Madness (Revenge Series Book 3)
Read Madness (Revenge Series Book 3) Online
Authors: M.S. Brannon
Copyright © 2016 M.S. Brannon. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission from the author. The exception would be in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews or pages where permission is specifically granted by the author.
This book is a work of fiction and the events surrounding this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons live or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Edition Published: September 2016
Written by: M.S. Brannon
Published by: M.S. Brannon
Photo Credit: Michael Bandow Photography
Model: Heidi Henckel & Derek Giesking
Wardrobe: Milroy’s Tuxedos
Hair and Makeup: Lilly Jacobsen
Copy Editing: C&D Editing
Proofreading: Cynthia Andersen, Toni Mumm, Matthew Leo, Christie Mitchum and Michele Wiegert
Cover Design & Formatting: IndieVention Designs
TABLE OF CONTENTS
C
HAPTER
O
NE
Josslyn
August 13, 2015 1:08 p.m.
“M
ove!” Nikolai shoves my back, pushing me to the side. I crash to the floor and my elbow slams into the corner of the nightstand.
Three more men bust through the door, guns drawn and silenced by suppressors.
I crawl over to the bathroom doorway and use the door to shield myself. I can hear the bullets flying and men grunting before falling like heavy slabs of meat to the floor. The door panels above me rips open into holes, showering me in pulp and splinters. My gut is stirring, swarming with nervous butterflies. Despite the chaos, I find I’m not scared. I’m anxious to take the next step. I have to go out there. I have to defend the one person who has my back. I have vowed to myself to embrace the life of a criminal, and I always keep my promises. The old Josslyn died in the Macy’s bathroom when I sent her away. Let us say “welcome” now to the woman who’s lying on the bathroom floor, dodging bullets.
Vlad’s crew finally caught up with us. We rested little more than half a day to recover from the night in the restaurant. Nikolai is still nursing a bullet wound in his shoulder, and I have a battered midsection. I honestly didn’t have the energy to do deal with anything else when we arrived at the Ritz Carlton. We are running on empty.
I have been riding a high from my night in front of a killer and a rapist. He was the man I have been looking for, and he is now dead. I killed him, struck him down with a blow to the head from a broken piece of a coffee table.
Yet with the blood and bullets surrounding me, I feel nothing. I have no remorse or regrets for killing Vlad. He is the first man I’ve killed, and I am indifferent to it. In fact, I haven’t had a chance to feel anything at all. I wonder if one day soon that will catch up to me. Maybe, if we survive this.
Nikolai and I had sex on the hood of his car. I should be thinking about that. In the moment, I was shattered into smithereens as I rode the high of my orgasm. Good sense would have kept me from him. Then I wouldn’t be lying here on the bathroom floor in the presidential suite of the Ritz Carlton. Yeah. I buried my good sense in the same grave as old Josslyn. Even here, I’m still in that moment of ecstasy with him.
His eyes were lit in a hateful blaze, and until he latched his lips to my breast, I had no idea how it would all play out. Good sense would have also denied the words he whispered to me, but there is no denying it—sex with him was life-altering. I have never felt that kind of intensity before.
The room is quiet. An absence of suppressed gunshots plunges me back into my present situation and allowing my instincts to take over.
Needing to find a weapon and to see if Nikolai is okay, I slowly pull the door open. It gives a quiet creak, and I freeze, waiting for someone to come around the corner and point their gun at my head. After waiting a few seconds, nothing happens, so I crawl slowly from my haven, heading toward the king-sized bed.
My head is jerked back. I am whipped over with my back pressed against the floor. A large man sits on me, both his thick thighs astride mine, rendering my legs useless while he attempts to grab my wrists and pin me down.
I flail my arms wildly, dodging his grip with every movement. I manage to outmaneuver him and take the opportunity to strike, flattening my palm then rocketing my hand upward and connecting it underneath his nose.
The cavity explodes and blood gushes over his mouth, dripping wildly off his chin. I feel the warm drops soak my shirt and dampen my skin as he immediately grabs his nose, stunned by my blow, groaning in misery. Still, he remains on top of me.
I feel around me, trying to locate the pistol he dropped. My hands brush along the carpet frantically, sweeping both sides until the cold steel graces my palm.
The man drops his bloody hands then rears his fist back. However, before he connects his balled fury to my cheek, I yank the gun up, point, and fire. The bullet enters under his chin and blasts out through the top of his skull. Blood and brain explode from his disfigured head, splattering the room.
The man falls forward in a heap, and I manage to push him to the side, completely off of me.
Its takes me a second to get my bearings, realizing I killed this man. In the last twenty-four hours, I have killed a handful of men out of revenge as the assassin and I seek vigilante justice. I have adopted Nikolai’s way of life, his motto: kill or be killed. Survival at any cost. I have committed myself to this journey of bloodlust and revenge. His plan is my mine. We will succeed, even if it’s the last thing we do.
I pull the pistol up and check the clip, confirming how full it is. The metallic scent of blood tickles my nostrils. I make it to my feet, the gun drawn in front of me as I make my way through the bedroom area, slowly placing one foot in front of the other as I cautiously make my way from the bedroom.
The sounds of grunting and clattering direct me to the sitting area. I look to the right, finding Nikolai wrestling with a man on the floor. He’s on top of the intruder and has the man trapped in his clutches. The skull on his hand flexes as he squeezes the man’s throat. His knuckles are razor sharp, threatening to pierce through his pale skin.
Something bright catches my eyes. It’s a reflection off a sharp object. It catches the the sunlight through the window, making bursts of yellow light dance across the patterned carpet. Of course, his Bowie knife, the one he has deemed his favorite.
It has a large, curved blade with a serrated edge. It suited its owner perfectly, matching him to a tee.
Nikolai slowly pulls it up then extends it over the man. The madness in Nikolai’s ice blue eyes is one I have never seen before. They are even more feral and animalistic, just like a rabid wolf.
Seeing him in this mindset is indescribable. It blankets my skin with a cold chill.
He releases the man’s neck and crouches over him. The man scarcely has time to react, as Nikolai pulls his arm back and plunges the large knife into his abdomen and rakes it up his sternum. The distinct smell of blood consumes the air.
Nikolai jerks his elbow back and forth as he saws his way up the man’s chest. The man screams out in agony, but Nikolai suppresses it with a small couch pillow. He wilts into the carpet, blood pooling underneath him as his life drips quickly away.
I try to look in the opposite direction, unsure if I can stomach the sight, but I can’t seem to get my neck to work. Much like the sounds of my mother’s screams and the image of my father’s demise, the sight of Nikolai sawing a man’s midsection open without a thought will haunt me until the day I die.
I hold my gun down to my side, looking around at the destruction. There are bodies everywhere—at least three, including the one who is still hanging on to life as Nikolai watches him take his final breaths. I don’t know where to begin. We can’t leave them here, and we can’t burn the fucking Ritz Carlton to the ground, so now what?
Nikolai stands, his naked chest covered in blood. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. He hovers over the man. His head is down and the knife remains resting in his palm. Drops of blood trickle down the blade and bubble on the end before falling to the carpet.
I am witnessing something next level. I was certain I had seen the assassin in him before: first, when he held me captive, and again, when he broke the neck of the motel clerk who attacked me, and last night, when we shot our way out of Vlad’s establishment. But this … this is altogether different. He has transformed into a more frightening version of himself, which is already terrifying enough.
Nikolai steps over the dead shell on the floor, not seeming to care that he is stepping in a fresh pool of the dead man’s blood. I don’t know what to do. My police instincts are telling me we need to get the fuck out and now; it can still be traceable to us since cameras are everywhere. The condition of how we arrived last night would be incriminating enough to blame this ordeal on the both of us.
I slowly begin approaching him, keeping my movements slow. He doesn’t so much as even look at me as he steps aside and moves to the bathroom.
I follow him with my eyes, unable to speak to him in this unreal state as I watch him undress. He hops in the shower and begins to rinse himself off. The shower is blocked off by a A single pane of glass lay in the door to the shower, not affording him much privacy. He didn’t bother to close the bathroom door, and I can see him scrubbing the blood from his skin. He lathers up the bar of soap then drags it over every inch of his body. His taut muscles flex when he bends over, scrubbing his legs and feet. His bullet wound is draws my attention to his shoulder, still covered by the makeshift bandage I made last night. When I look closer, I can see the crimson starting to seep through.
I feel useless standing here, waiting for him to direct me to do something, so I start cleaning. I start with myself by turning on the sink and vigorously scrubbing my face. The soap smells like coconut. The odor is strange when it mixes with the metallic of blood. I pool water in my hands, getting the last of the bubbles off, then towel dry face.
I keep moving, ripping off my bloodstained T-shirt. I quickly run water over my chest, making sure there is nothing left of the man I killed on my skin. Finished, I move to the bedroom where I pull on a pair of jeans and sneakers, the ones I was supposed to get rid of. I then move to the shopping bags, pulling all the items out and stuffing them into my gym bag.
We need to get the hell out of this place. We need to get the hell out of this place.
I keep the mantra cycling over and over in my head as I pack our belongings.
I rush around the room, finding anything that is ours and packing it up. There can be nothing personal of ours left. We need to take everything: our clothes, shoes, trash—everything needs to be out. We can’t afford a trail. The police will be looking for us, so as soon as he finishes in the shower, we have to be gone. I started going over the list in my head of things that I would look for. I never thought my expertise would ever be used in this manner. I guess there have been a lot of things that I never thought I would do, or lines that I would be willing to cross.