Read Online Infernal: Bite The Bullet by Jess Raven, Paula Black - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jess Raven, Paula Black
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something so vile I didn’t know how my heart was taking it without
stopping. My kid brother...
“I want to see,” I said finally, swallowing the
bile that burned the back of my throat.
“No,” he rumbled. “You don’t.” He poured more shots
of vodka and threw his back.
In that moment, I wished for the whole bottle.
“But there is something I can show you,” he said.
He slipped a key out of his pocket and pushed
himself up from the couch to unlock a drawer beneath his black desk.
A cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and Konstantyn
paused, drawing it out and cursing at the display as he answered.
I could just make out the accented male voice
coming through the phone.
“Lazarus,” it said .
“Yes,” Konstantyn admitted grimly. “Took you long
enough to find me. Where is she?”
His dark eyes flashed to me and I offered him a
curious raise of my brows.
“You are not alone?” the disembodied voice
asked .
“No,” he replied, moving away from me until I
could no longer hear the other half of the conversation. “Just some dancer...
Yes she is... No... I’m listening.” His eyes flicked back onto me. “I need to
take this, in private,” he said, striding to the sliding balcony door. “Don’t
move.”
He stepped out onto the balcony and the glass shut
behind him. It only did so much to stifle the sound of him barking into the
phone in guttural Ukrainian, pacing as the conversation grew increasingly
heated.
Don’t move. Right .
I leaned forward and inched the drawer open,
checking over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching me peek inside. It
was neat, but full. Papers lay in organised bundles and as I rifled through
them, my fingers curled around a passport. Gingerly, I picked it up, almost
dropping the thing when the motion shifted sheaves, uncovering the handgun
underneath. My hand whipped back from the lethal piece, wide eyes flashing over
my shoulder to see him still pacing, his face fixed in an angry snarl as he
talked.
He had weapons, and I was an idiot. Straight up.
Tentatively nudging the gun to the side, I picked up the passport I’d dropped
and flicked through to the identity page, keeping one eye on the Ukrainian. The
picture showed his face, but not his name. Ivan Zelenko, it read.
Who was this man? Clearly not just a dance
instructor. And what the hell was I getting myself into?
I lifted the front of a thick manila folder with
one finger. Inside it were blurry pictures of men and women, bound, naked, in
every sexual position imaginable. My gorge rose, but my fingers were compelled
to keep flicking through them. I was skimming the images so fast, I nearly
missed the one I was terrified of finding.
Daniel. Naked.
Oh God.
I thought it’d been bad seeing the aftermath of
his broken body in the morgue, but this was a whole other level of degradation
and abuse. I struggled to breathe through the disgust cloying in my stomach. My
mind spun.
I had to go to the police.
But first I had to get out of here.
How had I thought for one moment that this man
could help me?
His back was to me, his hand braced on the balcony
as he argued with whoever was on the other end of the phone. An accomplice?
More than likely. No one did this on their own, to this scale.
I’d found my brother’s murderer, for all the good
it would do me dead. I’d walked into his trap.
I leapt for the front door. Mercifully, it was
still wide open, as I’d left it. I took my close call, snatched up my shoes and
bolted for my life down the stairwell.
I couldn’t risk the glass-box elevator. The ride
would feel like eternity, and what if he was waiting for me at the bottom? I’d
be a fish in a barrel.
I broke through a fire-exit, expecting to set off
the building’s alarm, but nothing happened, and I emerged in a service alley
lined with giant wheeled dumpsters.
Pausing to catch my breath, I whipped out my
phone, scrolling to Detective Dalton’s Number. It rang and rang, then abruptly
cut off and
stopping. My kid brother...
“I want to see,” I said finally, swallowing the
bile that burned the back of my throat.
“No,” he rumbled. “You don’t.” He poured more shots
of vodka and threw his back.
In that moment, I wished for the whole bottle.
“But there is something I can show you,” he said.
He slipped a key out of his pocket and pushed
himself up from the couch to unlock a drawer beneath his black desk.
A cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and Konstantyn
paused, drawing it out and cursing at the display as he answered.
I could just make out the accented male voice
coming through the phone.
“Lazarus,” it said .
“Yes,” Konstantyn admitted grimly. “Took you long
enough to find me. Where is she?”
His dark eyes flashed to me and I offered him a
curious raise of my brows.
“You are not alone?” the disembodied voice
asked .
“No,” he replied, moving away from me until I
could no longer hear the other half of the conversation. “Just some dancer...
Yes she is... No... I’m listening.” His eyes flicked back onto me. “I need to
take this, in private,” he said, striding to the sliding balcony door. “Don’t
move.”
He stepped out onto the balcony and the glass shut
behind him. It only did so much to stifle the sound of him barking into the
phone in guttural Ukrainian, pacing as the conversation grew increasingly
heated.
Don’t move. Right .
I leaned forward and inched the drawer open,
checking over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching me peek inside. It
was neat, but full. Papers lay in organised bundles and as I rifled through
them, my fingers curled around a passport. Gingerly, I picked it up, almost
dropping the thing when the motion shifted sheaves, uncovering the handgun
underneath. My hand whipped back from the lethal piece, wide eyes flashing over
my shoulder to see him still pacing, his face fixed in an angry snarl as he
talked.
He had weapons, and I was an idiot. Straight up.
Tentatively nudging the gun to the side, I picked up the passport I’d dropped
and flicked through to the identity page, keeping one eye on the Ukrainian. The
picture showed his face, but not his name. Ivan Zelenko, it read.
Who was this man? Clearly not just a dance
instructor. And what the hell was I getting myself into?
I lifted the front of a thick manila folder with
one finger. Inside it were blurry pictures of men and women, bound, naked, in
every sexual position imaginable. My gorge rose, but my fingers were compelled
to keep flicking through them. I was skimming the images so fast, I nearly
missed the one I was terrified of finding.
Daniel. Naked.
Oh God.
I thought it’d been bad seeing the aftermath of
his broken body in the morgue, but this was a whole other level of degradation
and abuse. I struggled to breathe through the disgust cloying in my stomach. My
mind spun.
I had to go to the police.
But first I had to get out of here.
How had I thought for one moment that this man
could help me?
His back was to me, his hand braced on the balcony
as he argued with whoever was on the other end of the phone. An accomplice?
More than likely. No one did this on their own, to this scale.
I’d found my brother’s murderer, for all the good
it would do me dead. I’d walked into his trap.
I leapt for the front door. Mercifully, it was
still wide open, as I’d left it. I took my close call, snatched up my shoes and
bolted for my life down the stairwell.
I couldn’t risk the glass-box elevator. The ride
would feel like eternity, and what if he was waiting for me at the bottom? I’d
be a fish in a barrel.
I broke through a fire-exit, expecting to set off
the building’s alarm, but nothing happened, and I emerged in a service alley
lined with giant wheeled dumpsters.
Pausing to catch my breath, I whipped out my
phone, scrolling to Detective Dalton’s Number. It rang and rang, then abruptly
cut off and
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