Andrey Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CREDITS

  K.J. Dahlen

  Books for 2019/2020

  A SPECIAL EDITION

  First rule of an Enforcer

  Rage against the dying of the light.

  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

  About K. J. Dahlen

  SERIES READING ORDER

  CREDITS

  COVER PHOTO

  Photo 87254083 © Aleksey Satyrenko - Dreamstime.com

  Andrey

  Bratva-Enforcers-Nomads

  #4

  Copyright © 2019 KJ Dahlen Books

  Editor: Leanore Elliott

  Book Design & Cover: Wicked Muse

  K.J. Dahlen

  Now that K.J Dahlen is out on her own, she has released 86 books at

  www.kjdahlenbooks.com

  FREE books, 99 Cents Sales, Flash Sales and Print Books for $6.99 shipped at low cost, all over the world.

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  Books for 2019/2020

  FOR THIS SERIES

  Bratva Enforcers- The Nomands

  Book One Viktor 3/18

  Book Two Ivan 5/22

  Book Three Adrik 7/22

  Book Four Andrey 10/30

  Book Five- Grisha

  Book Six- Matvey

  A SPECIAL EDITION

  This series book came from The Chapter Story, Viktor that was written 2 chapters a week as my readers read along with it at my Website. They took the journey of spinning a Story and it was the experience of a lifetime for all of us.

  Andrey- Bratva-Enforcers-Nomads is a spinoff from The Brtava Blood Brothers Series that already has 13 books and counting and all those brothers do and will appear here and there in this Nomad Series.

  I hope you enjoy the book and the series.

  K.J. Dahlen

  First rule of an Enforcer: Pust’ ne chuvstvuyutsya emotsii….Let no emotion be felt.

  Do not go gentle into that good night,

  Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

  Because their words had forked no lightning they

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

  Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

  And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

  Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  And you, my father, there on the sad height,

  Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Dylan Thomas - 1914-1953 (Public Domain Use)

  Chapter One

  Lubyanka Square‎, ‎Moscow, Russia

  A drop of sweat rolled down Inspector Angus Aldokim’s face and he swiped it away. For a few moments, he closed his eyes and replayed the last few months of what he called the Ledi nochi or in American speak, the Lady Of the Night, case in his head.

  No, the case wasn’t made up of just that. Yet, it was. These women who’d been killed were all how you would say, women of the night. That seemed to be the motivation for the killer. All the victims had been prostitutes of sorts. Well, except for this last girl.

  Though prostitution wasn’t big in Russia as it was all out illegal, it still existed. Especially in Moscow. Mostly, it was women shipped in though from other countries, Vietnamese, or Asia mostly.

  Not these women however, every one of them had been Russian. Seemed the killer only chose Russian prostitutes? The other commonality was their looks. They all looked alike in some ways. Long blonde hair, blue or even grey eyed. So, the killer did have a type, if you could call it that.

  Bodies of women, their throats slashed had been appearing for more than a year and in the most shocking areas. The locals in Moscow had perpetuated the rumor of the actual Dzhek Potroshitel’ or Jack the Ripper being here in Russia. That was impossible of course.

  It was however, unnatural in the first place for a man to be this skilled with blades and to keep getting away with these crimes. To say it was supernatural like a killer reincarnate…was insane. Things like that don’t exist. How are we supposed to tell these people what we are hunting? A man that can do what he does? How am I even supposed to make reports to the Glavny- Chief Inspector? I can’t tell them about rumors. I’ve got to come up with a logical answer before I find myself in a rubber room at Moscow Serbsky Institute in a very uncomfortable jacket.

  He would qualify though. Angus almost chuckled to himself. He too, was covered by a law, known under its official name—the Law of the Russian Federation ‘On Psychiatric Care and Guarantees of Citizens’ Rights.’ If this case went on as it had been, Angus might have to go. The pressure, the notoriety, and the hatred from the people in Moscow… all directed at him and his partner who were leads in the case.

  This last victim didn’t seem to fit though. He and his colleagues couldn’t find a record for the woman they’d just found sitting inside a bakery with a plate full of pastries in front of her. Dead but positioned to look natural and alive and she sat right in the front window.

  Breaking into his thoughts, he could hear people gathering in front of the politsiya-police station steps in the square and tried to tune out the sound of scuffling feet and the low rumble of conversation. He was reminded of the bloody day of the mob. Bloody Monday-Krovavyy ponedel’nik it was now called. The crowd had shouted, “Kill the Police” as one. The mesmerizing chant had echoed off the buildings lining the streets and carried far up into the air, heard all around the town. The clash was short—short, but bloody. The civilian mob was ripped to shreds in the onslaught of police weaponry and armor. Shields were splattered with human fluid draining from bodies being left in the streets after the skirmish. Civilians swung with all their might at the Politsiya, glass littered the streets from the broken bottles. Those with holes in their shoes continued through, their conviction that strong.

  Angus shivered at the memory. It had been years ago and he was but a uniformed cop at that time. He had fought in that raid. It gave him bad flashes even today. He knew they needed to avoid such a happening again. Hence, the news conference. Another mob scene wouldn’t look good on the chief either. Angus was only glad it wouldn’t be him facing the crowd of people and the press. He mopped the sweat from his brow and took three deep breaths trying to calm his racing heart as he remembered when he first discovered there was such a killer in the nation’s capital. There had been so much blood.

  What he’d seen would forever be burned on his mind…

  The victim sat up against the pillows propped up on the bed, with garish makeup and curlers in her hair. She looked like a clown almost. A rose was on the pillow next to her curler covered head. The scene was like a bad cartoon comic of macabre proportions. An actual red rose in the middle of winter in Russia. Angus had suppressed a shudder as he’d realized at the time that this could possibly turn into a serial killer case. He hadn’t wanted that t
o be true at all.

  The glass in the window of her room had been shattered and blood was smeared all over the windowsill.

  Angus then stepped gingerly around the puddle on the floor to look outside. It was at least a 30 foot drop to the ground, but there had been no body underneath. There was nothing. Where had he gone? It had all been a little too surreal for his tastes.

  There is no such thing as a Killer Magician!

  The next scene was a month later, almost to the day. That actual crime scene had shocked the entire Russian FSS. Displayed in a shop window, was the second victim. She looked like any mannequin, only she was flesh and blood. Dead flesh and dried blood that is. A bit pale but the expertly crafted makeup on her face had nearly masked that. The killer had slashed her throat, then sewed it up and covered it with a scarf! Then of course, a rose was glued to her hand. It had been frightening and surreal. Two younger officers on the case had to run out as they had pitched their lunch when they took the scarf off of the poor victim.

  That scene was even more surreal than the first.

  How did the killer get in there, hang her there as a model in a public window and no one saw?

  They had thoroughly investigated the shop owners and employees. None were suspects. None of them had seen a thing either and it was an old shop. The elderly owner hadn’t believed in video cameras and so there was no video of any of it.

  Now to count, there had been 13 victims. Some appeared sitting in a car as if they were on a trip. One was propped up against a wall in the downtown square. Others appeared in odd places, all for the public to find and even trip over. No one witnessed a thing. No one saw any killer. No one knew anything.

  Angus shook away the eerie feeling of this case and what that killer would do next as the jeers and the slurs from the crowd of Moscow citizens took him away from the memories.

  The crowds were rowdy and raucous as Angus now peered around the edge of the building. There had to be at least a hundred people out there just waiting. Only they weren’t just waiting; they were fidgeting and calling out questions even before the press conference officially started. They were angry. They wanted answers. Angus really couldn’t fault them for that.

  Inspector Angus Aldokim turned away from the crowds and back to where Chief Volnoff and the Head of Crime forensics Jagar Adeleski were conversing next to the podium on the steps. The two men were taking heat, a lot of it, because there had been no movement forward in the so called Magician case, at least not as far as they could tell.

  With more than half a dozen slaughtered women in the city and the living conditions in the slums worsening by the day, they had to take some kind of action to avoid a mob scene.

  Chief Volnoff looked around, clearly upset about something. Finally, he approached Aldokim. “Angus, where is Gavirla?” He wanted to know.

  Damn his partner. Chert, could she never be on time? “She’s running late, sir.”

  Volnoff looked to the ground at his feet thinking. Gavirla was the lead on the case and as such, she should be the one leading the press conference.

  Dread filled Angus as he realized what Volnoff was mulling over in his mind. He cringed inwardly as he saw the man come to a decision on the matter.

  “Fine, you’ll have to take the lead on this.”

  “Sir, but I’m hardly the type—”

  “Yet, you are the reliable type. Da, go on and Adeleski will brief you.”

  “Yes sir,” Angus grumbled as he looked around once more in vain for Gavirla. Damn her. Of course, Angus had no problem taking the lead out on the scene, even though he’d conceded that honor to Gavirla, but he was not really an in front of the camera type. He’d been relived not to be the one facing the press. His skill leaned toward solving murders, gathering evidence, figuring out what had happened at the crime scene. Not politicking or pacifying the press.

  Gavirla had been the face of the investigation. She had the charisma for talking to people and excelled at the public relations front. Angus was definitely a more of a behind the scenes type. He liked to do his work; nose to the ground, with little interference from the social niceties and politics of his job. Standing in front of all those people and trying to relay enough information to calm them, but not enough to give away any real movements on the case would be a balance he wasn’t quite sure he could keep.

  With a sigh, he approached Adeleski for further instructions. This would be his first ever press conference where he would be placed front and center. He just hoped he didn’t let anything slip that he didn’t want out there. This was chalking up to be a no win scenario in his eyes. He would either let too much out and cause a complete mob, or everyone would look at him like he’d lost his mind. The mistrust of the police force would double if the people thought that one of their own, an FSS officer had gone completely off his rocker.

  He sidled up beside the smaller man and waited for Adeleski to turn his attention towards him. “Mr. Adeleski, sir. I was told to report to you for any instructions on the conference. Apparently, I am to be the one speaking.”

  “Da, Aldokim, is it? Great, I want us to be clear on just one thing today. What these people know will hurt them. Do you understand that? The more you say the more endangered they become. So just go out there, and keep it simple. Stick to the statement.” With the last sentence, Adeleski handed Angus a small stack of notecards and ushered him towards the podium.

  The crowds gathered at the front of the building shifted impatiently as Angus took a few moments to read over what was on the notecards. It was the usual spiel about not being able to comment much on ongoing investigations and how the FSS was working their hardest to bring the killer to justice. Essentially, it was a standard statement that could have been made by any number of people. It was also all lies. He grew angry at the idea of leaving these people in the dark, but Adeleski was right; if they knew—knew the horrible truth of the situation, it would only put them in more danger. There were no clues really, no suspects, no witnesses and no DNA.

  It seemed strange the way that always happened. One would think the more informed people were, the better they would be able to be aware of their surroundings and to avoid the dangers lurking in the dark corners. It never quite worked out that way though. People took the information you gave them and went looking for trouble. Everyone wanted to stop the Fokusnik- Magician killer and giving them a target would only ensure that more people were attacked because they resembled the character the police were after. One thing they didn’t want to do was exacerbate the mob mentality already present in the slums of Moscow. Not that they could. They had no description. Not even a sketch, no fingerprints. The FSS had their work cut out for them in that area and they didn’t need any ‘help.’ As in someone claiming to have seen some man that looked like another man. It could lead to other killings and for what? A guess, or a bit of wrong information.

  Angus took a deep breath and approached the podium. He could hear a number of people yelling; some had questions, others were just protesting the police in general and their lack of progress. Large groups were not his thing and he felt nervous and uncomfortable being in front, especially since he would now be the face of the case, something he was fine with as long as he was working. He placed his notes down on the podium, straightened his tie, and cleared his throat.

  A hush fell over the crowd below him in the streets.

  Before he spoke, he scanned the crowd for anyone he might know. Of course, he recognized a number of faces from the news industry, to include Jack Dewernki, a reporter that told nothing but lies. There were also a number of grubbier individuals in the back of the crowd; this was the representation from the slums itself. They had braved the proximity to the police station to hear what Inspector Aldokim had to say about this killer.

  But what did he have to say? He glanced down at the cards they had given to him. Nyet, he had nothing to say really. Just words that were meant to appease the crowd. What else did the FSS have?

  He cleared hi
s throat and grasped the sides of the podium. “I am Chief Inspector Angus Aldokim, lead on this case. We are currently pursuing leads and attempting to identify the killer responsible for the murder of two women in the main city.”

  Cries of indignation came from the crowd.

  “Nyet! Two women? He’s killed more than that.”

  “Da! Killed 100 he has…” The voices were notably upset.

  True, there had been more than just the two deaths, but Angus kept to the cards as he spoke, trying to block out the wails from the onlookers. He only had to make it through his statement, then he could leave the stage. “We are asking that the public be cooperative with the Federal Services in this matter, in order to hasten our arrest of this terrible criminal.”

  Again, there were more shouts from the crowd. These new taunts ran the gamut of the feelings about police.

  “How’re we to help you or stand aside and let you work when it’s you and yours who are attacking us? We just want answers!” a whiney voiced male yelled from the back of the crowd.

  “Yeah,” another voice yelled. “How can you find the criminal amongst all your own in our streets?”

  This last statement was followed by a roaring cheer from the crowd.

  “The Federal Security Service—” he attempted to continue, but the screams and jeers from the crowd interrupted his speech. He could feel himself losing his grip on the group in front of him. The heckling had completely thrown him off course, as he stood at the podium unsure of his next move. Sweat slid down his temples and onto his neck, tickling his skin and causing him to pull at his collar.

  Yes, to the crowd standing in front of him, he probably looked visibly out of sorts and he would in lose the whole lot, if he didn’t get it together.

  “What DO you know about the Fokusnik?” Sarcasm rippled in a voice that irked him.

  Jack Dewernki, the reporter, of course. Bylad, how he hated this man. Finally though, it was a question he could actually answer, but he knew he probably shouldn’t, and it seemed to pull him out of his stupor. He couldn’t answer the question though, not in this time and place. As he felt himself losing control of the crowd. The press conference wasn’t going at all how he’d hoped. He stood in his uncomfortable silence for many moments, watching and listening as the crowd slipped away from him. He attempted to calm them but it did no good.