Authors: Shelly Laurenston
He decided to get them back so they could do their goddamn jobs. Frankie spun away from the window toward the study door but stopped short when cold yellow eyes, like a dog’s, stared at him.
“Hi, Frankie,” a voice growled from behind a massive beard and thick black hair.
Frankie immediately raised his weapon, but a big hand caught his and held the gun off. Then he saw a flash, and a blade rammed into Frankie’s neck, instantly cutting off his ability to scream and breathe.
But that wasn’t enough for the man killing him. He twisted the knife, forcing Frankie to the floor.
“That,” the beard and black hair growled out as everything went dark for Frankie, “is for making me bring my hillbilly ass all the way to goddamn Russia just to kill you.”
Eggie Smith of the Tennessee Smith Pack watched Frankie “The Rat” Whitlan die. The full-human tried not to, but the one real skill Eggie had was knowing how to kill a man. When the breathing and the heart stopped, Eggie knew he could leave.
He’d only do a job like this for his little girl. But she’d only ask him if it was real important. She knew that Eggie didn’t like leaving his Darla unless he really had to.
Eggie walked out of a surprisingly tasteful study—considering the tackiness of the rest of the home—and into the hallway. That was where he found three bears waiting for him. They were armed but hadn’t pulled their weapons yet. Probably figured they didn’t have to for just one wolf.
One of the younger bears said something in Russian and started toward Eggie. But the older bear, a grizzly with lots of silver in his hair, pulled the boy back.
He said something to Eggie but, again, it was in Russian.
“What?”
The older bear’s head tipped to the side. Very slowly, in thickly accented English, the older bear asked, “Who are you, doggie?”
“Name’s Eggie Smith. Nice to meet’cha.”
Color drained from the older bear’s face and he pulled the younger bear back by his T-shirt.
The younger bear didn’t like that, arguing the point. But it was all in Russian, and Eggie didn’t understand a dang word. So he patiently waited.
Got a little heated after a time, but then the older bear must have said something real pointed because the boy stopped and pointed at Eggie. “Smith?” he asked.
“Da. Smith,”
the older bear said.
All three bears looked over at Eggie—and Eggie smiled.
The bears jerked away like he’d thrown fire at them and stepped back so Eggie could walk by.
He did, but as Eggie passed he stopped because he felt the need to say, “And y’all should be ashamed of protecting that man. Ashamed,” he repeated. When they only stared at him, appearing confused, he added, “Look it up.”
Eggie walked out into the woods surrounding the estate and tossed his weapon at the Volkov wolves whom he’d been surprised would let a Smith anywhere near Russia. Apparently these wolves were friends with that Vic Barinov hybrid. Normally, Eggie would only trust his own connections for a job like this, but his baby girl had said Barinov could be trusted, as could the man’s connections. So Eggie had taken the risk, and it had paid off.
He nodded at the Alpha Male of the Pack, much appreciatin’ the vodka the man had let him taste during their lunch together, and headed toward the waiting car. But before he stepped into the vehicle, he heard vicious hissing.
Eggie watched the honey badgers trot past him and the wolves and head toward Chumakov’s territory. While Eggie had been brought in to make sure the job was done and done right—these honey badgers had come from Mongolia. The Volkovs kept jokingly calling them the “Mongol Horde.” But that was basically what they were. If any bears got in their way, they’d crush them. Why they’d been hired or who’d hired them, Eggie didn’t know. Nor did he care. His job was done.
He got into the car that would take him to the local airport so that Eggie could get right back where he belonged—the United States of America and his Darla Mae.
C
HAPTER
38
V
ic walked into the bedroom they’d been sharing since they’d been at Novikov’s Rhode Island home and found Livy packing up her duffel bag.
“What’s going on?”
“I need to go back. That feline wedding planner is getting way text-bitchy. ‘When are you coming back?’ ” Livy mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “ ‘Should we hire someone else? For what you’re charging, you should be on-call at alllll times.’ ”
Vic sat down on the bed next to her bag. “Are you sure?”
“She may not really sound like that, but she was definitely being text-bitchy.”
“Not
that
. Are you sure about leaving?”
“I can’t hide out here forever.”
“But,” Vic said, getting to the heart of the matter, “there’s a pool. I love that pool.”
Livy laughed and put her hand on her shoulder. “I know this will be a sacrifice for you.”
“It really will. But for
you,
I’ll do it.”
Vic watched Livy shove a bag of dirty clothes into her duffel bag then zip it closed. “Livy?”
“Huh?”
“Are you going back to your apartment?”
“I’d rather set myself on fire.”
Startled, Vic laughed out, “Why?”
“It’ll smell like Melly. Smelly Melly. I can’t have her drunken scent surrounding me. I can crash at Toni’s place, though, until I get another place that’s hopefully snake free.”
“Or you could crash at my place,” he offered, trying his best to make it sound casual, even though it wasn’t. “If you want, I mean.”
With a sigh, Livy moved her bag aside and sat down on the bed next to Vic. “But . . .” she said hesitantly, “you don’t have a pool.”
Sadly, it took Vic a little longer than it should have for him to figure out she was joking. And by then, he was just embarrassed, grabbing Livy and yanking her onto his lap.
Vic kissed her neck and tickled her ribs, loving the way she laughed and tried to wiggle away from him until Livy’s mother strode up to the door. The older She-badger had on her mink and held the handle of her bright red travel suitcase, which she rolled behind her.
“I’m leaving,” Livy’s mother announced.
“Bye, Joan.”
Joan sniffed, tossed her hair, and walked off.
“Is she mad?” Vic asked.
“Who knows?”
“Shouldn’t you ask?”
“Except I don’t really care.”
Vic’s cell phone vibrated once, letting him know he’d gotten a text or e-mail, and he grabbed it off the nightstand. He opened a picture that had been sent to him and reared back.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
He sighed. “Well . . . Whitlan’s dead.”
Livy glanced back at him. “What?”
He held up the phone and Livy studied it. “Oh . . . yeah. He sure is.”
“I can’t believe Eggie Smith did this, though.”
“That’s not a Smith move. That’s all honey badger.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know my people. Any other shifter would have gone in, ended Whitlan, moved on. But my people . . . we’re a little petty. Very mean.”
Vic looked back at the picture, studied it a little more. “Livy? What’s that? In the house.”
Livy glanced over, shook her head. “It’s a hole. They burrowed into Chumakov’s house. Who knows what they did once they were inside.”
“So, we’re
actively
pissing off Chumakov now?”
“My family is, apparently. I’m just trying to get ready for this wedding.” Livy stood, picked up her bag. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’m done with hiding.”
It took Chumakov more than two days to get home, including delays and a snowstorm that hit part of Eastern Europe. But when he stepped out of his car and saw Frankie Whitlan hanging upside down and skinless from the front of the house, all his travel exhaustion went away.
It wasn’t that Whitlan had meant much to him beyond always providing the best entertainment. He could find anyone to do that. But he’d given Whitlan his protection. The protection of Rostislav Chumakov. That meant something. Or, at least, it used to.
But that girl was still alive, from what he’d heard. Whitlan was dead. And everyone now knew it.
“Hey, Chumakov,” one of the bears from a nearby village called out. “Nice decorations!”
The other bears who’d come to see Rostislav Chumakov’s shame laughed.
“Papa,” his eldest urged. “We should go.”
“No. I want to see all of it.”
Rostislav walked into his home. There were holes torn into the foundation where the disgusting animals had dug through. Furniture had been pissed on. The lesser artwork he had acquired because he just liked the pieces had been slashed with claws. The expensive pieces had been taken. The electronics taken. His safes had been cracked and every bit of cash, gold, diamonds, everything, were gone. All the weapons he had were gone, and he’d had enough to equip an army. Expensive rugs were removed and expensive flooring destroyed.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, had been untouched. Even his pools, his workout equipment . . . everything.
And there were only three bodies here. Whitlan and two of Chumakov’s most loyal men. But the other guards . . . they’d run. Bears had run from rodents.
“They’ve taken
everything
!” his youngest son yelled as he charged back into the room. “Even the paintings downstairs.”
The artwork that Rostislav obtained through the black market, he kept in a special vault room. But the thieves had gotten in there, as well.
His eldest was busy on his phone and announced, “They cleaned out our bank accounts.”
“The Moscow banks? That doesn’t matter.”
“All the accounts, Papa. They cleaned out
all
our accounts.”
Of course Rostislav had money that was in no bank. He had gold and silver. He had businesses. He had other homes. But none of that was the point. The fact that he was still rich meant nothing when he could hear the laughter of his neighbors outside. Mocking him.
And that, more than anything, was something Rostislav Chumakov would not stand for. Not now. Not ever.
C
HAPTER
39
L
ivy looked up from the new shots she’d taken a few days earlier and blinked in surprise.
“How long have you been standing there?”
Toni shrugged, smiled. “Not long. Just watching you work.”
“Watching me work?” Livy looked down at her proofs and the loupe she’d been using to analyze each pic, which meant she’d been sitting in the same spot for the last two hours. “Okay.”
Livy marked one of the proofs. “Are those Russian hockey bears of yours finally gone?”
“I thought you liked Zubachev.”
“I liked the deal you signed with him and the Russian teams.”
“Isn’t that deal great?” Toni asked, grinning. “Everybody loves me right now. Loves, loves, loves me!”
Livy shook her head, chuckled. “Yes. Everybody loves you right now. But don’t let that fool you into thinking they won’t expect more from you any day now.”
“Not a problem. I already have interest from the Swedish, Norwegian, and Mongolian teams.”
Livy looked at her friend. “Novikov against a Mongolian hockey horde . . . I am
so
there.”
“I know, right!” Toni jerked her thumb behind her. “Look, I’m about to head home for the night. You need anything?”
“Nope.”
“And are you okay? About how things worked out?”
“I’m not losing any sleep, if that’s what has you worried.”
“Considering you sleep through anything . . . that’s never been a concern of mine.” She winked and stepped away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night.”
Livy worked for another thirty minutes or so until she realized she was thirsty. Standing up, she took a long stretch, arms over her head. Grabbing her denim jacket, she pulled it on and walked out of her office. Stopped, walked back, grabbed several dollar bills out of her backpack, then restarted her nightly journey to the soda machine.
With her show just a couple of weeks away, and Blayne’s wedding in just a few days, she’d been spending nearly every night late at the Sports Center in order to get all her work done.
Of course, she was ready for Blayne’s wedding. All her equipment checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. This might not be her future, but she still took it seriously. And once she made a promise . . .
Livy stopped, looked over her shoulder. She was right by the main ice rink, and she thought she’d heard something behind her.
Livy sniffed the air and tried to see if one of the security guards was wandering around. When she saw nothing, she turned around and abruptly jumped forward, her claws and fangs out.
“Wait! Wait!” The She-bear held up a hand, and the guards about to protect her and attack Livy instantly backed off. “Olivia Kowalski?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Bayla Ben-Zeev.”
“Good for you.” Livy retracted her fangs and claws and walked around her, continuing on to the soda machine. After ordering her guards to stay behind, Ben-Zeev followed.
“I just wanted to give you a warning.”
“About?”
“Rostislav Chumakov has disappeared. Deep into the bowels of Moscow. And those, honey badger, are deep bowels.”
“That is a disgusting analogy.”
Livy stopped in front of the soda machine. She got a Coke, a bottle of water, and a bag of Doritos. Coke and Doritos reminded her of high school, staying up late with Toni, studying for exams.
“Your family may have started something with that bear they will not want to finish.”
“Oh?”
“They took all the money he had in his bank accounts, had him declared dead—” Livy snorted at that; she didn’t mean to, but that had to be Jake—“stole everything out of his house and destroyed the foundation. It’s crumbling as we speak.”
“That last part wasn’t Kowalskis,” Livy admitted. “That was Mongolian badgers. But I’m sure my family asked them to do it.”
“I warned Rostislav to let it go, but he won’t. Not now. Not after what your family did.”
“You wanted proof Rostislav Chumakov was protecting Whitlan. Now you have it.”