Emperor of Rage: Chapter 1

I’ve always loved the dark.

The glow of the laptop bathes the room in a cool blue light, casting shadows along the faded, high ceilings of the Chelsea Hotel. These days, the once-infamous playground of artists, poets, and rock stars is now a luxury boutique hotel, nothing like it was back when Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen prowled the halls.

It’s quieter now; more refined. But the ghosts of its history still cling to the walls. It’s almost as if I can feel them watching me as I work, their restless energy crackling and humming just beneath the surface.

I fit in here—hiding in plain sight, playing in the dark.

As usual when I’m periscope-down in work like this, I’ve got my big clunky headphones on. Tool’s Schism bleeds into Nine Inch Nails, blocking out the whole world around me. My fingers dance across the keyboard, tapping and clicking rhythmically, pulling me deeper into the task at hand.

I’ve been at this for hours, tracing barely-there digital footprints, looking for a thread to pull on.

Kir, of course, wouldn’t tell me why he needs the financial records of a corporation that’s been dead and buried for over a decade. He never does. But it’s not like he’s ever “keeping” information from me. He just doesn’t “volunteer” it. And honestly, I don’t always care to know, anyway. My job is to hunt. To seek out. To uncover things that people think are lost and gone forever.

But nothing’s ever really gone from the internet.

That’s where I come in.

My job is to find the information; Annika’s is to use it. Together, we make sure Kir stays one step ahead of whatever company he’s acquiring…or whatever person he’s crushing.

At first, we were his employees. Now, after all these years, my best friend Annika and I are essentially his family. Same goes for his nephew Damian.

Annika and I come from families and pasts we had to run from. Damian’s was taken from him. Kir never had one.

Now we all have a new one together.

My eyes flick to the clock in the corner of the screen. Objectively, 2:13 a.m. is late for most normal people, even in New York.

But—spoiler—I’m not normal. Two in the morning is basically my lunch hour.

When your body hates sunlight…or is it that sunlight hates me?…the dark becomes your friend. Night becomes your day. This is where I live: in the middle of the night, safe from the sun, from normal people, and from the demons chasing my heels.

My eyes focus sharply as I stop typing.

I think I’ve found something.

Again, I don’t ask Kir questions, I just do the work. If it’s harder because there are walls up I didn’t see coming, all the better. I love a challenge. But tonight is proving to be a little outside the norm.

Kir only said that the financial information he was after was—possibly—sitting on a server belonging to Orlov Financial Solutions. He never mentioned that Orlov Financial Solutions is a massive front for the Grigorov Bratva family, one that they use for money laundering and predatory loans. But again, that only makes this more fun for me.

Annika likes to say it, and she’s probably right: there’s a massive, massive adrenaline junkie in me, and shit like this just feeds it.

I scowl at the screen again.

Shit.

I thought I had something there, but it’s another dead end. Unless…

It takes me a second of wondering why the root folder is pointing toward files that don’t exist on the system before it hits me: they do exist, just not on this network.

AKA, the files are on a computer or server at their offices that isn’t connected to the internet.

Fuck.

I lean back in my chair, frustration bubbling in my chest. I’ve come too far to stop now. If the data I need isn’t in the network I’ve hacked into but in the physical hardware itself, I’m going to have to go out there and get my hands on it the old-fashioned way: by breaking and entering.

I check the address I’ve already found for Orlov Financial Solutions—an older pre-war building in Hell’s Kitchen. Typing quickly, I hack into the security system of a bodega catty-corner to the building, and then use their outside security cam to zoom in on my target.

The place looks like a shithole. There’s a defunct laundry on the first floor, and a sign in the window of the third floor that says “rooms for rent”. Though, the number Sharpie-d under it is out of service.

Yeah. This is one hundred percent a front.

It’s also where I have to go right now if I want to snag those financial records for Kir.

I ditch the headphones and grab my black hoodie and black leather jacket from the back of the chair, putting them on over my thin shirt. I pull the hood up to hide my face as I slip my laptop into a bag and shoulder it.

The city is a different world at night. Streets that are usually packed with tourists and locals are almost deserted, lit only by the flickering glow of streetlights and the distant hum of neon signs. A dull mist floats down from the night sky, and I keep my head down as I make my way to the car parked a block away, my boots echoing on the cracked pavement.

I start the Audi—thank you very much, Kir and his habit of paying very well—and the engine purrs softly as I pull away from the curb and glide off into the night.

I find the building easily enough. It’s nothing special—just another crumbling five-story brick thing tucked away between two other crumbling five-story brick things. Some of the windows on the lower floors are boarded up. The paint’s peeling off the front door.

I park a block away, slipping out of the car and drifting through the shadows like a wraith. The air is cool and heavy, the sounds of the city white noise in the background as I approach. There’s no sign of life, no movement. That doesn’t mean anything.

I’ve learned appearances can be deceiving.

The side door creaks as I push it open, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. The air inside smells of dust and rusted metal and decay. I take a dark staircase up to the second floor, glancing around to see the space is littered with old machinery and crates piled up against the walls.

I move carefully, my senses on high alert. The server I’m after—if it even exists—is probably at least near the computers I was able to access via the net. So I keep heading up the stairs looking for them. The second and third floors are empty. The fourth looks like it’s a hangout area for exactly the type of guys who would guard an off-the-books mafia financial business—pool table, stale cigar smoke in the air, bar to one side, and X-rated centerfolds tacked up all over the walls.

I stop to snicker as I eye one of the blonde, surgically enhanced Playboy Bunnies with a spray tan and bolted-on tits.

My eyes swivel to check my own reflection in the grimy mirror hung on the wall next to the blonde. My gaze takes in the jet-black hair, the heavy, heavy black eyeliner and shadow intended to give my blue eyes as spooky and as sharp a glint as I can. The pierced nose and eyebrow, not to mention the collection of metal through almost every part of my ears. The generally pale, sunless complexion. The chest that doesn’t exactly need a bra most of the time.

“What do you think, girl?” I murmur quietly, pulling my gaze back to the pinup. “Think I’ve got a shot at being Miss October?”

She just beams her pristine white, unblemished, perfect smile at me.

“Well, fuck you, too,” I mumble back at her before I turn and head for the stairs again.

One more floor to go.

It’s on that top floor where I finally hit paydirt. The big open space is set up roughly like an office. There’s a receptionist desk, some cubicles, a water cooler, a walled-off corner office. Even some generic “office art” hanging on the walls.

I could use any of the cubicle computers to be inside their system in seconds. But it’s not going to help me. The information I need isn’t on their system, but on a machine intentionally left unconnected to the web so that people like me can’t get to it.

I’m betting on it being a shitty old piece of hardware collecting dust in a back room somewhere.

There’s nothing in the walled-off office, though. Or in the copy room, or the break room. I’m exhaling slowly and grudgingly preparing to admit defeat when I stop and peer into the far back corner of the main work area.

Fucking bingo.

I tuck a lock of black hair behind my ear as I head over to what I’d at first thought was an old mini fridge. But then I pull open the door and see the flickering of LED lights, and my lips pull into a triumphant grin.

It’s not a fridge. It’s an ancient, super outdated server. One I didn’t see on their network, which means this is probably the one I’m looking for. I crouch down behind the desk next to the old server and pull out my laptop. I plug in directly, my fingers flying over the keyboard until a folder pops up on my screen.

I’m in.

I can sift through the the noise and bullshit later. For now, I just start copying literally everything off the old server onto my laptop. There’s not much, and they’re small files. But the server itself is old as shit, and the transfer is taking forever.

That’s when I hear it.

Oh, fuck.

Voices.

I barely have time to duck lower behind the desk and blacken my laptop screen before the voices get much louder, and many different footsteps enter the office.

“Okay, buddy,” an unfriendly Russian accent mutters gruffly. “We’re here.”

I slowly peek around the side of the desk. Across the room, four very Slavic-looking guys—two in shabby-ish suits and two in Adidas track pants and jackets—are standing in the doorway, facing me. Between us stands a fifth man.

A man all in black. Tall, with broad, menacing shoulders, his back to me as he faces the four.

“Indeed,” the mysterious man growls in a voice with a slight English accent.

I squint as I try to peer at him through the darkness. Is he wearing a hood or something?

“You said you needed to see the place before we talked money and investment. Well?” The Russian who appears to be the one in charge shrugs his shoulders and glances around. “This is it, my friend. This is where the magic happens. You fucking happy now?”

“Not quite.”

It happens so fast that my brain needs time to catch up to what my eyes see. Faster than I ever dreamed a person could move, the man in black is reaching into his coat and yanking something out. The sound of steel across steel zings through the darkness, and the men facing him go pale as their eyes widen.

“Fuck—!”

The first of them chokes, the curse turning to a gurgle as the sword—the motherfucking sword—in the tall man’s hand slices his throat open. My hand slams over my mouth, my eyes screaming as I watch the tsunami of blood flood from his neck as his body drops like a mail sack.

The man in black doesn’t hesitate.

The second Russian goes down before he can even draw his gun. The third manages to get to his weapon at least. But he screams and drops it when the blade rams through his chest, ripping viciously out the side in another tidal wave of crimson.

I’m not squeamish. I’ve seen things that would turn most people into insomniacs. But this is something else.

It’s like watching a nightmare.

…But I can’t look away. The man in black brandishing the goddamn sword moves like a predator: deliberate and efficient. My eyes stay glued to him as he kills three of the men in seconds. I flinch as the fourth guy—the one that was doing the talking before—gets one shot off. But it’s wild and goes into the ceiling.

A second later, that gun—together with the hand that was holding it—is on the floor.

My heart thuds erratically in my chest as the man screams in agony, his face a horror show as he clutches the stump where his hand used to be.

“Good,” the man in black growls, his back still to me. “It seems I have your fucking attention.”

“Take whatever you want!” the Russian screams. “Take it, you motherfuck⁠—”

“I don’t want your bloodstained Rubles, you dumb fuckwad,” the monster growls savagely. He grabs the Russian by the shirt collar, shaking him violently. “I want information.”

“I don’t know shit!” the Russian guy bleats, terror lacing his voice. “I don’t⁠—”

“Wrong answer.”

I flinch, recoiling as the sword rams through the Russian’s foot into the floor.

The man screams.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, motherfucker,” the tall figure growls in that slightly British accent. “And you’re going to⁠—”

The Russian man’s one good hand jams into his jacket pocket and whips back out, brandishing a small, snub-nosed revolver.

It’s a bold, dramatic move, but he doesn’t get a chance to see it play out.

The man with the sword sighs heavily, as if he’s bored, annoyed, or disappointed…maybe all three. His blade flashes, and I yank my eyes away just as he lops the other hand off the Russian. When the screaming turns to a wet gurgle, followed by a dull thud, my throat simply closes off.

Silence fills the room. Inside my head, though, my pulse is banging like a drum in my ears, my hands still pressed tight against my mouth as if to hold in my screams.

I hear a low, slow exhale. Shaking, I slowly peer around the corner. The man with the sword still has his back to me. And I swear, it still looks like he’s wearing a hood or something, but I can’t quite tell in the shadows.

He squats down, and I watch him clean his blade off on the dead Russian’s jacket lapels before he stands and slides it back into a sheath of some kind under his jacket. My pulse is still racing, my eyes bulging wide and the small of my back slick with sweat as I watch the man casually step over the bodies and lean over the receptionist desk. He turns on the computer and starts typing away.

My eyes snap across the room to the slightly open door into the corner office. There was a fire escape out one of the windows when I poked my head in there before.

Shaking, I let my eyes snap back to the man with his back to me.

No, not a man.

A beast. A psychopath. A monster who just murdered four men right in front of me without a second’s hesitation.

…It doesn’t take a genius to know what he’d do to the one person who witnessed all that.

I glance back at the door to the corner office, my breath coming fast and shallow.

I can make it.

I shoulder my laptop bag, take a breath, and try and slow my racing, panicky heartbeat. My throat bobs heavily as I tremble and glance around the side of the desk again.

The monster is still leaning over the receptionist desk, typing on the computer.

Go.

Every nerve in my body explodes with energy as I spring silently to my feet and bolt for the corner office.

I make it three steps before the laptop bag catches a coffee mug on the next desk over.

My heart wrenches in slow motion, horrified adrenaline eviscerating me as I watch the mug sail off the corner of the desk and go crashing across the floor in a spray of coffee and shattered porcelain.

I freeze.

So does the monster.

And then slowly, languidly, as if he’s not at all surprised to hear something, he turns.

My heart turns to ice.

He’s not wearing a hood.

It’s a mask: an all-black, almost wet-looking vinyl mask with two white X’s where the eyes should be, and a line of smaller X’s in a horrifying jagged line, like a nightmare smile.

As he looks at me, the neon lights from outside catch the mask edge on, making it glint monstrously as he half-tilts his head, looking directly into my soul.

He rolls his shoulders.

He cracks his knuckles slowly, and time freezes in the space between us.

His head slowly tilts to the other side, and I swear, that neon smile seems to grow even more sinister.

It’s me who breaks the showdown first, whirling and bolting as fast as I can for the door into the office. I go crashing into it, skidding across the floor to the window leading to the fire escape.

It’s locked. And bolted.

Holy fucking⁠—

Pure, naked fear explodes through me like an atomic bomb as I’m grabbed from behind. The scream curdles, lodges, withers and dies in my throat as an almost inhuman strength yanks me around and slams me back against the second window, so hard I hear the glass crack.

A dark, malevolent presence invades my every sense, bleeding over my skin like crude oil spilling into the ocean. A tattooed hand wraps like iron around my throat.

The scent of leather, malice, and sandalwood surrounds me.

My eyes finally manage to force themselves open, and instantly I’m staring into a nightmare as the monster leers down into my face.

“Well, well, well,” he growls in a savage, metallic, rasping snarl. “What am I going to do with you…”