Handler the anti heroes, p.1
HANDLER (The Anti-Heroes), page 1
HANDLER
Nikolai Andrew
Copyright © 2021
by Nikolai Andrew
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
For Spankings and cookies…come along…
FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK
LET’S BE FRIENDS
Nikolai Andrew on Amazon
www.nikolaiandrew.com
Now, let’s get on with the show…
NIKOLAI ANDREW VIP GROUP
www.nikolaiandrew.com
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
BONUS
Want more?
Like what Nikolai brings to the feast?
About Nikolai
Chapter 1
Odin
It’s not the smell that bothers me. That metallic, coppery tang. The unique scent of the stuff that comes from the insides of bodies that would turn the stomach of a normal person.
It’s not the gore either. The violence sprayed everywhere that would turn a Norman Rockwell image into a Quentin Tarantino movie.
The macabre scene in front of me should elicit some emotion besides irritation.
But, after twenty plus years of handling other people’s bullshit, I’m indifferent.
My eyes are drawn to the center of the dining room table where there’s a pure white, three-tiered cake with sprays and blotches of deep red soaking into the frosting, turning the blood splatters pink around the edges.
Over the archway in the immaculate all white room there’s a banner of glittery gold letters that reads, “Congratulations to the Future Mr. & Mrs. Georgiev.”
A wedding shower that didn’t go as planned. I think of the couple waking up today, ready to step off into the next chapter of their happily ever after.
Sorry, folks. Everything is temporary. Even happiness.
I glance over where the bride-to-be lays on the floor like a crumpled mannequin. Her hair is still damp and from the baseball-sized hole just above her ear, I’d say part of the new decoration on the cake used to be inside her head. Her eyes are wide, like she’s wondering how in the hell she’s ever going to get the damn stains out of her rug.
A civilized person would question what’s wrong with the world. Not me. I already know what’s wrong, and I’m not under any illusions that the rot can be fixed.
What bothers me is the mess. I hate the fucking mess.
Messy isn’t just the blood, guts and brains sprayed everywhere. That’s just part of getting things done.
It’s the fact that the killers after they barreled in here and gunned down the happy couple and their two guests, realized their mistake.
The intended target, Simeon Levski, the uncle of the bride, lived next door.
1298 Gage Road, not 1289.
Only, he was enjoying a single malt and listening to Beethoven at his vacation home in the Cayman Islands.
Details matter, guys. I hate amateurs.
They didn’t just kill the wrong fucking people. They smashed the photos on the wall. They tore open the cushions on the sofa. They ate at least some of the food from the buffet trays set out on warmers in the kitchen. They drank the Cristal Champagne and threw the Waterford flutes in the fireplace.
More and more, I despair of today’s criminals’ level of respect. The unnecessary damage shows a lack of professionalism. When I started in this job, it was understood that taking life should be as selective as possible. Causing destruction should be minimal. Get in, get it done. Get out.
My job as a handler is all about cleaning up other people’s messes. Still, standards are changing and apparently, I am not.
But, on the upside, the messier the scene, the higher my price.
That’s also what I made clear to Pam, the person who referred me for the job. We’ve known each other since I took a covert ops job after my stint with Tier 1 Special Forces ended, and she’s thrown work my way now and then. A friend, I guess normal people would call her, but I don’t harbor any illusions.
In this business you learn there are few you can trust. Most would fuck you over given the right circumstances, or the right paycheck.
“Boss, what’s the plan? We can’t get rid of all this before the rest of their guests start to arrive.” Junk, my assistant and second in command on every job, holds up what looks like an invitation. “Says on here the party was supposed to start at one. It’s ten thirty. Cuttin’ it close. Someone’s bound to arrive early.”
He glances around, rubbing his hand over his jaw. He’s as tall as me, but bulky where I’m more compact. He’s covered in indigo blue tattoos from his neck down his arms where I’m unadorned in that particular way. His bald head gleams under the crystal ceiling fixture as his eyes dance around the destruction accessing what needs to be done.
I nod in agreement. “Gas leak. Leave the fucking bodies. Blow it all up. Houses are far enough apart should just burn this disaster to the ground.”
He nods back. “Like in Atlanta.”
I nod. “Check the oven, make it look like a defect. Bad burner. Those open flames under the chaffing dishes set it off.” Nodding to Junk, I turn to Harriet and Mike. They’re good additional cleanup crew, and I’ve used them before. “Every corpse. Check for bullet holes and remove the bullets. Get the metal detector from the van. Scan the walls and floors too.”
“Yes, boss,” Harriet points at the sofa which is soaked in blood where the body of a man lays face down. “Any special attention to the…” she raises her eyebrow, “more intense areas?”
“Cover them with any of the eighty proof and up.” I tip my head toward the long buffet table doubling as a bar for the festivities. “Fire Marshall won’t take note of that as much--”
A creak from upstairs draws my attention and I freeze, listening, my team falling silent. You do this job long enough and you learn that not every noise is a problem. Houses make noise, weather makes noise, pipes make noise.
“Boss?” Junk’s eyes flick toward the ceiling.
“Probably nothing. Finish up, rig the oven. I’ll check it out.”
As I place my feet silently on each carpeted step, I get a good impression of the man and woman that lived here, or were going to live here. They were comfortably well off, even as a young couple, which doesn’t surprise me; they might not have been the intended targets but from my quick background research on the job they were still connected to the Bulgarian mafia.
A little alcove by the stairs houses a marble sculpture of a young naked woman. Attractive by society standards but that’s not something that draws my eye. My interest in sex and relationships hasn’t been aroused for a couple decades. Not that ample opportunities haven’t been thrown my way.
The bookcase at the top of the stairs is filled with classics, at least some of them probably first editions. One or two I might have been tempted to borrow for myself under different circumstances.
It’s a shame they aren’t going to make it through the cleanup.
At the top of the stairs, I pause and my fingers clench into fists as a hot rage roars through me.
Fucking assholes.
I look down at the gray and cream-colored fur, more darkening crimson pooled next to the lifeless body, and a red haze clouds my vision.
Who kills a cat? What was it, a witness?
If I wasn’t so professional about my work, I’d call this whole job off right now. Let the fuckers take their chances with the mess they made. Even hunt them down and kill them myself.
I’ve wondered lately if it’s time to get out, to retire on the hefty bank balance I’ve built up. People call me in to make problems go away.
Don’t worry, we’re sending Hendrix.
The words every fuck with a thick enough wallet who’s gotten themselves into a bind wants to hear. No client of mine has ever faced consequences for their actions. But right now, I want exactly that.
Consequences. Hard. Painful. Crushing consequences. No one should hurt an animal. Ever.
A soft clearing of a throat catches me off guard and I stall. Someone is here. Fuck me, more of a mess to deal with.
I swivel. My eyes dart to doorways, all senses on alert.
There it is again. A stifled cough. High pitched. A little squeaky.
Female. Or a kid.
Fuck. Please don’t let it be a kid. I don’t do fucking kids.
I glance around the hallway, trying to sort of triangulate the location. The sound was muffled, but it’s not coming from a bedroom, they’re too far away.
There it is, a rustle, a movement coming from behind
I don’t enjoy this part of the job, but there’s no way I can leave whoever it is alive. Besides, if I don’t take them out with a bullet or a nice, swift knife strike to the spinal cord at the base of the skull, they’ll be blown to kingdom come; better to go out quick. I know it’s how I’d want it.
“Who’s there?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “Come on out.”
My hope is whoever it is will think I’m law enforcement. Hand themselves over thinking they’re safe and then lights out. But I won’t lie to them. That’s one of my rules. No lies.
As I step around the body of the cat, I draw my 9mm from its holster behind my back. This isn’t a regular part of my job. It happens, but I’m not one to carry some monster of a piece preparing for World War Three. I don’t get sentimental about it but it’s not like I enjoy it either. I reach for the door handle, turn it and…click.
BAM
What I’m not expecting is the blonde whirling dervish that launches herself from the floor like a fucking rocket.
“You bastard! Why did you kill Lilah?” Fists fly at my face, but I deflect them easily, bringing my gun up. One squeeze and it’s all over. Do it Hendrix, do your fucking job. My hand darts out, grabbing one of her wrists, breaking my golden rule. No touching. “Let me go! Let me—”
The contact sends a sonic boom through me. Our eyes meet and we both freeze.
It’s like the world has stopped turning. I’m not me anymore, not a cold-hearted cleanup guy, not the man with the gun pointed at her heart. She’s not a witness I need to eliminate.
Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s a heart stopping beauty. But, there’s something more.
Her blonde hair is a tangle that frames her round face, her lips are pillowy and wide and luscious, begging to be kissed, begging to be wrapped around my dick as I lodge it down her fucking throat as her hands cup my balls.
Her blue eyes are wide, staring into mine. Her pupils barely a pin prick after being in the darkened closet. Her face is flushed, her brow tight with fear. She’s small in stature. The top of her head brushing up under my chin but her body, fuck, her body is swooping S turns and overflowing womanhood. She’s a work of art.
No woman has had this effect on me. I’m cold. I’m known for it. Indifference is my armor, it’s what makes me good at what I do. If I’m distracted by feelings, that’s when mistakes happen. If anyone comes into my life, they’re a target. It makes me weak.
Then messes happen.
I twist her arm around her back, pulling her into me, the discomfort and wonder of her flesh against my bare hand making my temples pound.
The feel of her soft body in my arms, ample tits squeezed against my chest, has my balls in an instant fucking knot. In a single movement, the gun is holstered and I have her caught, spinning us around and into the bedroom, her cherry vanilla scent making me feel drunk as she follows my lead in this, our first dance.
“Let me go, asshole.” She barks without a hint of fear.
“Sure.” I answer, only holding her tighter.
In this instant, I already know I won’t kill her. I’d destroy anyone who tried to harm a single golden hair on her head. Makes no sense, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Somehow, I already know, whoever this succulent fierce morsel is, she’s mine to deal with.
“Who are you?” She seethes with a slip of an Eastern European accent, like she’s worked hard to hide it or been here long enough to mostly lose it.
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of something else and my mouth starts to water. I feel raw, even savage being next to her, my exterior cracking.
She’s so close I feel the warmth of her breath. I look down at the burst of her cleavage spilling from the low-cut neckline of her dress, her creamy soft skin begging for my mouth.
There’s a bed right there.
I could take her now, hard and without consent. But I know I won’t do that. I need to keep my wits right now because this girl is making things come alive inside me I’d long ago thought were dead, and I don’t even know her fucking name.
“I’ve been wondering that myself lately,” I mutter through gritted teeth, wondering why I said that to her. I draw a growl of a breath and regroup. “Anyone else here?”
“I’ve called the police,” she snaps, glaring at me, her words sharp as she twists and kicks and stomps.
“Stop,” I grunt as I tighten my grip on her wrist. “And I know you haven’t called the fucking police.” I assess her in an instant. The bloodstained dress is plain, beige, institutional. She’s a worker, maid, cook, something. “Who’s Lilah? Your employer?”
“Lilah is the cat, you heartless…marape!”
Her brow softens and she takes a breath. She’s more tempting than the night flame to the moth. Her fire is sexy as hell and my confusion at my reaction to her multiplies making my temples pound.
Her blue eyes shimmer with tears as her eyes glance into the hall toward the small furry body and if I ever find out who killed the fucking cat, no amount of begging will prevent me from killing them. Both for what they did to the cat, but also for making this stunning beauty cry.
Her tears send a jolt of possessiveness through me I’ve never felt. I want to go the rest of my life doing everything necessary to be sure she never cries again.
“Marape,” I repeat, trying to keep myself on task. “That’s donkey, right?” She narrows her eyes. “You’re calling me an ass, I get it, but I didn’t kill her. I wouldn’t have killed your cat.” My eyes scan the neat bedroom, hoping maybe the couple that lived here had some kinky extracurriculars, because right now I need some rope.
She stares at me for a long moment then clarifies, “Not my cat. But that’s not the point.”
“No, it isn’t, I agree. I’m on your side here. You work here?”
My eyes dart around the room as I hold her arm, the pulse of heat from our skin-to-skin connection making my hand feel like it’s being held over a candle. I don’t remember the last time I touched someone. If contact seems necessary, I carry gloves, but this little hellcat was too fast, her burst from the closet too unexpected for me to prepare.
That’s true, but also not true.
I could have just kicked her into the bedroom. Shoved her down with my hand on her back only touching her clothing. I could have just fucking stepped back and shot her. I had choices, we all do. I chose to grab her. Touch her bare flesh. And for that, I’m paying the price.
It makes me feel off balance. Raw. Exposed. Human.
For a moment, she doesn’t respond, then shakes her head. “I only came to work here today, but Miss Levski seems nice…seemed nice. I saw her die. Lilah was just a nice cat, that’s all. No one should hurt a cat.”
“I like cats too. I have five.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Only two other people in the world know I fucking like cats. One is my housekeeper, the other is Junk because our work has him coming to my house now and again. I’m the ice-cold handler, fixer of problems, telling this girl about my god damn cats makes zero sense.
“Is that little morsel of information supposed to make me trust you? Those men came in here, shot four people and Lilah! They didn’t see me, I ran and hid. Now, here you are, and I sure as shit don’t think you’re a cop.” She tugs away but I hold her steady shifting around the room, opening drawers and closets with my free hand.
“I’m sorry you had to see any of that. You know if they have any rope?”
Why am I asking her? She’s got me way fucking off my game.
“How should I know? And if I did,” she sneers, screwing up her sexy as fuck mouth, “I wouldn’t tell you.”
I grumble as I turn my head and call out, “Junk!”, just loud enough for him to hear me downstairs but not yell. I never yell.
“Yes, boss?” His reply comes immediately.
