Page 8 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Dimitri

It is important to know that a man you have killed is truly dead.

“Fuck,” I curse, checking the last stall in the bathroom and finding it empty. “He must have slipped out the window.”

“You’re sure it was Felix?” James presses.

“I am sure. He was at the bar, speaking with a man—5’10”, brown hair slicked back, Caucasian. They parted ways before I could get close enough to hear anything or discover who the other man was.”

“I don’t like it,” James decides with a sigh. “He didn’t tell either of us he was going to be at the wedding, too, which feels pretty fuckin’ intentional.”

“I agree,” Wesley echoes. “We’ve got plenty of photos, and I’ve already started running them through my database for matches in the system—that’s enough to get started. It was well worth the cost of admission, I’d say.”

“Cut our losses?” James suggests.

“Perhaps that is for the best,” I muse.

As a general rule, it is best to err on the side of caution when faced with too many unknowns.

Since I do not know why Felix is here, it would be unwise to follow through with the hit.

We will take the information I gathered and assassinate Viktor Volkevich another time, when there is no one around to link me to the crime.

And in the meantime, I wish to know what Felix is up to.

“Keep watch for him in the security cameras, Wesley. ”

“I will, but I haven’t spotted him so far. My guess is he knows where they are and he’s avoiding them.”

I move towards the frosted window in this bathroom, which appears to be painted shut. It lifts with very little force, and the screen is missing, so I know this is how Felix escaped. Did he see me and run?

I peer out, looking for signs of the man himself or any potential witnesses, and find only vacant darkness. Assessing the size of the window against my bulk, I shake my head. This will be tight.

The squeeze is uncomfortable, but I make it through the window and drop only a few feet, landing on a small stretch of grass out behind the kitchen, where the workers have littered the ground with cigarette butts.

I can still smell smoke in the air, so I am very fortunate that the area is empty now.

As part of our prep work, we reviewed blueprints and took note of the position of the guards.

I know that the best exit point is through that maze of greenery.

There is a fence and a single isolated guard that separate the property from the wooded area beyond.

My car is parked and waiting for me in the neighborhood that sits on the other side of the trees.

I start circling the house, heading back towards the gardens, but a voice nearly causes me to stumble.

“Sir?”

Fuck!

“Wesley?” I hiss. I do not risk looking over my shoulder, but the voice was close—no more than 10 meters away.

“Erm… let me find you… Bollocks. Same guard as earlier. I think he saw you closing the window from the outside.”

Which will appear very suspicious to him. If he has not already, this will cause him to report me to his superiors. I have no choice now but to dispose of him. Leaving him alive would be a risk too great.

“Anything you can do so he cannot call for backup?” I murmur as the man approaches from behind .

“Let me just…” There is a pregnant pause, and I can barely make out the sound of Wesley’s fingers clacking against the keys of his laptop.

“All right, you’ve got 60 seconds of outage in the area, and the cameras in the rear are off.

They’ve likely already noticed the cameras and are trying to get them back online. Be quick.”

I will never know how he does what he does, but I cannot dwell on it.

“Excuse me, Sir.”

Instead of turning, I pick up my pace and head for a line of tall, pointy trees several meters away, just outside the circle of floodlights. They have grown closely enough together that they should hide us from anyone else that might come outside.

I collect a knife from the belt I wear that lays flat against my lower abdominals.

“Sir!”

When I break through to the other side, I have only seconds to scan the grounds to assess my options.

It is wilder back here, less meticulously kept by gardeners.

All around me there are thick, old trees—some with branches hanging low to the ground.

I head towards one, thinking the branches might offer some additional protection or screening.

I can hear the man pursuing me as his pace quickens. He clearly finds my behavior or appearance suspicious to have followed me this far, but the chances that he would attack a guest on nothing more than suspicion are low. Especially without the backup he is certainly trying to call for.

No violence at a wedding. It is a Bratva rule, a gentleman’s agreement, though I would not expect anyone charged with protecting his Pakhan to follow that particular rule.

I saw the piece in the guard’s waistband, but I doubt he would risk the noise, even with the music so loud.

His orders are likely to detain and question.

So it is not a surprise when he calls to me again.

“Hey! Sir, I need you to stop right there. ”

I pause, but do not turn around. Instead, I grip the handle of my knife tighter.

“ Pozvol'te mne uvidet' nekotoryye dokumenty, udostoveryayushchiye lichnost— ” he says, switching to Russian to demand identification.

When I feel a hand fall on my shoulder, I move.

I drop away from his grip, spin and slash outwards, but I underestimated the size of him.

We are well-matched, he was prepared for my attack, and clearly very well trained.

He knocks the knife from my hand. As it falls in the tall grass several meters away with a soft thud, lost, I curse at my folly.

To allow my weapon to be parted from me. .. that is the move of an amateur.

The bratok takes full advantage, delivering a forceful punch to my stomach as I fail to protect an opening.

While I move away to recover, he roars and charges me.

I brace myself, but the impact rattles my teeth.

He forces me back a few steps, and I get two good hits to his kidneys, but we are locked in a stalemate—a wrestling match of equal strength.

He pushes, I push back, and no one gains anything.

Until I lift my knee. He brings his legs together to protect his most delicate area, sending me a look of betrayal that I would use any available advantage.

But the concept of honor and fairness is strange to me when a single blow can determine the outcome of a fight to the death.

What use does a dead man have for honor?

I pull away, move my body behind his and bring my arm down around his neck.

I squeeze, cradling his throat in the crook of my elbow.

His arms flail, scrambling for the gun at his waist, and I grab the tie he wears.

I spin the tail around towards me, tighten the knot, and push it against the back of his thick neck as I step back towards the low branch behind me.

Holding the tie, I flip over the branch and use his body as a counterweight.

His choking noises are loud, and his heels pound and scratch the ground as he attempts to get them under himself.

For the span of a few heartbeats, he struggles in vain, and I grit my teeth against the effort it takes to hold the tie.

Then, he slows. Eventually, he stills, and his dead weight tugs at the silk.

I release my hold, and the man’s body collapses and hits the ground with a thump.

My chest expands uncomfortably as I try to get in enough oxygen, caving in at the bottom of each release.

After a moment to catch my breath, I pick myself up and duck under the branch to look for a pulse.

I always check twice. It is important to know that a man you have killed is truly dead.

The tie is the only thing with any evidence—fingerprints—so I unknot it to take it, along with the contents of his pockets. I leave the gun. Someone will come looking eventually, but by the time they find him back here, I will be long gone.

I have to cross back through the line of pointy trees and climb over a row of rose bushes that mark the boundary of the patio to get to the garden. Then, I make my way quickly and inconspicuously across the yard, back towards the tall maze.

Three men are pissing in the bushes as I pass. One is singing loudly and poorly, and the other two are laughing about the couple they just saw disappearing into the hedge maze. I pass them, ignoring their drunken chatter, but a familiar name catches my attention.

“You think Kyle’s really gonna fuck her? Wawazhername? Nicole ?” the one on the right slurs.

“No, no, no. Shut up, listen. Kyle knows what’s up. I’m betting she’s a huge slut,” the other says with a loud laugh. “Girls like her… I’m tellin’ ya, they give the best head. We should try to go catch him railing her, maybe he’ll share. Really mess with the—”

Compelled by something unnamed, I redirect myself. Before he can finish his sentence, I grab his shoulder to hold him steady and punch the man in the back of the head. He pitches forward, going down and getting tangled in the piss-soaked bush .

“Hey, what the fuck, man?!” cries one of his pals. The other is still singing.

I grab him by the front of his shirt as he scrambles to cover his balls. “Where is she?” I demand.

His eyes widen in panic. “M-maze,” he mumbles, pointing.

I release him. While he tries to tuck his cock away, he gets an elbow to the nose and a fist in his stomach. He windmills his arms, falling back against the last man, whose singing cuts off abruptly as they go down in a heap.

They scramble together, but the blow to his overfilled stomach is too much, and the second man vomits all over the first as he attempts to extricate himself from the thorns and dead flowers. The singing man has passed out, evidently needing no better excuse than simply being horizontal.

The rage making my fists shake tempts me to do more—a well-placed kick to shatter a kneecap or a sharp punch to the throat to collapse a trachea.

These idiots may be angry, but they are easily beaten.

A concussion and a ruptured spleen are enough to make them cover their balls and run, abandoning their fallen comrade.

I head into the maze, feeling my anger slowly drain and my pulse calm.

“Erm… What was that all about?”

I shake out my hand as I try to think of a suitable excuse other than that I wanted to.

My hand hurts, my knuckles are split open again, but that felt good—so good, in fact, I think I will do the same thing to this Kyle when I find him.

He must be the date she spoke of. The one she was avoiding. The asshole.

“I am clearing the way through the maze.”

“Sure,” James returns, sounding wholly unconvinced.

“I’ll watch to make sure they don’t report Dimitri to security,” Wesley offers. “If they do…”

We will have other problems. Three more body-sized problems .

Fuck.

That was foolish of me. Depending on who finds that bratok’s body, the police may become involved. Wedding guests will be questioned. And now three men will recall the large, scarred man who attacked them unprovoked.

Still, I feel no remorse. Instead, I feel as if I have wrought a suitable punishment for their thoughtless insults, unearned superiority and the crime of being very, very annoying.

Since I am going in blind, and I need to focus, I temporarily mute the lines. There is little chance we will be completely alone in here, since the maze is quite large, but my first few turns leading me deeper reveal nothing more than grass and leaves rustling in a too-quiet corridor.

Nicole’s voice sounds distant, so I know she is deeper in the maze. “This is so fucking lame, Kyle! I don’t want to play whatever messed-up game this is. I want to go home. Please,” she adds after a moment.

Her tone catches my attention—sad, tired, embarrassed.

My jaw clenches.

Kyle’s answer is in an eerie, strange tone. “Don’t worry, Nicole, I’ll make sure you get taken care of…”

A very ominous answer that makes me pick up my pace. My next turn leads me down a dead end. Another turn twists me back around the wrong way.

Fuck! I hate mazes!