The Darkest Hour (Running with the Devil Book 1) Read online

  The Darkest Hour

  Running with the Devil – Book One

  Jasmin Quinn

  Copyright © 2017 by Jasmin Quinn

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-7751853-1-4

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Excerpt from Secrets Inside Her – Book Two of Running with the Devil

  Acknowledgments

  About Jasmin

  About this Series

  Stay connected with Jasmin!

  Chapter One

  Kelsie stood outside on her deck and let the night embrace her. It was dark out, smoky grey clouds obscured the frail light from the small sliver of crescent moon. But it was exactly the kind of night she loved. She felt safe – the darkness a security blanket, the gentle breeze a lover’s caress, and the silence, an interlude. Behind her, French doors were wide open, the soft glow from a desk lamp inside a reminder that she could step back into her cocoon if the elements should turn on her.

  It was fall again. Kelsie breathed in deeply, the slight smell of leaves turning colour; the foreshadowing of winter. It was okay though. Fall was better than summer. Winter was better than fall. She was alone, used to it now, even liking it. Heartbroken at first when the man she was going to marry changed his mind and walked away from her: her wedding, her life, her future. The domino effect of the break-up left her without friends, without direction. Her father certainly blamed her, embarrassed by what had happened, felt the sense of loss more keenly than she did. She should have been devastated, but with the break-up came a sense of relief, a reprieve from the path she had been groomed for all her life. Still, it left her scrambling to start a new life, find a way to begin again. Which made her wary, not willing to take another risk with her heart. Not quite prepared to place her trust in the hands of someone who might change his mind and upend her world again.

  She kept her feelings on a short leash now, but she felt the future crowding her. She was 28 years old after all. She had a good career as a law clerk assisting a federal judge, but it wasn’t glamorous or even very interesting. It was what she did to pay her bills, buy her groceries, cover the gym membership she rarely used. Her few friends and colleagues were married, had babies, had lives. It was Friday night, 11:30 p.m. and here she was, alone, standing on her deck by herself, in a not-quite-see-through, short, sleeveless, white cotton nightgown. Not exactly conservative, but comfortable. What would she be wearing if she had a man in her bed? She grinned a little at that thought. Hopefully nothing.

  Tomorrow, she thought, is Saturday. No real plans, no one to check in with – she hadn’t talked to her father in weeks. Maybe she would get a few groceries, check out the bookstore, buy a bottle or two of wine. Yes, good book, red wine and a pizza. That would be her evening. But she hadn’t worked out in almost a week. She could feel her body crying out for a little exercise. As she turned toward the door to go back into the house, she decided that tomorrow first thing, she would go for a run.

  Chapter Two

  Dean was running hurt. He could feel blood seeping from a hole in his side, the result of a bullet wound. The not-so-subtle message that his career as the right-hand man of Rusya Savisin, Russian mob boss extraordinaire, was over. It wasn’t supposed to be a long gig anyway. He got the covert assignment because he was tough, street smart and yep, he also spoke Russian fluently. The Russians didn’t know that, of course. Almost no one did. His job was to get in deep as the imbecile thug, be the invisible guy in the room.

  And it had worked for months. Until tonight, until some yet-to-be-determined asshole suggested to Rusya that Dean might not be who and what he said he was. So Savisin’s clowns took him to the basement and bashed him around a bit. Took his wallet, took his cellphone, took his keys. Then left him to think. Stupid fucks. Were they underestimating him because they thought he was a cop? Did they think he was soft or stupid? He had no problem picking the lock with the wire he kept in the lining of his shoe for just that purpose.

  Dean could hear their voices as he silently climbed the stairs. They were loud and intense, arguing in Russian. About what to do about this fucking situation; what to do with that fucking cop. That was his mistake, moving closer to the study instead of getting out. He hoped they would say the name of the asshole who betrayed him. That’s all he wanted. That fucking name. Then Lukov, the chief Russian clown, unexpectedly walked through the doorway and right into Dean. They were both shocked for a second and then Dean clocked the tattooed fuck, in the jaw, hard. The Russian crumbled, but to his credit, for only a few seconds. Long enough though, for Dean to start running. He raced down the hall to the front door – of course it was guarded by Anto Kharzin, the only Russian he liked in this group of assholes. He’d say sorry later, but at the moment there was no time for niceties. He kicked out with his foot right into Anto’s groin and then as Anto buckled over, delivered a powerful uppercut right under his chin. That was enough to render Anto unconscious, giving Dean time to throw open the door and race down the street.

  This house of Rusya’s was cookie cutter, in a residential area of Vancouver – a little more than middle-class, but not flashy. A place where the Russians could lay low when they needed to. Dean knew he was a dead man if they caught him now. Before, in the basement, maybe there was some doubt. But now, because he ran, there was no doubt. They didn’t know he knew all their secrets, but they knew that he knew enough. And if they didn’t catch him, they’d have to find a new place to hang their cossacks.

  And just as he thought he made it, just as he was rounding the street corner, he heard the gun; one shot, but it hit the mark. Not a fatal shot – and it didn’t drop him; he had too much adrenaline in him for it to even slow him down. But he felt himself go cold and he felt the stickiness of his blood as he clutched at his right side. Under ordinary circumstances, he had endless endurance and he could have made it out of the neighbourhood, to a more populated area, onto a bus or train and to somewhere safe where he could figure things out. But not now. Now he was going to have to find some place to stop, assess the wound, see how bad it was and fix it up.

  Dean knew he was no longer on the run. Now he was being hunted. He loped into a yard, past an open gate and into the back, fervently hoping there was no dog tied up ready to bite, or w
orse, bark. Luck was on his side and he made it out the back gate and into an alley. He went through the yard of the house opposite the alley and then the next house and the next house. He did this until he was out of breath and staggering.

  The Russians were still on him – he could hear the pitter-patter of their not-so-little feet in the distance. They weren’t thundering elephants, but they were speaking Russian and calling to each other. He knew they were closing in and he felt an unfamiliar feeling of panic rise in him. The pain in his side was increasing and he was starting to feel numb. He’d lost some blood, but not a lot, so a flesh wound maybe, not a pretty one. And he was still in a fucking residential area – no place to break a window and crawl in out of sight without someone hearing glass shatter, attracting the Russians or the cops. Neither was a good option.

  He staggered out of the alley he was standing in and stumbled into the next yard. He couldn’t run anymore, was too weak and in serious need of first aid. Maybe he could pick a lock and slip inside. Quietly, just to rest and think for a few minutes. Maybe his only option, even though that would cost him time and he would be a sitting duck for the few minutes it would take. And if the place was alarmed he’d be totally fucked. He had to risk it though, he couldn’t keep running.

  Mind made up, he moved silently, further into the yard he was standing in, a couple of mature fruit trees sheltering him in their shadows. As he approached the deck, he noticed a soft light spilling out from the open doors and… wait, the fucking doors were open! As he quickly crouched down, he saw that not only were the doors open, but a young woman was standing on the deck, leaning against the rail. As his eyes took in the scene, his mind started calculating the distance from his hiding place to the woman. He would have to move as quietly as he could until he got close enough for her to see him, then he would have to race up the set of six stairs, grab her, cover her mouth so she didn’t scream, drag her inside, close and lock the doors behind them, unplug the lamp, pull the curtains and quickly get out of sight.

  No problem, he thought derisively. Except that he was beaten, bruised and covered in blood. Staggering and dead tired. Even if he could make it up the stairs without tripping, she was going to completely freak out. He would have to be fast, make her believe that he was a bastard and that he’d hurt her and her family if she didn’t cooperate. Not conducive to a future trust relationship, but he could hear the fucking Russian’s entering the alley. He had no time to convince her he was a nice guy.

  Dean started moving forward, his side burning. He was hurt, exhausted, and desperate. One last shot of adrenaline was all he needed. Then if it worked out, he would be safe for a while.

  Chapter Three

  Kelsie didn’t see him coming until he was on the steps and heading straight for her. She had a few single seconds to scream, but was so shocked at the wild crazed man rushing towards her that she was paralyzed by fear. And those few precious moments were lost when he grabbed her and, in one fluid movement, twisted her body around, clamping one hand over her mouth and wrapping his other arm tightly around her neck and shoulders. Then he dragged her inside. It happened so fast - there were no words, no fuss, practically no noise. No one would know.

  Then, in a deep, dangerous voice, he said softly into her ear, “Close and lock the doors or I’ll break your fucking neck.”

  Kelsie was freaked out. His words left no room for hesitation or argument. Her adrenaline starting spiking as she pushed the doors closed and turned the lock. Her captor fleetingly let go of her neck to yank the curtains shut and snap the lamp’s cord out of its socket, but his other arm held her firmly, his hand cruelly covering her mouth. They were instantly bathed in darkness. He circled her waist with his free arm and dragged her into her u-shaped kitchen, pulling her onto his lap as he slid down to the floor with his back against the cabinets. They were effectively hidden from everyone and everything.

  As soon as they hit the floor, Kelsie started to struggle. She tried to drag his hand off her mouth, tried to scream, but he had an iron grip on her and tightened it as he growled into her ear, “Stop your fucking hysterics and listen to me. Some very bad Russians are after me and if they find me, they’ll kill us both. So, it’s in your best interest to sit still and be very quiet.”

  Kelsie weighed her options. He’d just threatened to break her neck, but he hadn’t. He could break her neck now to quiet her, but he showed no signs of doing so. In fact, as she stopped struggling, she felt him loosen his grip just a little. There was absolutely no way she believed that there were Russians after this guy. He was probably a strung-out drug addict or someone with a mental issue. Or a jewel thief or a stalker. Or a serial killer or a rapist, or both. She felt tears prick at her eyes as panic rose up in her, but she held them back. There would be plenty of time for hysterics later… she hoped.

  And then she heard the voices, in the alley, speaking Russian and she froze. She knew about the Russian mob because she did research for her boss on their activities, had been in courtrooms while they were being prosecuted. They were not nice people. They did a lot of nasty things to keep their girlfriends in fur coats – extortion, money laundering, murder for hire, smuggling. The guy in her kitchen didn’t sound Russian, but that didn’t mean anything and if the Russians were after him, he must have done something big to piss them off. This was not good, not good at all.

  Kelsie could feel him listening, his rapid breathing matching pace with hers. And then the voices moved on, fading away. And they both let out a breath. He said, quietly, “I’m going to take my hand from your mouth but if you so much as whimper, I’ll tie you up and gag you. Understood?” Kelsie nodded. She would do as she was told until she saw a way out of this. She didn’t want to be tied up and gagged, she didn’t want to be that helpless. He slowly removed his hand from her mouth and dropped it down onto her thigh. She took a deep ragged breath, but other than that didn’t move. Neither did he for a few minutes.

  Then, “What’s your name?” he asked softly. She could tell that his face was buried in her hair, his light breath caressing her neck. She felt a shiver creep up her spine. At least he wanted to know her name. Serial killers dehumanize their victims, don’t want their names, don’t want to know who they’re torturing and raping and slaughtering.

  “It’s Kelsie, Kelsie Scott,” she told him and then mentally slapped her head. May as well give him her rank and serial number too. Maybe she should tell him how old she was, what she did for a living, explain why she was standing out on the deck alone on a Friday night. But she clamped her lips shut and just sat there, on his lap, very still, waiting for his next move. He didn’t respond and for a minute she thought he’d blacked out. But as she shifted her weight slightly, she felt his grip on her tighten.

  “Just give me a minute, Kelsie.” His voice was quiet, but deep and a little gruff. Kelsie stilled herself, feeling vulnerable on his lap, as one of his hands held her waist and the other gripped her leg. She could feel the hardness of his chest against her back, the strength of his thighs under her. He was not a soft man. Then she felt him smell her hair, and his hand on her thigh tightened almost imperceptibly. She knew his train of thought, knew where it was taking him. She needed out of his arms, off his lap.

  His minute was up, and she dared to ask, quietly, “What now?”

  She could hear him sigh, a little pause, and then. “Is there a window in your bathroom?”

  Kelsie’s stomach flipped. An image of her being cut up in the bathtub flickered through her mind. “Why?” she whispered shakily as she tried to move off him.

  He reached up suddenly and curled his fingers into her hair, yanking her head back against his shoulder and forcing her to look into his shadowed face. “You do get that you are in no position to ask me fucking questions?” he snarled at her. “What you need to do, Kelsie, if you want to get through this night, is answer my questions when I fucking ask them for no other fucking reason than because I asked you.”

  Kelsie felt herself tremb
le and her throat tightened as tears threatened. But crying was not an option, not now. Even so, a single tear managed to escape down her cheek. She heard him sigh, and then he said less gruffly, “Because maybe I have to take a piss, and I don’t want to attract any Russians back to this house by turning on a light.”

  Kelsie shrank from his swift change of moods. “There’s no window in the bathroom in my bedroom.” She wasn’t going to lie. She didn’t want to antagonize him further.

  “Who’s in your bedroom?” he asked bluntly as he reached over and felt the fingers on her left hand looking for a wedding ring.

  Kelsie hesitated. She was alone in the house, but he didn’t know that. Maybe if she invented a family, he would leave. But he dashed that hope as he said, before she could answer, “I hope for your sake, you’re alone.”

  “I am,” she confirmed fearfully. There was no point in inventing a fake family – the house was not that big that he couldn’t walk through it and see it was empty except for her. He exhaled as he heard the quiver in her voice. She might be calm on the outside, but she knew he could sense her terror. And then he unwrapped his hand from her hair, dropping it down to her thigh again and said, “My name’s Dean. I’m a… ” he hesitated “… cop. I am… was working undercover for the Russian mafia. Somehow they found out.”