Deadly Games Read Online Free Page B

who hailed from Russia. But where? Russia was a big bloody country. Family?
    None. Age? N/A. Raven scratched her cheek.
    No one just jumped onto the scene. Was he educated? Or just a lackey?
    Raven discarded that idea. A lackey didn’t join Hellinski and within two years become his hitman, only to gain more power and the boss’ confidence in next three years.
    She narrowed her eyes on Dimitri’s photo.
    And why would someone want to get rid of him?
    Hellinski would have his own men to take him out. Keep it in the family so to speak. And that man, with his pale hair and amber, tilted eyes didn’t look like one to hire a female assassin and certainly not under the name of B-Widow Definitely a woman.
    So who? A jilted lover?
    Digging lower she read the material on what was known of The Reaper, who enforced Hellinski’s hold and power. Maybe an escaped prostitute who fled out of the stranglehold of those in charge of her?
    The Reaper.
    No one went against him. He, cleanly and efficiently, took care of any problems that arose.
    In the photo he was dressed in a grey pullover, black jacket, trench coat, and pants. Man apparently liked dark colors. But then they blended well with the shadows.
    Unease crawled under her skin.
    Why?
    He was just a mark. But reading the reports, she wondered. Something didn’t add up. He should have worked for the boss longer to be this high up in power.
    Digging deeper, she wanted to know more about Hellinski. Her gut tugged as it did when she knew things were off.
    What?
    No real information on Petrolov--though that wasn’t too surprising--quick move 18
    up, no friends, no associates, no family.
    An idea zapped in her brain.
    No, surely not.
    But she’d worked both MI5 and MI6 long enough to spot the signs...
    Was Dimitri Petrolov working both sides? Who the hell was he working for?
    MI6? Interpol? The Americans? But if a Yank, then who the hell did he work for?
    They had more agencies than Britain had historical sights. FBI?CIA? NSA?INS? DOD?
    No, the thought was ludicrous.

    Raven stood and paced. Pacing cleared her head and focused things for her, it always had. And nothing in this whole entire picture was clear. She’d learned the hard way to garner as much information before the job so that no complications arose.
    And Dimitri Petrolov could be one hell of a complication. She wasn’t stupid or psychic, but something told her to watch her step with the man.
    To hell with it. Stalking back to her laptop, she hacked into her old system and saw a file on Hellinski. Skin trafficking, drug trafficking, arms dealer. Well, he was just a dream filled bloke wasn’t he?
    She read more until her eyes started to hurt. Looking out the window at the night, she decided to go out.
    After a quick shower, she tried to decide on either the short black dress … but then she’d have to wear the heels, which made her legs look great, but she could hardly run in the bloody things. Boots. And if she went with the boots, then she’d wear the black pants. Slinky lavender sweater, or as Nikko told her, slag sweater. So it drooped low enough that anyone could see she had no real cleavage, but it bagged enough in the back and at the waist she could easily carry a weapon--and that was all that mattered.
    She shook her short-short hair dry--and decided she loved her new style. At her scalp, she didn’t have to do anything. No styling, no drying. She looked one way then the other. Bloody hell, it was short. Her face appeared even slimmer, her neck longer. She smiled and slapped on enough makeup that she’d fit into the club crowd. Not that she’d visited either Nero’s or Babylon’s, but she’d been in enough clubs over the years to know how to dress like she wanted to be there either with someone or by herself.
    Studying herself in the mirror with a critical eye, she made certain her gun wasn’t noticeable. Her skin reflected her mixed race as did her black hair and pale green eyes.
    She’d always thought