Into the Blackness (Blackness Series Book 4) Read online

  Into the Blackness Copyright © 2014 Norma Jeanne Karlsson

  Published by It’s Publishing

  Edited by Progressive Edits

  Cover Design and Layout by

  Ellie Bockert Augsburger

  Creative Digital Studios

  CreativeDigitalStudios.com

  Cover Photo © pio3 / Dollar Photo Club

  ISBN e-book: 978-0-9911873-6-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To my husband. The man who helped me learn how to thrive.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Blackness Within Preview

  Blackness Series Family Tree

  Kat

  The Domestic Crime Agency, better known as the DCA, has a certain set of criterion they utilize when recruiting new agents. Potentials must be unattached, unaffiliated, unassuming chameleons, of questionable moral fabric and above all willing and able to use deadly force without hesitation in any situation. Oh yeah…and you’re supposed to have a dick too. I met and surpassed the initial requirements easily. I’m in no control of meeting the final unstated requirement of being male. My recruiter told me upon our first interaction that I would be an ideal candidate for intelligence monitoring, in other words riding a desk. I didn’t then, nor do I now, have any inclination to ride a desk. Desks are where people like me go to die.

  That’s funny because most people would think being an active operative in a clandestine government agency under the umbrella of the FBI would be where people like me go do die. They’d be wrong. This is where I came to flourish, meet my full potential. The DCA is where I was brought to life, not back to life, to life. I wasn’t alive once and then looking to be reborn. I was searching for my birth, the place where I fit in the world. June 1, 2003 Katherine Russell was born at eighteen years old weighing 138 pounds and measuring five feet eight inches in length. Nothing before that date exists for me other than my training and life skills that created the woman I am today. I carry the memories of my parents and the lessons they taught me, but other than that, people, places and relationships from before that date ceased to exist. Not that there was much hanging around.

  These thoughts often run through my head on mornings like this. I think they enter of their own accord to ground me and remind me that this is who I am. I take one final look in the mirror, the reflection I see today I’ll be glad to rid myself of tomorrow. Severely dyed midnight black stick-straight hair hanging three quarters of the way down my back. I look like Demi Moore in Strip Tease. My dark brown colored contacts change the entire look of my face. With the caramel tan, inky hair and chocolate button eyes, I appear Mediterranean when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  There was a little “enhancement” for this undercover operation (op). I had injectable fillers put in my lips and cheeks causing me to look younger and fuller in the face. My striking high cheekbones now have a soft curve beneath them, making me look closer to twenty than my closely approaching thirty. The lips were specific for my mark, the target of my op. He enjoys women with fat lips, so I now have fat lips. Thankfully, these augmentations are temporary, only requiring me to have the procedure once more while I’ve been undercover as they wear off in a matter of months. Months, which I’ve spent living with my mark as the stunningly beautiful Camilla Bruno from upstate New York, sadly discovered by the wealthy arms dealer Marco Bianchi, while working as a stripper in one of his establishments. Poor Camilla grew up in foster care and was in desperate need of a powerful man to sweep her off her feet and plant her securely on her back beneath him. My back fucking hurts.

  After five months of living and breathing Camilla doused in expensive perfumes always surrounded in a cloud of Marco’s cigar smoke, I’m ready for a cleansing deep lungful of fresh air. I saturate myself in Marco’s favorite scent and shove down the gag at the back of my throat. I pull my hair over my naked, more than a handful, boobs à la The Blue Lagoon and take one last glance at my heavily make-up covered face—a porn star’s face. Disgusting. Marco will love it.

  I stride from the marble encased bathroom into the bright light beach-facing hotel bedroom. White linen everywhere with hints of local Belize mahogany, this place is truly a paradise. I’ll come back for a vacation someday…like that will ever happen.

  Marco sits up on an elbow in the king-sized bed, intensely perusing my appearance. He likes what he sees so much that he hisses sharply through his fake teeth. Marco is an extremely attractive older man. He dyes his hair a chestnut color to avoid appearing his age of fifty-eight and it works since his body looks at least fifteen years its junior. At only six feet tall, I’ve been cautioned to be sure my heels allow him an inch over my height at all times. No skin off my back.

  His hazel-blue eyes dance over my form as I approach. He’s fallen in love with me, Camilla. It’s more for my body, the sex and the arm candy, but he’s taken the time to learn the back-story that’s been carefully crafted by the DCA. Marco knows everything about Camilla and wants to own her mind, body and soul. I can sense a proposal coming any day now. I’m glad this will be over before I have to endure that.

  “Camilla,” he purrs in his gruff voice.

  As I reach the edge of the bed, I offer him a seductive smile and peer down at him with lust-filled eyes.

  “I made you coffee,” I whisper back in my most submissive voice.

  Marco likes a morning fuck, but he needs his coffee first.

  “Later,” he growls pulling me onto the bed, rolling me beneath him.

  I giggle.

  “I’ll have my breakfast first and then my coffee,” he announces before sweeping my hair off my boobs.

  He roughly palms one while his mouth closes around the other’s nipple. I hiss sharply as he bites harder than I like. He always bites harder than I like. Marco smiles around my nipple misperceiving my reaction. Pushing sixty and still can’t get sex right, it’s a good thing I�
�m putting him out of his misery.

  He pinches and rolls my nipple, again too hard, so I moan and arch my back like a good girl would. Descending the plane of my stomach, he rips the delicate pink lace Agent Provocateur thong painfully from my body. I’m waxed within an inch of my life just like Marco likes. The only hair remaining on my body at this point is on my head and my eyebrows. Everything else is waxed regularly. I have no problem with a Brazilian and a leg wax, but my arms and the faintest peach fuzz on my knuckles is a bit outside my realm of normal.

  Marco buries his face in my pussy, sucking too hard and fingering me too aggressively as I fake a few orgasms and will myself to get wet for the production. Finally, he decides he’s given me enough and sits up on his rickety knees.

  “Roll over,” he commands harshly.

  I quickly flip to my stomach and raise my hips to the appropriate height.

  “Once you have my name I’m takin’ this ass,” he informs me, tracing his finger along my crack.

  I nod into the mattress, again grateful that will never happen.

  Marco spits and rubs his hand through my folds before plowing in like he’s storming an enemy fortress, violent and unyielding. I use all my strength to keep my body planted where it is as he powers into me, bruising my hips with his fingers. After a few minutes, I fake another orgasm and feel that spur him toward his.

  A few stunted strokes later Marco pulls out and shoots his load on my ass and lower back. He then does his classic move of rubbing it into my skin like lotion until he’s convinced I’m good and marked. Collapsing on the bed next to me, he shoves his come-covered fingers in my mouth. I suck them clean and moan, just like he likes.

  “Good girl,” he breathes out, pinching my bottom lip before releasing my mouth. “Ready for my coffee now.”

  Finally.

  I climb off the bed and move into the suite where the pot of coffee is staying warm in the coffee maker. I pour him a large mug and then add my chemical concoction that will end this op once and for all. There are two guards at a post outside the room and a few more working the perimeter in various places. I’ll have to make this good.

  I saunter into the room and hand him the mug before retrieving my black silk robe from the plush white chair in the corner. Marco takes two giant gulps as I start forcing the tears to come. It’ll take a few minutes to get them good and flowing for an Oscar-worthy ugly cry.

  I sit on the end of the bed with my back to Marco as the first tear runs down my enhanced cheek.

  “Camilla,” Marco gasps through labored breaths. I love fast-acting compounds.

  He moans loudly, thrashing around the bed as his mug hits the floor with a thud. I take this moment to stand from my perch and retrieve my torn thong from the floor. I deposit it in the small trashcan in the bathroom while continuing to work up tears at a more constant rate.

  “Please,” he pleads through a whisper when I enter the bedroom again.

  “No,” I respond coolly watching the realization and panic hit his eyes before the last few moments of life slip from his body.

  I wait for a full minute before checking him for a pulse. Of course, there isn’t one, but you can never be too careful. I’m not a fan of the moment where you think the bad guy is dead and then he pops up behind you in one last effort to win the fight.

  Sucking in a giant breath, I scream a blood-curdling wail and dissolve into hysterics. The guards race into the room guns at the ready until they spot the scene. I continue to sob and convulse as they try dutifully to revive Marco, calling for all the men to return to our suite.

  Seven more men barrel into the bedroom, barking orders at each other and attempting CPR, as I play the role of girlfriend in shock. My body is shaking so violently that the arches of my feet are beginning to cramp, which causes more wailing to burst from my throat.

  The compound has done its job in creating heart attack type symptoms. If and when they do an autopsy, they’ll find the drugs and I’ll be so far gone it won’t matter. It’s only this moment of my acting, and his apparent heart attack that matter.

  “Camilla,” a guard named Torch soothes in my ear.

  He has this nickname because he likes to set people on fire as a form of torture when needed. He’s an animal I wish was on my hit list.

  “We’ve gotta move. Marco’s gone and we got a shipment that has to fuckin’ move outta this country before cops and shit come sniffin’ around. Get your shit together. We’re leavin’.” There’s no longer softness to his voice, now harsh and commanding.

  “I can’t leave him,” I blubber. “You go. I can get back on my own. I can’t just leave him here alone.”

  “You’re on your own here. If they arrest you for bein’ associated with him we won’t fuckin’ come for you. You get that?”

  I nod and look as lost as I can muster. Torch grunts and moves away from me quickly. As he leaves the room, he casts one more look on his boss’s dead body before barking orders to the other men. They leave the suite as swiftly as they entered.

  When they land, they’ll be taken in by federal agents from many different branches of the government thanks to the five months of intel I collected. Killing Marco was just a bonus.

  Once I’m certain I’m alone I move to the bathroom and wash my face, ridding myself of the horrid make-up that’s camouflaged my skin for months. I pile my hair into a bun on the top of my head before pulling on a plain white sun hat that shields my entire face. Thong sandals, a pale yellow halter maxi sundress and boy shorts on…I already feel a bit more like myself.

  I move out to the patio that leads to the beach and grab my bag before walking along the white sand, taking that long needed deep cleansing lungful of fresh air.

  Kat

  I pull up in front of DCA headquarters and feel a bubble of excitement creep up within me. This is my home. I don’t own anything in this world other than some clothes, a fairly good amount of weapons and some practical luggage. That makes headquarters the closest thing to a home that I have. Just across the Potomac from CIA headquarters stands our unassuming four story business-looking building. All vehicles are parked beneath the building in a parking garage manned with state of the art security and guards. Every car is weighed and scanned as it enters the garage. No one is coming in here with a bomb or chemical weapons.

  Once I park my car and sling my messenger bag across my chest, I head for the elevator. ID badge, retina and hand scan combine to allow me access to the elevator. Once inside, a TSA-style body scanner scrutinizes my person until satisfied I’m only armed with allowed weapons, a holstered Springfield 1911 and my secondary Glock around my ankle.

  The best thing about working for a small clandestine government agency is the dress code is lax. No sad FBI pants suits here. I’m wearing boot-cut dark wash jeans, a soft blue V-neck T-shirt and a grey canvas jacket. I’m more comfortable than I’ve been in half a year.

  I took the standard four weeks off that are allowed to agents after being in the field for extended periods after an initial debrief is conducted off-site. I spent my time off up in the Rockies near a summer resort town. I did nothing other than read, cook and celebrate the last of my fillers leaving my face and my hair painstakingly returning to its natural honey blonde. I had the girl restoring my hair take a few inches off, but it’s still falling at the middle of my back. Today I have it in a loose braid swept over my shoulder.

  My high cheekbones are back, though my lips are still a bit puffy. I’m hoping it will go away soon but have been informed they may stay a slightly swollen for a long time to come. Not wearing colored contacts has my eyes forming a loving relationship with me once again, instead of being dry and irritated all the time. My hazel blue-green-grey eyes seem a bit brighter now than they were before. I’m sure that’s not the case, but it feels that way all the same.

  Then there’s make-up. I went without a stitch the entire time I was in the mountains. My pores needed to breathe and reacquaint with natural sunlight. My skin as a w
hole has lightened from the shade caused by the constant tanning, but I still have a deeper olive color than I normally would. I look good now. Today I’m sporting light natural make-up and lip-gloss that took me all of five minutes to complete. Ah, it feels good to be home.

  The elevator opens ushering me into a long well lit corridor benefiting from a glass roof with warm light grey walls and similarly colored tiled floors. I make my way to the reception desk, which is housed in an open three-story center point of the building. All of the corridors shoot out from this area like hands on a clock.

  I make my way past the guards scanning my badge as I go, walking directly to the glass elevators to head up to intelligence monitoring on the third floor. There are a lot of people in the corridors and the elevator, but none I’m familiar with. We work in small teams in different areas of focus. My team’s specialty is arms dealings and human trafficking, as they often go hand in hand. There are teams for drugs, organized crime, terrorism, espionage. You name it we have it. Some agents move around within the company, but there are others that have been on the same team their entire career.

  Exiting the elevator, I make my way down a suspended walkway leading to a small corridor with four team rooms housed behind two doors on the right and two on the left, with intelligence monitoring behind the last door at the end of the hallway. I scan my way in to be hit with the serenity of quiet agents sitting dutifully behind desks in rows facing a massive multi-media center of large and small screens on the back wall. I move to the far right, my eyes landing on her before I’m within arm’s reach. Her thin lips curve into a welcoming saccharine smile as she stands from her desk. My pace quickens.

  “You look phenomenal,” Jess murmurs into my neck as her short stature only allows her to reach that far.

  I pull her tightly to my chest, relieved at the weight of my best friend in my arms.

  “Fuck, I missed you,” I huff into her chocolate curls.

  “Obviously, you’re squishin’ the shit outta me and I had Thai last night. I’d loosen up if I were you,” she snarks.

  I let out the first real laugh I’ve uttered in months and relish the vibration in my chest as I let Jess go.