momentarily blinding me in a shower of white-hot sparks. Her elbow found the healing gunshot wound.
Enough of this.
With a growl of rage, I grab her arm, spin her, and stoop low enough to force my shoulder into her stomach.
With a grunt, I straighten and take on her full weight.
A terrified noise escapes her, ending in a choke as air is forced out of her lungs from the pressure on her diaphragm.
As I trot back to the car, she cannot suck in a full enough breath to scream .
I lean forward over the lip of the trunk and drop her in among the duffel bags and laundry.
My lower stomach burns as my stitches pull, protesting this movement.
I think at least one rips the skin, but I ignore it.
She hits the floor of the trunk with a weighty sound, and I take advantage of her stunned state to push her torso down into the space, fold her legs in and slam the trunk closed.
The banging and screaming start instantly—as soon as she catches her breath. With a mighty roar to let out all the fury, I toss the phone as hard as I can towards the ocean. A faint splash tells me I hit my laughably large mark.
I cannot leave the boat. It has our prints, our hairs and fibers, our fluids. They could never trace it back to me without much more significant resources than most police departments possess, but Nicole lives her life out in the open. She has involved the police.
I retrieve the gun from the glove compartment and the bullets from underneath the back seat. With a deep sigh, I fire off an entire clip into the gasoline reserves at the back of several boats, including mine.
The force of the explosions nearly knocks me on my ass and rattles the world around me.
The tenor of Nicole’s muffled screams shifts to true terror, though she cannot see the flaming shrapnel launching into adjacent boats, dry grass on the shore, and out into the water.
Some of the dead weeds at the edge of the shoreline catch fire, and it spreads before my eyes.
Doubtlessly shaken awake, lights come on in the trailer park nearby as people hurry to see what happened.
Time to leave.
Flames lick at the dark sky in my rearview mirror as the screaming sirens wail louder, closing in. I wish I knew how many, or from which direction, but I do know some of these back roads very well, so I take a chance that the police will not be on them.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Nicole, what have you done?