Behind the Hands That Kill

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, historical events, businesses, companies, products, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Jessica Ann Redmerski

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole, or in part, and in any form.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without prior written permission is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

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  Cover Art By Michelle Monique Photography | www.michellemoniquephoto.com

  Cover Image | Dundanim

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  J.A. Redmerski | BEHIND THE HANDS THAT KILL | 1st Edition

  Fiction – Crime – Suspense

  -PRAISE FOR IN THE COMPANY OF KILLERS-

  "Intense and gritty with unpredictable twists and turns."

  - Night Owl Reads on THE BLACK WOLF

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  "This series is Spectacular!"

  - SMI BOOK CLUB

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  "Mind-f*ck at its finest and I loved every single minute of it."

  - Amazon Customer on THE SWAN & THE JACKAL

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  "Say goodbye to your nails..."

  - Amazon Customer on KILLING SARAI

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  "Dark, compelling, deathly violent and just fan-bloody-tastic!"

  - Goodreads Reviewer on REVIVING IZABEL

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  "There is no going back for me, this series has me completely and utterly addicted..."

  - Books She Reads

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  "5+ Crushing, Amazing & Shocking STARS"

  - The Book Enthusiast on The Swan & the Jackal

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  "These books are genius!!!"

  - Amazon Customer on SEEDS OF INIQUITY

  -ABOUT BEHIND THE HANDS THAT KILL-

  Even professional killers need vacations, but for Victor Faust, his vacation in Venezuela is about more than relaxation and time alone with Izabel Seyfried. It is a chance for him to come clean to Izabel: to tell her the truth about why he sent her to Italy with his brother, the truth behind his interest in Nora Kessler, and about his knowledge of Izabel’s child with her former captor. But before Victor can spill his soul, reality proves that for some killers, vacations are just pipedreams.

  Attacked and kidnapped, Izabel finds herself stuffed in a suitcase, while Victor later wakes up imprisoned in a cage. In any other situation, Victor would find a way out and save himself and the woman he loves—but not this time. When the identities of their kidnappers are revealed, Victor loses all hope, and begins the mental process of accepting his and Izabel’s last moments together. And Izabel’s final moments of life.

  As if his circumstances are not complicated enough, members of Vonnegut’s Order are finally closing in on Victor. And when they do, he comes face-to-face with someone else he once knew and loved, who could either help him, or make a grave situation much worse. Victor’s past has finally caught up with him: the women he has cared for, loved, and killed; the families he has destroyed; the unforgivable crimes he has committed. And now he must face the consequences, and pay the ultimate price for absolution.

  But when it is all over, Victor may not have the strength to pick up what is left and move on. Because the event changes him. Because love changed him. And because, unlike before when he thought it is was for the best, he cannot imagine a life without Izabel.

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR IN THE COMPANY OF KILLERS

  ABOUT BEHIND THE HANDS THAT KILL

  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

  A GLIMPSE INTO FUTURE BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  OTHER BOOKS BY J.A. REDMERSKI

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Victor

  Fifteen years ago…

  There I sat, my face swollen, blood dripping from my mouth, and a beautiful young woman named Artemis Stone unconscious at my feet.

  I was barely in my mid-twenties; Artemis three years younger than me. She had been my assignment for one year before this day: play the role of her lover, gain her trust, kill her father, and her mother, and her three brothers. The Order was testing me, I knew, as I sat slumped, bound by both ankles and one arm to that metal chair. But in what way was I being tested? I was already a full operative; I had surpassed everyone in my group; I was beyond assignments like the one with Artemis—it was more my brother’s job, to play a role and work from the inside. I missed the rooftops, the feel of the sniper rifle in my hand, the scope pressed to my eye, the moment I stopped breathing before I took the shot and played the role of God. The utter silence that followed.

  Why was I here? And why was this man’s face so familiar? I suppose the most pressing question I should have been asking myself was: How did I allow myself to get in this situation?

  “You’re probably asking yourself,” the man who introduced himself as Osiris said, “how the fuck someone like you could get himself in a situation like this.” He laughed; his teeth were stark white against the backdrop of his mixed Haitian skin. I knew he was probably related to Artemis, and that was probably why he looked familiar. They shared many physical similarities: dark caramel-colored skin, black hair, dark brown eyes with a distinct slant in the corners, and high cheekbones that were severe and exquisite. Artemis was half Haitian half Venezuelan, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Osiris resembled her. Another brother, perhaps? It was my second guess, next to a scorned lover, which I aborted early on because he did not fit the profile. But there was something off about the brother theory too: brothers don’t usually want someone to kill their sisters. This ‘Osiris’—the name also similar to Artemis’s in its mythological origin—put the knife in my unbound hand; he had been beating me for ten minutes because I refused to slit Artemis’s throat. If he wanted her dead so badly—related or not—why would he not just do it himself?

  I could have killed Osiris—two opportunities passed me by—but I was not ready to kill him yet. I needed answers first.

  “The only way you’re getting out of here alive, Victor Faust,” Osiris said, grinning at me just five feet away, “is by killing her. Why are you stalling?”

  “Haven’t we already been over this?” I said, taunting him. “You are not very good at this, are you?”

  Nothing I ever said fazed him much; always grinning, his dark eyes backlit with the upper hand. I admitted it to myself as I sat there: he did have the upper hand—it was the only thing keeping him alive. As far as why I would not kill Artemis: I was not commissioned to kill her; no orders had been passed along to me from Vonnegut to take Artemis out.

  And…there was another reason,
too.

  “If you want her dead,” I offered, my head dizzying from the blows I’d taken, “then do it yourself.” Artemis made a slight movement at my feet, but then she went still again; her long, silky black hair covered her face. Osiris had knocked her out cold when he stormed into the room and pulled her naked body off mine.

  “And we’ve already been over that too,” Osiris said. “It’s not my job to kill her.” He leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs from the ceramic tile floor. He smiled and cocked his head to one side, tapped the barrel of his gun against his leg. Osiris was young, but older than Artemis; still wet behind the ears, and cocky, which I had not decided yet worked to his disadvantage or not. Cocky was never a good trait to have in the professional killing business, but so far Osiris seemed to manage it well. And that bothered me. Whether he was a professional still had yet to be seen.

  “It is not my job either,” I came back, and then spit blood onto the floor because my mouth was filling up with it.

  “Not even to save your own life?” he asked, cocking his head to the other side.

  “If that was what this was about,” I said, “then yes, Artemis would be dead already.” It was a lie.

  “Artemis,” he echoed, as if satisfied hearing me call her by her name. His smile deepened; a sinister light danced in his eyes.

  It was in this moment that I began to realize what was going on, but all of the pieces were not coming to me fast enough. I was too disoriented by the blows to my head to figure it all out as quickly as I normally would. But what I did figure out was that this man wanted me to kill Artemis because he—or someone—thought I had developed feelings for her. Yes, I was being tested by The Order. Yet, there were still holes in my theory. Who the hell was Osiris? As far as I knew he was not part of The Order.

  “I cannot kill the girl,” I said.

  “Why not?” Osiris came back; he looked at me with the gaze of a man who enjoyed being right. “Is it difficult for you to take a bitch out, Victor Faust? Or is it just difficult for you to take this particular bitch out?” He smirked.

  “No,” I answered without hesitation, and I felt Artemis stir again at my feet. “I cannot and will not kill her, or anyone else, because you tell me to.”

  “But it’s to save your life,” he tried to explain, and I saw his confidence begin to waver.

  “No,” I continued, “you are not here to kill me, whether I kill Artemis or not. You have made it very clear that this is a test. You can’t kill me”—(I was pulling at strings; I was not sure if any of this was true, but I could not let Osiris know my doubts)—“or you would have done it already.”

  Osiris stood and shoved his gun into the back of his pants; his black leather jacket concealed it.

  “So,” he said, coming toward me, “you’re saying that if someone above you, from The Order, was to walk in here and tell you to put that bitch out of her misery—”

  “Your use of expletives,” I cut in, blood dripping from my bottom lip, “makes it difficult to take you seriously.”

  Osiris’s left brow rose higher than the other.

  “How so?” he said, quietly offended.

  Casually I answered, “Because, quite frankly, I feel as though I am dealing with someone of, shall I say, inadequate education.” (Osiris’s nostrils flared.) “Or do you just have something against women?”

  I glimpsed Osiris’s fist amid the spots before my eyes, and then the world blinked out.

  Izabel

  Present day – Caracas, Venezuela

  Ice. Victor said he was going to get some ice. And he did come back with a bucket of ice from the vending area. The issue I have with it was that it took him fifteen minutes—the machine is at the end of the hall—and when he came back into our hotel room and set the bucket on the table, he left again. Said he had to run to the store. Bullshit.

  Victor is a good liar—he kinda has to be doing what he does. But when it comes to me I’ve noticed over the time we’ve been together, the man can’t lie for shit anymore. And it’s hilarious.

  The only question now is: Where the hell did he really go, and what exactly is it that he’s doing? We’re supposed to be on vacation. We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves, setting aside the whole killing thing for one week. I should’ve known it was too good to be true, that a real vacation like normal everyday people have, wasn’t at all realistic. He’s probably in the hotel somewhere—probably has a whole setup in another room on another floor—checking his emails, phone messages, things like that in which have absolutely no place on a vacation. Maybe I’ll follow him next time he leaves the room. I’d love to catch him in the act. The I’m-sorry-sex would be awesome.

  The door to our room opens and in walks the love of my life, tall and groomed with severe features that make him look both sexy and dangerous, kindhearted and merciless. He’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting khaki pants and a black Polo shirt. And flip-flops. Flip-flops! I never thought I’d see something like that—better chance seeing a nun in a bikini.

  “Where have you been?” I step away from the wide open sliding glass door that leads onto the balcony, and I go back into the room.

  “I had to take care of something,” he says, walking toward me with some kind of purpose. He grabs me by the arms and pulls me toward him, presses his lips against mine—oh, that kind of purpose. His kiss is long and rough; I can feel his big hands tightening around my arms, his fingertips pressing into my skin. Then he lifts me into his arms, my bare legs wrapped around his waist, my butt in his hands, and he carries me over to the bed, throws me down against it.

  “What’s gotten into you?” I ask, coiling my fingers around fistfuls of his shirt as he crawls on top of me.

  Victor dips his head, kisses me harder, pulls my bottom lip with his teeth. Damn…

  “Nothing,” he says, and a second before he kisses me again, he pauses and looks down into my eyes with curiosity. “Do you want me to stop?”

  Hell no…

  With his shirt still clenched in my hands, I pull him down on top of me, covering his mouth with mine; I wrap my legs around his sculpted waist. Feverishly he kisses me, the way he knows I like it: aggressive and dominant. His hands explore my body, searching the barrier of my bikini bottoms, and while I’m getting lost in Victor, wanting him in every way imaginable, something occurs to me and I stop, my hands wound within his short hair, I grip tight enough to get his attention, and pull his head away.

  He looks down at me with confusion.

  I look up at him with accusation.

  “What is wrong?” he asks.

  Inhaling deeply, I take his scent in one more time, just to be sure.

  “Izabel, what is it?”

  Pressing the palms of my hands against his chest, I start to push him away, needing to get out from underneath him, but he won’t let me.

  “I smell it on you,” I say, and sigh with disappointment.

  With his hands pressed into the mattress on both sides of me, holding up his weight, Victor glances at his shirt, sniffs lightly, then looks back at me, still with a look of question. “You smell what on me?”

  “You know exactly what I smell.” I manage to worm my way out from underneath him.

  He sits upright on the edge of the bed; I can feel his eyes on me from behind as I step into my skirt.

  “Izabel,” he says, “I’m sorry, but I do not know what you are talking about.”

  I turn around to face him. “Oh come on, Victor,” I say, “don’t make it worse by lying to me—that’ll piss me off more than what you did.”

  “What did I do?” He seems genuinely confused. But I know better. “Tell me—”

  “You killed someone,” I say, slipping my arms into my shirt. “I can smell the gun smoke, or nitroglycerin, or whatever it’s called on your clothes.”

  His shoulders rise and fall along with his act.

  Shaking my head, I say, “That’s why we came here, isn’t it?” He doesn’t respond—and he doe
sn’t have to—so I go on. “I wondered why you picked Venezuela, of all places, to take our vacation. Nothing against Venezuela, but I can think of a few places I’d rather go—that’s why you shot down The Bahamas.” Stepping into my flip-flops, I turn to him and ask, “So who was it? How much was this job worth?”

  “Fifty-five thousand,” he answers.

  My eyebrows crumple under wrinkles of confusion. Fifty-five thousand? That can’t be right; Victor never takes a job under one hundred thousand anymore.

  “So then you admit,” I say, ignoring the meager payday for the moment, “that this whole vacation idea really had nothing to do with you and me, alone time, away from all the chaos—it was just an excuse.”

  Victor shakes his head. “No, Izabel,” he counters, “it wasn’t an excuse, and yes, I brought you here to be alone with you.”

  “But you wouldn’t have chosen this place,” I say, not with anger, but with disappointment, “if your target wasn’t here. We could be soaking up the sun and breathing in the clean air of The Bahamas right now, but your hit was more important.”

  “That is not fair, Izabel, and you know it.”

  He’s right, I’m not being fair. I know more than anyone that our lifestyle is far from ordinary, normal. I knew getting into this—the relationship with Victor, the profession—that ‘normal’ would always be an illusion. So yes, he’s right, I’m not being fair. But he didn’t have to lie to me about it, either.

  Victor sighs heavily and looks off toward the wall.

  “I just wanted to make it seem as real as it could,” he says. “I could have told you the truth, I know, but I did not want to ruin it for you.”

  “I know,” I tell him, forgiving him.