Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1)

  Cat’s Paw

  by Chandler Steele

  Steele Romance

  From the Back Cover

  After five years in a Louisiana prison, Alex Parkin desperately wants to start over. Even more, he craves revenge against Vladimir Buryshkin, the New Orleans drug lord who framed him for cocaine possession. The second he walks out of prison, Alex is a wanted man, both by the Russian mob, and by Veritas, a private security firm that claims to be “on his side.” When his sister is brutally beaten, he has to choose: Join forces with Veritas, or let Buryshkin destroy his family.

  Because of the Russian mobster, Morgan Blake lost both her husband, and her career at the FBI. Now working with Veritas, she’s eager to take Buryshkin down. So eager, she’s willing to do anything to make that happen, even sacrificing a certain ex-con, if needed.

  As a load of tainted cocaine hits New Orleans’ streets, the body count quickly rises. To prevent more deaths, and a potential drug war, Morgan and Alex must learn that revenge comes at too high a price, and that love always has its own agenda.

  “Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.”

  ~ Oscar Wilde

  Chapter One

  September 17th

  Louisiana State Penitentiary

  Last day. Last chance to kill me.

  His nerves on edge, Alexander Parkin carried his tray to the long dining table lined with other inmates, his final breakfast in prison. He’d eaten 1,825 of these in Angola. Maybe fewer, given the time he’d spent recovering in the infirmary.

  Too damned many. Especially for an innocent man.

  Muted conversations flowed around him, some between men who had become his friends, some between his enemies. Alex had long ago accepted that some grudges wouldn’t die until he did.

  It wouldn’t matter that he’d been marked “off limits” by Grigori Danshov, the nephew of New Orleans’s notorious drug kingpin. Or that the Russian had recently reissued that warning, in case someone thought to settle scores before Alex’s release. Even Mikhail, his cellmate, had remained close over the last week, a deadly deterrent.

  The room fell into abnormal silence at his arrival, as if the others heard the same clock ticking down. When the attack finally came, Alex would be ready. In fact, he would welcome it.

  He nodded at a couple of his fellow prisoners and set his tray on the table, his senses on overload. Everything was heightened now: the smell of the food, the heat, the funk of too many men in one place. Mikhail had just begun to ask him a question when Alex felt the air shift behind him. Before his friend could bark a warning, he was on the move.

  Spinning, he grabbed the brown, muscled arm as the shank drove toward him. Leveraging his weight, Alex yanked the prisoner down, ramming his wrist against the edge of the table. The audible snap of bones filled the room, followed by a shriek as the shank tumbled free. He followed up with a knee to Jesus Martinez’s nuts, which turned the shriek into a high-pitched scream.

  The blood beast rose within Alex, the one that demanded this bastard die. Make him and his kind pay for the hell Alex had endured all these years. A quick stab in the chest, and it’d be over before the guards could interfere.

  Alex’s hands shook now, eager to take the next step, to strike back. To prove he wasn’t helpless. That he wasn’t the man he’d once been.

  “Nyet! Not worth it,” Mikhail called out.

  God, he’s right.

  Alex released his grip and the would-be assassin collapsed to the floor. No way I’m taking the heat for this. He made sure to nudge the shank close to Martinez’s writhing body.

  Breathing heavily, hyped up on adrenaline, he turned to find every eye on him. “Who’s next?” he said.

  There were laughs, a few frowns. The show over, those who’d risen resumed their seats. Martinez’s pained cries abruptly cut off when one of the guards jammed a boot in his side.

  “Can it, asshole. You started it,” the man said. He scrutinized Alex now. “You hurt?”

  “No.” What if they blamed him for this brawl?

  “Had to know it’d be Martinez,” the guard continued. “I wondered when he’d take a crack at you.”

  It hadn’t surprised Alex either. The wiry gangbanger was a member of Los Impíos, and they hated Alex. When he’d been with the DEA, he had cost them some major bucks every time he’d confiscated one of their loads.

  “I just lost twenty-five bucks,” the guard added, shaking his head.

  Mikhail had told Alex there was a betting pool as to his survivability.

  “What are the odds now?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  “Hundred to one that you wouldn’t clear the front gate on your own two feet,” the man responded matter-of-factly.

  Better than Alex had expected. When he’d first arrived, it’d been a thousand to one. Martinez stifled a cry when he was hauled to his feet. He spat at Alex, outraged Spanish filling the room. Alex murmured an insult back and Martinez went crazy, trying to tear himself out of the guards’ arms, his shouts following him out of the dining hall.

  “What did you say to him?” the head guard asked.

  “I told him his mother is very pretty.”

  The guard raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, something like that.”

  The man laughed. “Good thing you’re leaving today, Parkin.”

  “Can’t be soon enough.”

  There had been times when Alex had believed today would never come. His “welcome” to Angola five years before had been brutal, a wake-up call. A trio of drug dealers he’d sent up during his time at the DEA had delivered that welcome. They’d made sure to crack four ribs, bruise his kidneys, rip open his neck, and break his left arm. Would have done worse if they hadn’t been stopped as they’d pulled down his pants.

  Never show fear.

  It had become his mantra. It would remain so.

  His other mantra? Find the son of a bitch who had framed him and make him pay. But first, his last meal here. Now that the action was over, the room quieted. Alex settled on the bench, pulling his plate closer, noting that his hands shook. Mikhail delivered a proud nod from across the table, then went back to eating his breakfast.

  “I wondered if it’d be Jesus,” Alex said quietly. “He’s a hotheaded little prick.”

  “Soon to be a dead one,” Mikhail replied, his accent heavy. “Grigori will not appreciate that his orders were ignored.”

  “That too.”

  Mikhail Yovanoff was a lifer, a contract killer who worked for Vladimir Buryshkin. Mikhail had been the best of Alex’s cellies, and he would miss him. Over the years, they’d forged a friendship as the Russian had protected him, taught Alex his native language. Pretty decent for a stone-cold contract killer who had at least a dozen hits to his credit. He’d probably be the one to put Martinez in a shroud.

  Mikhail took a sip of coffee, his fingers revealing multiple tattoos. “You handled that well, Sasha.”

  Sasha was the Russian diminutive for Alexander, and it’d taken a while for Alex to answer to the name. Now he rather liked it.

  He nodded gratefully. “I learned from the best. Thank you, my friend.”

  Mikhail nodded back. His eyes rose to someone behind Alex, but this time they held no warning. Alex turned, then stood to shake Grigori’s hand. Tall, thin, and blond, he cut a wide swath through the prison. Few would mess with him. Those who did ended up dead, or worse.

  “I shall miss you,” the young Russian said. “Not for long, though. I shall be free myself very soon, God willing.”

  “Hunt me up. I’ll buy you a beer. Hell, I’ll buy as many as you want.”

  Some would say that associating with members of the Russian mob when just out of
prison probably wasn’t the smartest move. He kept me alive. Alex might not want to work for him or his uncle, but he could at least buy the man a drink.

  “Make it Russian vodka and we have a deal.”

  “You’re on. You finally going to tell me who framed me?”

  Grigori shook his head. “Not today.” He leaned over so only Alex could hear him. “‘Voda kamen tochet.’” Even as Alex worked through the Russian, Grigori added, “‘Water wears away stone.’”

  He straightened up. “Be patient, Sasha. Your time will come.”

  It was classic Grigori. The man was an enigma, a scholarly Russian who had come to Alex’s aid the night he’d nearly been raped. Grigori had arranged to have Mikhail be Alex’s cellmate to keep him alive. But he was also Buryshkin favorite nephew, so he was deep inside the mobster’s organization.

  All this care meant one thing: The elder crime lord wanted Alex alive for some reason. The moment he exited the prison gates, that debt would become due.

  *~*~*

  “You got all that?” The balding paper pusher handling Alex’s discharge sounded bored, but then, how many of the inmates had he set free only to have them roll right back through the doors down the line?

  “Yeah, I got it.” Alex had a portion of the money he’d brought with him to prison, plus some sent by a friend. He’d signed the appropriate discharge papers. At least he wasn’t required to have regular visits with a parole officer.

  “Hope you got good shoe leather. Your ride called. She isn’t going to make it.”

  “What? Why?” Alex had made the arrangements with his sister a month ago, and now she’d bailed on him?

  The man shrugged. He handed Alex a full bottle of water and grinned. “Go forth and sin no more.”

  The opportunity to sin was limited: There wasn’t a bus from the prison to St. Francisville, nearly twenty-five miles away. Which meant he’d have to hitchhike.

  Alex swore under his breath.

  Ten minutes later, he stood outside the fortress that had been his home for so long. In one hand was a plastic bag with his belongings, all he possessed in this world after thirty-two years. In the other was the bottle of water.

  His heart raced and he was sweating, not only because the morning was heating up. The day was clear, the weather as humid as you’d expect for mid-September in Louisiana, a thick blanket that seemed to press down on his body like a dead weight. Another day in the South and his first one outside the wire.

  His disappointment was as oppressive as the humidity. This was supposed to be when he reunited with his sister. He’d actually dreamed of this moment. The one day he really wanted Miri to be there for him, and she wasn’t. There would be no chance for them to spend a few hours catching up on their lives, starting over. This was her revenge, pure and simple. He’d fucked over her life, and now she was doing the same to him.

  Alex glanced back at the guard towers, the concertina wire. He was free. Free. The word didn’t feel right, at least not yet. Maybe someday.

  Maybe never.

  Chapter Two

  As he dragged the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead, Alex judged that he was two hours into his hike, though he had no watch or phone to verify that estimate. If he was right, it should be about noon. His stomach concurred.

  The heat rose off the road in unrelenting waves, baking him like a piece of overcooked meat. He slapped at another bug that had nailed him on the neck. They’d proven relentless.

  Just another kind of hell.

  The road signs posted near the prison, warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers, had reduced his chances of a ride to zip. He couldn’t argue with that wisdom, except when it came to him.

  According to one of the more helpful guards, he had two ways to get to the town. He could stick to the main highway, which angled north before it cut back south, adding another hour to an already eight-hour hike. Or cut through the Tunica Hills, which would offer fewer chances to be picked up by a passing motorist. He’d opted for the latter, eager to get home.

  It wasn’t long before Alex had regretted that decision. He’d already stripped out of his shirt and stuffed it inside his bag. Right now, he’d commit armed robbery for another bottle of water. Hell, it didn’t even have to be cold.

  At this rate, he wouldn’t make St. Francisville until five or six in the evening. Then, if he was lucky, he’d find someone headed for Baton Rouge, where he could catch a bus. At this rate, he wouldn’t be at home in New Orleans until midnight.

  Alex heard the sound of an approaching car and turned, casting a hopeful thumbs-up, though he knew it was a waste of time. As expected, the black sedan flew by him.

  “Thanks for nothing,” he muttered, dropping his thumb.

  To his surprise, the car slowed and then stopped along the side of the road.

  “All right!” he said, taking off at a jog. As he drew near, he realized it was a BMW with tan leather seats. A carjacker’s wet dream.

  The passenger window rolled down in a smooth motion. The driver wore tortoiseshell sunglasses, her mink-brown hair up in a loose bun with a few tendrils floating down onto her slim neck. He guessed her to be in her early thirties. From what he could see, her body was lingerie-model worthy, with that toned “I will rock your world” vibe.

  A light tan emphasized her subtle curves, from the sleeveless, blood-red silk top that clung to her ample breasts, to the molded pair of jeans. His instincts twitched. What the hell was she doing out in the middle of nowhere?

  Bait. She had to be. Just the kind of thing Vladimir Buryshkin would use to get him on the team. What else would a hot and horny ex-con want?

  The woman flipped up her sunglasses, revealing startling green eyes.

  “Need a ride?” she asked, her voice low.

  But no hint of a Russian accent. For some reason, that made him even more uneasy.

  “Do you usually pick up hitchhikers?” he demanded.

  “Depends.”

  “It’s dangerous riding around with strangers,” he said, as if that wasn’t obvious.

  “I promise to be on my very best behavior,” she replied.

  Alex frowned. He could easily become the victim here. This woman could claim he tried to rape her, and then he’d be back in a cell. Or working for Buryshkin to make those bogus charges magically vanish.

  “I’ll pass,” he said, and set off again.

  Rather than blowing down the highway, she coasted alongside him.

  “Are you crazy?” she said. “It’s hotter than hell out there. Besides, I have a proposition for you.”

  His instincts had been right. “I’m not interested. I have my own plans.”

  “We know. You want to find out who planted the coke in your house. We can help you with that.”

  He ignored her and kept walking.

  “Come on, Parkin, don’t be an idiot.” At the mention of his name, Alex came to a halt, as did the car. “We have resources you can’t even imagine. We can make this happen for you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Morgan Blake.”

  “Okay then, Morgan Blake. The answer is still no. Just stay the hell out of my life.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Go the fuck away!” he shouted. “Tell your boss the same.”

  His anger appeared to stun her. “It’s your call. And your funeral.”

  The woman left him behind on a road that shimmered in the heat, shimmered with his anger.

  All those years in Angola—having someone tell him when to sleep, when to eat, when to shower—had done a number on his head.

  “This time I do it my own way. Nobody owns me now. Nobody.”

  *~*~*

  An hour later Alex wasn’t surprised to find the Beemer sitting on the side of the road, Ms. Blake leaning against the vehicle. She had a full bottle of water in hand. More bait.

  “Not going there,” he muttered.

  Alex owed Grigori, not Grigori’s uncle. Buryshkin could go
screw himself. It was a fine line to walk, but Alex was good at that—or he wouldn’t still be alive.

  “Changed your mind yet?” she called out.

  “No.”

  “God, you’re a stubborn SOB.”

  He didn’t bother to reply. As he walked by her, he grabbed the bottle out of her hand and kept going. And couldn’t help but notice the line of sweat that had rolled down into her cleavage.

  “You were a very special snowflake while you were in prison,” she said. “You had Russians guarding you as if you were a rare Fabergé egg. If not for that, you’d be dead, or messed up so bad you’d have to drink your food through a straw.”

  “So?”

  “So that means you’re important to them. That intrigues us, Mr. Parkin.”

  Us? That hit home and he halted, turning back toward her. “You don’t work for Buryshkin?”

  “Hell no.” She spat the words as if she’d gotten a taste of road kill.

  As he thought this through, he unscrewed the cap and took a massive gulp of water to wet his throat.

  It didn’t matter who she worked for.

  “Still not interested,” he said.

  “Not interested enough in knowing who put you in prison? Not interested in why you lost all those years of your life?”

  She had his full attention now. “You know who it was?”

  “People talk to us, and we pay attention to what they say. There were those who wanted you out of the way because you were causing trouble. You were too gung ho, and drug lords hate that sort of thing, especially if you’re good at your job.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “We want you to help us put Vladimir Buryshkin behind bars.”

  Well, hell. “Why me? Besides the fact that I’m a special snowflake, as you put it.”

  That got him a wry grin. “Because your cellmate was a Russian who excels in wet work, and you’re best buds with Buryshkin’s nephew. That gives you a leg up in their organization.”

  “And?”

  “Since Grigori watched your back all these years, there’s going to be a quid pro quo for that protection. We want you on our team when his uncle insists you join his organization. Because he will.”