Recovery Road – Torpedo Ink Read Online Christine Feehan

Categories Genre: Dark, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 144908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)

A broken man finds a woman worth living for in the new novel in #1 New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan’s Torpedo Ink motorcycle club series.

Kir “Master” Vasiliev doesn’t care whether he lives or dies. He’s a burnt-out shell with no one and nothing but his club. Whatever Torpedo Ink needs, Master will put himself in harm’s way time after time. If he doesn’t make it back, he’s certain everyone will move on just fine.

Investment banker Ambrielle Moore knows her own mind, and she’s not willing to settle for anyone. So when a second-rate gangster and his thugs try to coerce her into marriage—and giving up all of her family’s money—she’s having none of it. Until they turn to cold-blooded murder.

Grieving and enraged, Ambrie is ready to go scorched earth on her captors when Master shows up anticipating a damsel in distress. But Ambrie is nothing like he expected, and everything he never knew he desired.

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Viktor Prakenskii aka Czar—President

Lyov Russak aka Steele—Vice President

Savva Pajari aka Reaper—Sergeant at Arms

Savin Pajari aka Savage—Sergeant at Arms

Isaak Koval aka Ice—Secretary

Dmitry Koval aka Storm

Alena Koval aka Torch

Luca Litvin aka Code—Hacker

Maksimos Korsak aka Ink

Kasimir Popov aka Preacher

Lana Popov aka Widow

Nikolaos Bolotan aka Mechanic

Pytor Bolotan aka Transporter

Andrii Federoff aka Maestro

Gedeon Lazaroff aka Player

Kir Vasiliev aka Master—Treasurer

Lazar Alexeev aka Keys

Aleksei Solokov aka Absinthe

Rurik Volkov aka Razrushitel/Destroyer


Gavriil Prakenskii

Casimir Prakenskii

Fatei Molchalin





Viktor (Czar), Gavriil and Casimir

Reaper and Savage

Mechanic and Transporter

Ice, Storm and Alena (Torch)

Preacher and Lana (Widow)


Czar heads Team One

Reaper, Savage, Ice, Storm, Transporter, Alena, Absinthe, Mechanic, Destroyer

Steele heads Team Two

Keys, Master, Player, Maestro, Lana, Preacher, Ink, Code


Blythe, Lissa, Lexi, Anya, Breezy, Soleil, Scarlet, Zyah, Seychelle


Everyone had a breaking point. Everyone. Kir “Master” Vasiliev was well aware he had been past that point when he agreed to take the assignment. He never should have done it. Burning out when behind bars with no backup was a bad idea, especially if he didn’t give a fuck whether he lived or died—which he didn’t.

The only reason he didn’t kill the two guards and the four prisoners right then and there was because he had a job to do, and he never let a job go unfinished. That was drilled into him. His club, Torpedo Ink, needed the intelligence, and he had been given the assignment to get the information and then kill the four men who had threatened their president and his family. That meant the two dirty guards who were involved with them had to die as well.

The eighteen charter members of Torpedo Ink had grown up together in a place loosely called a “school” in Russia. Their parents had been murdered by a powerful man named Kostya Sorbacov. He took the children of his political enemies and placed them in one of four schools supposedly to become assets for their country. That was true of three of the four schools, although all of them were brutal.

The fourth school was located far from the city, where the criminally insane prisoners—the ones the government refused to acknowledge existed—were housed. Pedophiles. Rapists. Serial killers. These were men and women Sorbacov utilized as the instructors for the children in the fourth school. Supposedly the children were to become assassins—assets for their country. What they really were, were playthings—toys for Sorbacov and his friends. Over twenty years, two hundred eighty-nine children entered that school. Only nineteen survived.

Destroyer, the nineteenth survivor, had recently found his way to them and joined Torpedo Ink. Like Master, Destroyer knew his way around prisons, but Master had been trained to take these missions from a young age, and Torpedo Ink relied on him. Of all the members, he was the only one with a record in their new country. They all had impeccable paperwork, thanks to Code. Even Master’s prison records were mostly manufactured. Still, the fact that he was officially dirty, when the rest of his club was officially clean, set him apart. Only Destroyer would understand that concept.

Torpedo Ink now spent a good deal of their time hunting pedophiles and those running human trafficking rings. None of them could ever live normal lives after what had been done to them as children, teens and young men and women. To survive, they had turned their bodies into weapons and developed what others might refer to as psychic talents. Czar had explained that he believed everyone had talents, they just didn’t have to use them so they never worked at making them strong. The members of Torpedo Ink had started as young children to practice in those long, endless days and nights in the basement of their hideous torture school.

Master was positive the cameras in the laundry room where the guards had brought him had been turned off. After all, the guards wouldn’t want it to be caught on film if the four prisoners about to beat the shit out of him accidentally killed him. Still, that didn’t stop him from making certain the cameras weren’t working. He wasn’t about to take any chances. He never did. That was what kept him from ever getting caught.

Master had been sure to offend these specific prisoners several times in the yard that afternoon, even after he’d been warned. He’d done it out of anyone’s hearing so that when the prisoners and the guards were found dead in the morning, and he was back in his cell, no one would think to connect him with the bodies. That was always key in this kind of mission. As the primary assassin, you were never caught with the target, not by anyone. There was nothing to connect you to the death. If you had to draw attention to yourself to get put into solitary, you picked a fight with some other prisoner, not the target.