In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)

In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)

Shannon McKenna



PROLOGUE

Rome, Italy



Josef picked at his nails with his knife, stupefied with boredom. Despite all his contacts, his skills with explosives, interrogation, and small arms, he was still forced to babysit the vor’s worthless son.

Sasha Cherchenko was engrossed in his tablet, sunken face eerily lit by the screen’s glare. Mute, pathetic, junkie waste of skin. Heir to an empire worth billions. His very existence offended Josef, who had fought for every bite of food and breath of air he took, for his entire f*cking life.

The silence grated. Josef got up to stretch, and circled Sasha from behind. He was watching a lecture on the tablet. A pretty young woman was talking. Josef abruptly recognized her and froze, startled.

That was Svetlana Ardova, daughter of that hellbitch Sonia, who had f*cked Josef over. He had not seen pictures of the girl in years. Abducted at twelve, doomed for death by organ harvesting.

The camera zoomed close. Big, tilted hazel eyes, lush mouth, glossy hair. A sweet treat. The media had glommed on to that avidly after her spectacular rescue years ago. She was prettier now. He licked his lips.

Svetlana indicated a screen, where a photo was projected. Sonia’s striking face stared out. Words, scribbled on the picture, in Cyrillic. Josef lunged for Sasha’s tablet, yanking the headphones off him, ignoring Sasha’s startled yelp of protest. He hit the volume, maxed it.

“. . . book will be dedicated to my parents’ memory,” Svetlana’s voice blared. Josef dragged the cursor, let the last few seconds of video run again. He froze the frame when Sonia’s image appeared.

The scribble read, The Sword of Cain. The rest was trimmed away but for a couple of numbers. His ears roared. After six years, a place to begin the search again. Someone to squeeze, until she popped.

Sasha croaked, in his hoarse, halting voice, trying to tug the tablet back. Josef struck him, sending him sprawling across the coffee table. He ignored the young man’s scratchy whimpering as he dialed his boss.

“Yes,” drawled Pavel Cherchenko’s gravelly voice.

“We have a lead.” Josef’s voice shook with excitement. He waited a beat to calm it. “The Sword of Cain, written on one of Sonia’s photos. Svetlana displayed a slide, in a lecture online. I can fly to Portland today.”

The vor grunted. “And my sons? Who watches them?”

Sasha whimpered. Josef smacked the back of his head. “They have Andrei and Aleksei to guard them.”

A long, teeth-grinding pause ensued. “Go to Portland,” the vor said.

The video was playing again. “. . . only one heart is healed, only one life saved, it will have been worth it. Thank you.”

The room erupted in applause. Svetlana stood in the spotlight, challenging him with her eyes. Such a delicate thing. Ripe to be conquered, ravaged. Punished, for all of Sonia’s sins.

Oh, yes. Let the pretty little daughter pay and pay.





CHAPTER 1

Portland, Oregon

Two days later



Sam Petrie leaned against the wall, arms folded. He stared into the dance floor, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. He wasn’t here for chitchat. Against every last lingering instinct for self-preservation, he was at another no-holds-barred McCloud Crowd wedding, trolling for a chance to scope out the elusive Svetlana Ardova. She of the big, tragic eyes, the high, pointed tits. And the obscure, inexplicable prejudice against him.

It was almost two years since that kiss in Bruno’s studio. But that event had transformed his schoolboy crush into a full-out obsession.

Which was why he’d snookered himself into accepting the invitation to Aaro and Nina’s wedding. Nina’s pregnancy had derailed it last year, but their twins, Julia and Oksana, were six months old now, so wedding plans had finally gone forward, and the gang was all there. Great food and booze and music. Squealing kids. Everyone dancing, having a good time, being curious about shit that was not their business. While he lurked in the corner, hot-eyed. Staring at Sveti like a panting perv-weasel. It was humbling. He’d locked up many specimens of the kind of obsessed * he was now, and rejoiced to see them off the streets.

Sveti was talking to a bevy of hotties in evening gowns, all holding stringed instruments. The Venus Ensemble, aka the eye candy orchestra. Trafficked from Eastern European conservatories, lured by promises of green cards, subsequently embroiled in a deadly scheme involving mind-control drugs and other crazy shit that Sam still didn’t quite believe. Kev McCloud had saved them from an unspeakable fate, and the news coverage had given the group awesome publicity. They’d formed a hot string ensemble and were making money hand over fist.

Hurray. Chalk one up for the good guys.

The Venus Ensemble were stunners, yes, but Sveti blew them away. She was the smallest, even in killer heels, but so perfect. Vivid, in that crimson dress. His eyes hurt from the hyperstimulation. Tilted hazel eyes over Slavic cheekbones. Full, soft red lips calculated to invoke impure thoughts, and a regal attitude that instantly rebuked said impure thoughts. High, perfect tits. Taut nipples. The sight made his hands tingle. Her hair was twisted into a complicated knot. It looked great, but he liked it better loose. His fingers clenched, remembering that silken floss. He wanted to kiss the heart-shaped port-wine birthmark on her neck. Trace its borders. Study it like a map.