Dirty Minds: The Lion and The Mouse (Book 4) Read online

Now, the Butcher watched me with intensity.

  I lowered my view to his hands. Scars and torn flesh covered some of the knuckles and around the joints. They were huge.

  That conversation with Kazimir returned.

  At the top of the Eiffel tower, I pretended to play the violin. “This is how Jean-Pierre kills. Some of his weapons are tricked out bows. They have blades on them.”

  “Hmmm.” Kazimir smiled at my movement. “This makes me like him a little more. He’s not just perfume and frilly clothes. There’s some edge.”

  “You’re so wrong.” Chuckles left me.

  “And what about the cousins?” Kaz asked.

  “Oh yes. His cousins are Rafael, Giorgio, and Louis.”

  “You remember their names?” he’d asked.

  “What else did I have to remember on our vacation. I read their file by the pool this morning. It was fascinating. Almost likes reading a good book.”

  “I still can’t remember their names.”

  “Because you have a lot of enemies.”

  “And they die so fast. I’ve stopped trying to remember them.”

  There’d been more to the conversation. Kazimir and I had both guessed that Rafael was the funny one. When the French had interrupted Kazimir’s steam visit, Rafael had taken off his pants during the meeting.

  Rafael was also the one who pointed the gun at me, when they had us at the bed.

  Blue’s report had talked about another cousin that they called the Butler. Apparently, no one really call Giorgio that to his face. I hadn’t heard them bring his name up, so I didn’t think he’d helped with my kidnapping.

  The last cousin was Louis. When the French had dragged me onto the elevator, I’d heard Jean-Pierre talking to him through an ear bud. Blue couldn’t find out much about him because he had firewalls, or whatever technical thing that blocked Blue from getting his data.

  Remember as much as you can. Somehow, I’ll use all of it against them.

  The limo drove us into a restaurant parking lot and then parked.

  Jean-Pierre grabbed my arm. “We have to get in and out.”

  I bobbed my head.

  Like a gentlemanly kidnapper, he helped me out the car. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

  “Yes.” I buttoned up his jacket, lifted my bed sheet, and walked to the restaurant with him. The ground felt cold and hard on my bare feet.

  Another guard led the way. Jean-Pierre stayed with me. Rafael walked behind us. One guard followed me on each side. Another one was further behind.

  I scanned the space outside of the restaurant. At least six gray vans were parked outside. Men sat in the driver and passenger seats. I was sure there were people inside the back of the vans too. The world knew Kazimir enough to not be surrounded with as many people as possible.

  Sirens sounded off in the distance.

  The head guard opened the door.

  They rushed me in, before I could get a street address or the name of the place.

  Didn’t he say Shalimar’s. Some clarification ‘The restaurant. Not the woman.’ That has to be the name.

  It didn’t matter. As soon as I could, I would get one of their phones and dial Kazimir.

  Maybe, he can track it.

  It would be better if I could get a gun. But there were too many men inside, and even more parked outside of the building.

  What type of restaurant is this?

  On the walls, Pink dragons wound around bright blue Eiffel towers. Odd aromas filled the air. I sniffed but couldn’t get a feel of what cuisine the place served.

  The place was clearly closed. No customers sat inside. It was just armed men. Scars, suits, and guns.

  Still no idea what they served here, I thought I caught the scent of roasted meat. My stomach growled. I held it. And then I caught another scent. I didn’t know why, but it didn’t agree with me. My gut twisted. Saliva filled my mouth.

  God. I don’t feel good.

  I slowed my pace. My bed sheet dragged behind me.

  Rafael got to my other side. “So, let’s relax and enjoy ourselves.”

  Jean-Pierre frowned. “We’re in and out.”

  Pain knotted in my gut.

  Fuck. What’s wrong with me?

  I held my stomach with both hands. Bile rose in my throat. The scent hit my nostrils again. Hot saliva soaked my mouth more.

  Rafael turned to me, spread out his arms, and gestured at the walls. “Emily, I know that we’re only together for business, but what do you think of my palace?”

  Oh god. Why do I hurt so much?

  I doubled over and vomited in the hallway, spilling sludge onto the koi fish tiles. Brown spots splattered on my sheet. My knees went weak. My throat burned, as I threw up some more.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Rafael asked behind me.

  “I don’t know.” Jean-Pierre lowered and got to my side.

  Damn it. Am I really pregnant?

  “I’m fine.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Just rattled.”

  They couldn’t know, that there was a chance I was pregnant. It would raise the pot. They’d have Kazimir doing even more stuff. Use the baby and me as a power play.

  No. Get it together.

  One of the guards rushed off.

  Jean-Pierre studied me. “Do you want some water?”

  “Yes.” I wiped my mouth again. “But, can I get it, after I go to the bathroom?”

  I have to get the fuck out of here.

  Inch by inch, I rose from the floor.

  “Okay.” Jean-Pierre guided me forward.

  There had to be some way to escape this restaurant. If they left me alone for to long enough, I could figure it out. I carried the ends of my sheet. The whole time I scanned the space. I did my best to study every detail.

  Where are the fire exits? Okay. One on the side. What’s that? Entrance to the kitchen. Knives will be in there.

  Before leaving Moscow, I’d been studying systema.

  Kazimir had been training me since we’d been in Paris. He’d hated the fighting with my men and believed he could teach me better.

  From him, I’d learn that systema was yoga and judo mixed with street fighting, and even ancient Cossack techniques. It was more than anything I’d ever learned. A systematized physical, mental, and spiritual practice. Russian military taught this form of fighting to their soldiers like special forces.

  The reason why I loved systema, was because it allowed me to knock a person out within seconds, regardless of size and weight. Systema didn’t rely on strength and attack. It allowed for a very smooth and relaxed method of fighting. Dance-like. It wasn’t about strength and size. It was about the body, mind, and environment.

  Systema followers went by four principles—breathing, relaxation, posture and movement. One had to free themselves from tension in order to achieve a high level of fluidity. It all seemed like straightforward advice. But the more I watched Boris and Kazimir fight this way, the more I realized these principles had a lot of depth. In the end, movement was not just the physical body. It included one’s thoughts, intentions and emotions. When used positively, every principle had the capacity for healing or killing.

  As I walked down the hallway with Jean-Pierre and his guards, I drew on all of the principles that I learned.

  The best part of systema was that when an attack came, one was not to fight it back with force. Instead, the person met the incoming flow, and redirected it in a way that helped.

  Remember what I’ve learned. I’m fine. I’ll get them, if I have to.

  Two guards got in front of Jean-Pierre and me as we headed to the bathroom.

  I checked my side.

  Jean-Pierre stayed on my right.

  I glanced over my left shoulder.

  Three guards followed in back. Further behind us, the other guard hurried back with a towel and mop.

  I can’t believe I threw up.

  “Here you go.” Jean-Pierre gestured to the ladies room, pulle
d out his phone, and gave the device his attention.

  I walked slowly, assessing the area.

  Five guards in the hallway. Jean-Pierre is staying out here too.

  One guard opened the door.

  I stepped in.

  He didn’t.

  The door closed.

  I’m alone.

  Adrenaline spiked through me. I raced through that bathroom, gauging my possibilities. Black and white floor. Red walls. Glass slits for windows. Not the sort I could open and climb out of. Two hand dryers. Five sinks. Five stalls.

  I went into the last stall, shut the door, and stood on top of the toilet seat. I peeked my head over the stall’s wall.

  No one had come in to check on me, which possibly meant that they didn’t have cameras in the bathroom. I had two to three minutes to get the hell out of there. I pushed at the black and white tiled ceiling, but it wasn’t like the cheap ass ceilings from New York nightclubs.

  The manager had renovated everything. There would be no climbing into the ceiling and crawling out. Every tile was new and in place. I shoved at it. Nothing moved.

  Goddamn it.

  I jumped off the toilet seat and touched the vent on the floor. It was a small box. I could climb into it, but it would be tight. I looked at the screws on the side. They were loose but not loose enough.

  Shit. Okay. Think. Think. Can’t go through the ceiling. So try the floor.

  I hurried, unlocked the stall’s door, and saw nothing outside of the stalls to help me with the screws. I went back into the stall, locked the door, lowered to the ground, and shook the damn vent. It loosened the edges some more. Heart pounding, I did a quick untwist on of one of the screws. I wasn’t sure if it worked, or if I was just slipping my fingertips along metal.

  It’s working. It’s working. You’re getting out of here.

  I was sure two minutes had probably passed.

  My breath quickened right as the bathroom door creaked opened.

  Shit.

  Leaving the vent, I jumped onto the toilet seat, cleared my throat, and flushed the toilet. The person stepped into the bathroom. I stood and walked to the door.

  The voice held a thick Russian accent. “Are you almost done?”

  Fuck you. I’m not leaving this bathroom.

  “Hey, I need some help.” I mumbled so that he would come closer.

  He walked up. “What?”

  I unlocked the stall but didn’t open it as I whispered. “I’m so sick. . .I need some help.”

  “Are you throwing up some more?” he stepped closer.

  Right in front of me.

  When he got an inch closer, I slammed him in the head with the stall.

  It didn’t knock him out. Just startled him. He pointed at me. I caught his finger and snapped it at the first knuckle, flicking it up like a light switch. It cracked. He screamed. I covered his mouth with my hand and kneed him in his dick.

  He groaned.

  I popped him in his right temple. His eyes rolled back. He grumbled under my hand, fell forward, and hung limply on me. I stumbled back, unable to hold his big body.

  Fuck. He’s heavy.

  With all my energy, I dragged him backward and lay him down. Ass up, the big guy thumped onto the floor.

  Sweat dripped from my face. No time to wipe it. I stepped over him and got closer to the door, just in case he woke up. I looked down at him.

  Why the hell did I do that? Now I have to escape. Shit. At least, he’s not dead. Or is he?

  I rolled him onto his front, lowered to him, grabbed his chin, and checked his pulse. it throbbed against my fingers.

  Yeah. He’s still alive.

  I pulled his head back to straighten his airway. Then, that way he wouldn’t choke while he was knocked out.

  Okay. Maybe I have two more minutes.

  I took the guy’s gun, keys, and phone.

  Hurry before another comes.

  The bathroom door creaked opened.

  “ Hello?” Another man grunted as he marched forward. “What the hell?”

  The bathroom door closed.

  He opened the stall, I stood in.

  I pointed the gun at him. “Shh.”

  He raised his hands.

  I whispered, “Come here.”

  “You don’t want to shoot me.”

  “You’re right.” I signaled for him to come near.

  He did, but I could tell he was waiting to reach for his gun. “How will you get out?”

  “That way.” I pointed at the ceiling.

  He looked up.

  I slammed him with the butt of the gun.

  He stumbled back.

  Come on. Pass out. I’m tired.

  He staggered back, but still stood. Heart pounding, I jumped and slammed him with the gun again. He fell into one of the stalls. My arms and sides ached, but I’d done more than I ever knew I could. One more slam, and he crashed to the floor.

  Shit. You’re making too much noise.

  He wouldn’t stay down. He pushed off the stalls like a drunk, stumbled ahead, and swung with his right, aiming for my head. With the size of his fist, I would’ve been out for the rest of the week. But the punch didn’t land.

  I caught his wrists, snapped it, and sent him barreling back into the stall, knocking him out.

  I’m fucked. I’m fucked. They heard that.

  If not, the others would be in here soon. So far, two guards had already come in, and no one had come out. I had to go now.

  I shot at the sewer’ side. Surely it made a lot of noise. The edge of the vent lifted. I grabbed the corner and yanked it up.

  Yes.

  The top came off. Bugs scurried out.

  I swallowed. My gut twisted. Rats I could do, but I hated bugs in small places. I preferred we both had enough space to exist.

  Hey, we’ve climbed into worse places. Don’t worry about the bugs. Get out of here.

  I spied a sort of ladder on the wall within the hole. Maintenance, or maybe a plumber must’ve had to climb down a few times to fix the sewer pipes.

  The bathroom door creaked opened.

  Jean-Pierre’s voice filled the room. “What’s going on?”

  Shit. I wish it was another guard.

  I pushed away my doubts and fear. Sighing, I climbed down on the ladder with no idea where it would take me. For all I knew, I could’ve been plunging to my death.

  Where will the ladder go? Fuck it. Hurry!

  I kept the gun in my right and used my left to keep my balance on the ladder. I got halfway inside the sewer’s hole, before huge hands grabbed my shoulders, and lifted me.

  No. No. No.

  I dropped the gun. It fell into the hole. A splash came next.

  Jean-Pierre dragged me out of the hole like I was a doll. “Smart, but stupid.”

  I got to the ground and rose. The hole was still close. Maybe I could do a nosedive.

  Giving me no time for another escape, Jean-Pierre yanked me out of the stall. “Come on.”

  Man, I’m not going back in that restaurant with you.

  I tried to regain my footing, held the sheet up, and stumbled forward.

  “You killed my men?” Jean-Pierre looked their way.

  I lunged for him, diving into his center.

  He grunted and fell back into the stall.

  I let go of his waist to step back and get him again. Wrong move. He tripped me with the sheet. I fell to the ground.

  He used my bed sheet against me, twisting it around my legs.

  I punched at his hands, and then one of my fists caught under his jaw and clipped his teeth. He roared with rage and grabbed at me. I ducked low and swept at his leg.

  He kicked me back.

  Fuck!

  My back crashed to the floor.

  He lowered down to help me up. “Give it up.”

  “You give it up.” I took his tie, wrapped it around his neck, and choked the shit out of him.

  Wheezing, he chopped at my arms with his h
ands. Pain bit into my skin. Shit! I refused to let go, as I kept that tie around his neck.

  Jean-Pierre struggled to get free, but the tie was well made. Great fabric. Excellent stitching. A cheap one would’ve torn by now.

  What next?

  I dragged him back into the stall. He was crouched over and struggling. Die, motherfucker, die! Somehow he held on. I yanked him forward. All my strength remained on that tie wrapped around his neck. He had to duck-walk in there as he gasped onto no air. Face turning pink, he wagged his arms.

  Think!

  Screeching, he stumbled into me. I fell back, but still had him by his tie. We got deeper into the stall.

  Come on. Die.

  No other option, I dumped his head into the toilet bowl. Water splashed on both of us. I let go of his tie and shoved his head deeper into the toilet bowl.

  Bad move.

  He was out of that toilet bowl in seconds. Gasping. Water dripped over him. Rage covered his face.

  Run!

  But I couldn’t.

  Fast. So fucking fast. One hand was on my neck, but he didn’t squeeze. The other fisted my hair. He plastered me against the stall wall. Drops of toilet water dotted his noise. His hair and shirt was soaked.

  I tried to bat at his arms.

  With those big hands, he yanked me forward and then slammed my body against the stall. “Enough!”

  I shivered in fear.

  “One snap. I could kill you, with one fucking snap!” Jean-Pierre tightened his grip on my neck, but I still could breathe . For now. He leaned in. Only a half of an inch lay between his nose and mine. “One fucking snap of your neck and everything is over for me. I’ll never get Eden back.” His hands shook against my neck. “I want to do it right now. I want to kill you.”

  I swallowed.

  “Damn. I would love to kill you.” He loosened his grip on my neck. “You know why?”

  “N-no.”

  “Because you’re fucking annoying!” Blood dripped from his nose. He let go and pushed me out of the stall.

  I kept my voice low. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t accept it!”

  “It’s just that. . .”

  “You don’t want go with me. I got it.” He slicked his wet hair back and shook his wet shirt. “I don’t give a damn what you want. I didn’t handcuff you, because I believe in being humane, but now I’m rethinking it. Only problem, is that there are no handcuffs. Maybe I should just shoot you in the leg. Would that slow you down?”