Black Surrender Read online

  black surrender

  Running with the Devil – Book 3

  Jasmin Quinn

  Book Title Copyright © 2018 by Jasmin Quinn. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Jem Monday Publishing Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Jasmin Quinn

  Visit my website at www.jasminquinn.ca

  Printed in Canada

  First Printing: May 2018

  Jem Monday Publishing Inc.

  ISBN: 978-1-7751853-3-8

  Other books by Jasmin Quinn

  The Darkest Hour (Book 1 – Running with the Devil)

  Secrets Inside Her (Book 2 – Running with the Devil)

  Black Surrender (Book 3 – Running with the Devil)

  Introduction

  Black Surrender (Running with the Devil series – Book 3) is a contemporary romance with plenty of suspense and intrigue, no cliff-hanger, no cheating, and a very merry sexy happy ending. While each book in the series is standalone, the books are best read in order of publication for the following reasons:

  Each book in the series is connected by an ongoing theme;

  Characters featured in subsequent books may be introduced in prior books;

  There may be spoilers.

  About Running with the Devil book series

  Jasmin Quinn’s book series, Running with the Devil, revolves around a secret organization led by Mr. Jackman, a mysterious man with a grudge against Russian mob boss, Rusya Savisin and Rusya’s associate, Randall Scott, a highly connected psychopath.

  Each book in the series tells the story of one of Jackman’s operatives as they grapple with a traitor in their midst while trying to keep their eyes on the prize – bringing Rusya Savisin to his knees.

  As the series unfolds, more and more will be revealed about the feud between Jackman and Savisin, including answers to the following questions:

  Are Jackman’s intentions honourable or does he have as much blood on his hands as Savisin?

  What is the root of the hatred between Jackman and Savisin?

  What is Randall Scott’s role in the ongoing feud?

  Who is the traitor in Jackman’s house and will this double-agent ultimately bring down Jackman and his operatives?

  CONTENTS

  Other books by Jasmin Quinn

  Introduction

  About Running with the Devil book series

  Excerpt from Secrets inside Her

  (Running with the Devil Book 2)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  What’s Next!

  Acknowledgements

  About Jasmin

  Stay connected with Jasmin!

  Excerpt from Secrets inside Her

  (Running with the Devil Book 2)

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Michael Black was not one of Mr. Jackman’s regular run-of-the-mill operatives. He was not a master of disguise or a Jack of all trades. And that’s because he didn’t blend. He was who he was; he had startling good-looks, was tall and muscular, but at the same time lean and with the grace and agility of a lion. His intense dark brown eyes complemented the rest of his appearance; dark almost black hair, cut short and impeccably-groomed, strong chiselled features, clean-shaven and always flawlessly dressed in an expensive suit, matching tie, and perfectly shined custom-made leather shoes. And his looks were just the icing on the cake. He had a devilish sense of humour, was charming in a ferocious masculine manner and had an innate gift for knowing exactly what to say to whomever he needed to say it to in almost any given circumstance. Almost all women and most men were drawn to his animal magnetism, his contrived easy-going manner, and his roguish smile.

  But he was not a man to be trifled with, which was why he was so highly regarded by Mr. Jackman. He was Jackman’s most dangerous agent because he was loyal and unscrupulous. He did what Jackman needed of him, whenever and however. He had a strong bullshit detector, an innate ability to quickly assess the situation, and was a master of the con. He could just as easily insinuate himself into a boardroom as a woman’s bed. He got what he wanted through seduction or violence. He lacked both fear and empathy, generally killing without impunity or remorse. If it needed to be done, it got done.

  Chapter One

  Michael Black stood in the lobby of his condo building trying to stay engaged in the conversation that was taking place between him and two of his elderly 1st floor neighbours. He had blood on his hands, not literally because he’d been wearing gloves at the time of the shooting. He generally had little regret after he dispatched someone, but this time that someone’s wife came home early, and he had no choice but to take her out too. One bullet to her heart and then a second to her head for good measure. He wasn’t alone when it happened; he was with that fucking cop, Finn McQueen. They’d already gotten the information they needed from the Russian. All they had to do was leave, but the Russian’s wife finding the body on the heels of their departure didn’t give them enough lead time to do what they had to do next. He’d looked into the eyes of the cop, not to ask his permission but to assess whether Finn had the stomach for coldblooded murder. Finn had given him a short nod and walked through the Russian’s kitchen and out the same back door they’d entered leaving Michael to finish the job.

  That was last night, a long fucking night that had turned from a retrieval job to a rescue job to hours of debriefing and then bundling McQueen and Jackman’s Disappearist, Nika, on a plane and sending them to Jackman’s compound. The weather turned to shit while they’d waited in an airless room at the airport hotel, on lockdown, until two of Jackman’s retrieval agents deigned to arrive to pick up the cop and the Disappearist so he could leave and get back to his own business. A late snowfall in March was causing chaos in Vancouver, there wasn’t a fucking taxi to be had, and his car was tucked safely away in the underground parking of his condo building. That forced him to do something he’d never done in his lifetime – he took the goddamned bus and then walked two more blocks back to his condo because apparently public fucking transportation doesn’t drop passengers off at their doorsteps.

  He was depleted and wanted nothing more than to slip into his penthouse suite unnoticed; drink a half bottle of scotch and then take a hot steamy shower. But that was obviously not to be, because as soon as he’d entered the lobby, h
e was cornered by the lovely Mrs. Gloria Trimble and her equally engaging younger sister, Gladys Meadows. Both ladies were quite taken with Michael; as they often told him, he was suave, debonair and an unapologetic flirt. But also, a gentleman and a man of his word, which was rare these days. They were going on about the snow and the bad drivers and worried that they might not be able to get out to get groceries if it lasted too long or piled too high. And Michael, wearing his friendly neighbour façade, promised them that he would be more than happy to take them shopping if the snow didn’t let up in the next day or two.

  And then lobby door flew open, the gusting wind catching it and slamming it back, blowing Isabelle Sterling practically into his arms. “Goddamn fucking snow!” She stumbled forward, oblivious to the two little old grannies that were standing next to Michael, shocked expressions on their faces.

  “Isabelle, language!” Michael scolded as he pushed back at nature’s pissiness, forcing the door closed behind the stunning dishevelled woman overloaded with shopping bags.

  “Oh, come on Michael. Don’t be such a prude,” Isabelle handed him the shopping bags and her Gucci purse, then steadied herself with a beautifully manicured hand to his shoulder as she yanked four-inch red heels off her feet. “Gloria and Gladys invented the words. Didn’t you girls?” She smiled fiercely and winked at them as they tittered. Then dismissively, she punched the elevator button and as the doors opened, she turned to Michael, who was still holding her packages. “Be a love, Michael and bring my bags up.” She entered the elevator without waiting to see if he would follow.

  But follow he did because Isabelle had rescued him from their lovely neighbours and for that he was grateful. He also knew Isabelle wouldn’t want him around long, and that meant he’d be in and out of her condo in two minutes flat. As she punched the button for the 18th floor she cursed again, shaking the snow off her shoes, inspecting them for damage.

  “$830 fucking American dollars – I got them in Seattle last weekend. If they’re ruined I am going to have to kill someone. What asshole thought snow in March was a good idea?”

  Michael grinned as he looked at Isabelle over top of the packages. “I don’t know – maybe God?”

  “This isn’t the work of God, this has Satan’s pawprints all over it.”

  “Ah, the devil, of course.”

  “Yes, and the next time you see your father, tell him to fuck off for me!” Isabelle was still glowering at her shoes, trying to dry them with her coat sleeve.

  Michael laughed. Isabelle was a lot of things – beautiful, sexy, quick-witted and unpredictable. He’d wanted to fuck her the first time he laid eyes on her. But she held him at arm’s length, barely acknowledging him for the first few weeks; obviously pissed off when he moved into the only other suite on the 18th floor. He’d tried to charm her. No woman was immune to his charisma - until Isabelle came along. And this wasn’t the first time she referred to him as the devil. She was wary of him, defensive whenever he was near; she didn’t seem to trust him though he’d never given her a reason not to. Maybe she was just sensitive to the predator in him, understood there was something dangerous about him, something savage and consuming.

  But she was friendly enough, they both were. They’d knock on each other’s doors when they needed to borrow something or needed some help. He’d broken his finger a few months ago and couldn’t knot his tie. He stopped by Isabelle’s suite every morning for two weeks and she did it for him. She seemed quite unaware of the effect she had on him as she stood so close to him that he could feel the heat from her body. She’d loop the tie, always perfectly, with her long, beautifully manicured fingers, patting it back into place against his chest, causing his heart to race and his cock to perk up.

  And when her car broke down a few weeks ago he gladly returned the favour. It was almost too much for him to look and not touch as every morning she slid into his Mercedes Roadster perfectly turned-out, always wearing a short, curve-hugging skirt and four-inch heels, both of which served to accentuate her sexy long legs. For three days, he endured the unspoken off-limits rule as he dropped her off at her work site. He struggled with why she kept her distance and worse, he couldn’t understand why he didn’t press the issue. After all, it generally didn’t take much convincing on his part when he wanted a woman, but he knew deep down in his nether regions that once would not be enough with this woman. He’d get a taste and want more. And that kind of ‘more’ was not good in his line of work.

  He glanced over at her leaning against the elevator wall, still bitching about the weather and inspecting her shoes for damage. Her long, thick beautiful auburn hair curled around her face and down her shoulders, tousled and slightly damp from the wind and the snow. Her makeup was a little smudged around her moss-green eyes and her cheeks were still ruddy from the cold. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t perfectly put together. In fact, in her present state she was more provocative if that was possible. Michael imagined her naked and writhing under him, her long legs locked around his back, his hands on her breasts, his mouth crushing hers as he pounded into her. His cock started pulsing in concert with his thoughts and he found himself wanting the power to fail, the elevator to stall, so he could dispense with the impasse between them once and for all. But the elevator had no intention of indulging his wicked wishes and arrived without incident on the 18th floor.

  Michael stood back and let Isabelle exit first, then followed her, packages in hand, purse held strategically to hide the evidence of his errant thoughts. Oblivious to Michael’s tension, Isabelle was still muttering about her shoes as she unlocked her condo door and walked into her suite. She beckoned Michael to follow as though she was his high priestess and he was her eunuch… no… slave… sex slave. Yes, better. He complied – after all what choice did he have? Slave or not, he still had her bags and purse.

  “Just toss them on the sofa in the living room.” Isabelle shrugged out of her soggy black wool coat and dropped it carelessly on the floor next to the coat closet as Michael moved past her. She picked up a towel from the kitchen to wipe her shoes and followed him. “Thanks,” she said. “I owe you a drink.”

  Then she froze, stopping all movement for the first time since she’d stepped inside the building, because two tattooed men were standing in her living room, one incredibly tall and burley, the other considerably shorter, but no less intimidating. The shorter one was pointing a gun at Michael, who had dropped Isabelle’s packages on the floor and had his hands up by his head, palms facing out. The taller fuck was inspecting one of Isabelle’s delicate Fabergé eggs, holding it between his meaty paws with little concern for its fragility or value.

  “What the hell?” Isabelle’s eyes flashed as she looked from the tattooed assholes to Michael. “Friends of yours?” she asked, far calmer than Michael would have expected under the circumstances.

  “Not exactly friends. Isabelle, use caution.” Michael glanced at her briefly, trying to warn her with his eyes before returning his gaze to the Russian with the gun.

  “Put my fucking Fabergé egg down!” Isabelle obviously had a different definition of caution than Michael. The thug looked at her, a little taken aback, but then carefully set the egg back on its stand on the display table.

  “Why don’t the two of you sit down?” The shorter thug waved his gun in the direction of Isabelle’s sofa. It was clear between his heavy accent and the tattoos that covered every exposed area of his body that he was Russian. They both were.

  Michael looked over at Isabelle, his expression impassive, his tone careful and guarded. “I need you to do exactly as I say. Sit down beside me.”

  Isabelle, still clutching her shoes, frowned at Michael. “Fine, I’ll sit, but I want some answers. What are these two fucks doing in my condo?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be in this condo?” The shorter Russian spoke again, clearly startled.

  “Because my friend here lives across the hall, you puke. He’s the thug magnet, not me.”

  He laughed th
en. “This is a great day, Boris. We get two for one.”

  The taller Russian grunted.

  “Hold on,” Michael said. “She’s not part of this. You’re in the wrong apartment.” And then to Isabelle, “What do you mean thug magnet?”

  “Right,” the Russian with the gun said. “Whatever you say.” He laughed and then his voice got deadly serious. “Sit the fuck down.”

  Michael took Isabelle by the arm and steered her towards the sofa, pulling her down next to him as he sat. “Guys, she’s just my neighbour. Let her go.”

  “What’s going on, Michael?” Isabelle scowled as the Russians laughed.

  “Sure she is.” The smaller Russian smirked as his gaze travelled the length of Isabelle’s body, his eyes settling on her legs. “You’d have to be gay and blind not to be tapping her.”

  Isabelle shot to her feet and stalked to the middle of the living room, mindless of the menacing Russians and their guns. “No one talks about me like that, you fucking asswipe! Especially not in my house! Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Michael took advantage of the distraction as Isabelle drew both Russians’ attention, waving her arms furiously and shaking her shoes at them. He slid his hand beneath his jacket and carefully drew his handgun from its holster. It still had the silencer on it and he was thankful for that. This was going to be a hard one to explain to Isabelle, but he’d worry about that later, after the Russians were dead.

  “You disgusting Russian pigs.” Isabelle continued her tirade and Boris the big Russian finally took offense. He strode over to her, closing the distance between the two of them faster than Michael would have thought possible given his bulk. When he reached her, he drew back his hand and slapped her face, hard enough to cause her head to snap back as she absorbed the blow. Michael could see the flicker of pain and anger on her face, her cheek a livid red.