The Final Hour

by London Miller

  Currently, two half-naked men were in the center of the makeshift ring, both bruised and sweaty, blood caked on their faces as well as their limbs. They circled each other, both looking for weaknesses, though it was glaringly obvious that neither of them knew what they were doing for real.

  No, Klaus was wrong. There was one rule in Valhalla: no man could leave the floor until their opponent was either knocked out or dead. Sometimes, fights went on for hours until both sides were too exhausted to move. Only then could they leave, except both would lose whatever money they bet, and then they were beaten within an inch of their lives until they swore never to return.

  It was the price of doing business down here.

  Off to the side, sitting on top of an old rusted refrigerator overlooking the fight was a guy Klaus knew from his contract days. The closest thing someone like him had to a friend. He was one of the few people Klaus worked with that had actually seen him without his mask.

  Klaus dodged wild spectators as he drew closer to the man, dropping his hood along the way. Mercenaries were a notoriously paranoid group, their jobs placing targets on their backs. Neither Klaus nor the man he approached had any reason to fear retaliation however, not with the way they meticulously covered their tracks, but one could never be too careful in their line of work.

  The mercenary might have had a beer in one hand, cheering as loudly as the others, but Klaus didn’t doubt for a moment he had already been spotted as soon as he stepped out of the elevator.

  When he was almost upon him, the mercenary jumped down from his perch, brushing off his jeans as he gave Klaus a wide grin.

  “Been a while, Red.”

  When Klaus was brought in, his identity was scrubbed, essentially wiping his entire existence off the face of the earth. Afterwards, his handler gave him a new name—as he’d done all the others he brought in.

  Klaus was Red after the Roman god of war, apropos after seeing his work. The man in front of him was called Celt, for reasons Klaus could only guess at. Personal questions weren’t approved of in their world.

  What little Klaus knew about him was what he could discern from his time in Celt’s company.

  Celt was from Ireland, and had been a mercenary for at least two years before Klaus joined their particular organization. In fact, Celt had been there the day Klaus handed his life over… Unlike Klaus, whose scars stayed hidden, Celt had no choice but to wear his for everyone to see. He had what was known as the ‘Glasgow Smile,’ brutal scars that made him look like he was always smiling, a fact not nearly as pleasant as it sounded.

  He was as tall as Klaus, same lean muscle tone, with dark brown hair he kept cut low on the sides. Unlike Klaus, Celt wore a full beard, a deep auburn color that contrasted with his darker hair. He didn’t doubt that it was because he was trying to hide the marks.

  “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” Despite their training, Celt refused to give up his accent.

  Klaus had often wondered if they had beat the shit out of him for that.

  “I need a favor.”

  Celt’s eyebrows rose as he regarded him. Never in the five years they’d known each other had Klaus ever asked him for anything. He didn’t like the idea of owing someone, no matter who it was, but at the moment, his search would go by a lot faster if he had help.

  “Name it.”

  “Spread the word that Mishca Volkov is alive. See who bites.”

  His eyes narrowed briefly, like he was trying to place the name. “Anything else?”

  That was what Klaus liked most about him. Celt didn’t ask questions. The fact that Klaus would owe him one in return was left unspoken.

  Saluting him, Celt climbed back onto the fridge. “Will do. Wanna go a round in the ring?” He asked with a shameless grin. “I could use the cash.”

  Klaus looked around at the competition in the room, weighing the odds in his head. With a shrug, he pulled off his hoodie, Celt’s excited laughter echoing in his ears.

  Donna’s Bakery. 1 pm. Leave the Russian.

  She knew it was from Klaus—only he called Mishca ‘the Russian’—but she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to meet with him, not with the way he had responded to her request at the hospital. He had made his thoughts on the subject clear, so why he was contacting her now made her wonder what he had found out.

  Her curiosity alone made her want to go see what he knew, but how would she get past Mishca, especially when he had Luka still following her around everywhere?

  Deciding the element of surprise was on her side, Lauren quickly got dressed, grabbing the keys to her own car—Mishca’s were rigged with GPS devices and she didn’t want to chance it—she was heading out the door when she caught sight of Mishca in the living room, talking away on his phone.

  Luckily, however, she didn’t see Luka anywhere.

  Mishca looked up at her, his brow furrowing, probably wondering what she was doing. Promising that she wasn’t going to be gone for longer than an hour, she kissed his cheek, hoping to leave it at that, but he caught her before she had a chance to back away.

  He placed the phone to his shoulder to muffle their conversation. “Take Luka.”

  She sighed. “But I don’t need him for what I’m doing.”

  Lauren didn’t know how else to convince him to let her go alone…unless she did the one thing she swore never to do.

  She had to lie.

  “Luka would make a scene in the pharmacy while I’m trying to make a purchase. And don’t try to deny it, you know how he is.”

  He grimaced, clearly understanding Lauren’s point, but he wasn’t ready to concede. “Then he’ll tail you.”

  “Mish—”

  “Not a request, Lauren.”

  “Fine, fine.” She was already running late and she didn’t need to waste any more time arguing with him. “Where is Luka anyway?”

  “Should be down in the lobby. I’ll call to tell him you’re heading down.”

  She stopped him quickly. “I’m heading down there anyway. I’ve got it.”

  Though he looked like he wanted to protest, he let her leave. As the door closed behind her, instead of taking the elevator down to the entrance—since she knew Luka would more than likely be stalking the lobby—she took the service elevator down.

  While she walked like Mishca’s soldiers were hiding behind every corner, she was able to speed away from the building without any hassle.

  Klaus’ meeting place was only about a fifteen minute drive from where she was and if she were lucky, she could make the meeting only about twenty-five minutes late.

  By the time she got there and found a parking spot, Lauren feared that Klaus wasn’t going to be at the bakery. She didn’t even see him through the large windows. For a second, she thought he had stood her up, until a large hand clamped around her arm, dragging her away from the display.

  “Could you be any more obvious?” Klaus asked her as he walked them across the street.

  “You’re the one that said the bakery,” Lauren argued, though it didn’t seem like he was paying much attention to what she was saying. “Is there like a code name I’m supposed to call you?”

  While to all the world they might have appeared to be a couple, Klaus quickly lost that fake smile of his, scowling down at her.

  “Are you done?”

  They finally stopped at a relatively secluded spot. Klaus dropped down on the ground, stretching out his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, stacking his hands beneath his head as he stretched out.

  It no longer felt like she was on a covert op, more like she was meeting an old friend—less friend, more hired gun.

  He was now lying on his back, beanie in place, sunglasses obscuring his eyes, the dressed down version of Mishca. When she sat beside him, he even gave her a brilliantly, blinding smile that had her blinking in surprise.

  “Relax,” he said, not particularly unkindly. “I’d never hurt my employer.”

  She couldn’t tell wheth
er he was always this gruff, or if it was just because of who she was.

  “You never said you would do it,” Lauren said in confusion, carefully looking around to see how far they were from everyone else.

  “Stop looking around.”

  “Kinda hard not to do when it’s you.”

  She could practically feel his glare as he turned his head in her direction, but he ignored her last statement.

  “I had a meeting with one of my contacts, should hear back from him later today.”

  “Okay, but why can’t I tell Mishca that I’m meeting with you. He has a right to know.”

  “Did you tell the Russian where you were going?”

  Frowning she said, “You told me not to…”

  “Right, cause that’s such a good idea. Word of advice—”

  “How about,” Lauren cut him off, already irritated, “next time you say what you mean and stop playing games. I don’t have time for this.”

  He was silent, but a corner of his mouth kicked up. “Touché.”

  “Why did you want to meet?”

  “I talked to a contact of mine, have a meeting tonight.”

  She plucked at a few pieces of grass, thinking this through. “What do you need from me?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” Klaus said sitting up, brushing off his shirt. “Stay by the phone.”

  “I don’t understand.” She watched him stand up, pulling his hood up. “Couldn’t you have sent this through a text message?”

  “One thing you should learn about me, I thrive on pissing your Russian off.” His satisfied smirk irked her more. “You should get going, he’s waiting.”

  Sure enough, across the park, idling on the street was Mishca’s Mercedes. She couldn’t really blame Klaus—though every part of her burned to hit his ass—and now she would have to confess the truth to Mishca, even if she had wanted to keep all of this from him. She didn’t bother seeing which way Klaus was going, her attention on the opening car door as Luka stepped out.

  When even Luka didn’t crack a joke when she reached his side, she knew that Mishca was really upset. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she climbed into the car on the opposite side of Mishca, fiddling her thumbs when Luka slammed the door shut, jogging over to her car to take back home.

  The muscle in his jaw was working as he ground his teeth, clearly holding back from laying in on her, but she wasn’t afraid of his temper.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Luka called me as soon as you left.”

  And she was so sure that she had given him the slip earlier. Reading her expression, he gave her a humorless smile.

  She was ready to explain it all to him, but paused when she realized that he didn’t seem to be upset that she was meeting with Klaus, only that she hadn’t told him about it.

  “You knew I was meeting him?”

  “We had words a few days ago.”

  Brow furrowed, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He merely arched a brow at her. Granted, she hadn’t told him about Klaus up until this point, but she really hadn’t thought much about him until he’d contacted her today…and it was also because she knew Mishca would be upset if he knew.

  “You shouldn’t have contacted him.”

  “Well technically—”

  “If you finish that statement…”

  “Okay, okay.” Clearly he wasn’t in a joking mood. “I didn’t know what else to do. He was my best option.”

  “So your idea was to go to the one person that wants me dead?” He asked dryly.

  She didn’t really have any other choice, at least she didn’t think so at the time. “You’re the one that said he was the best shot in the world. If he wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up,” she said remembering what Klaus had said.

  “That’s besides the point, Lauren. He wants me dead. Period.”

  In a quiet voice, she said, “You would have done the same for me.”

  He pulled her into his side with an arm around her waist, the anger in him draining away. “Difference is, I have experience in this world. I have contacts. If you wanted to do this—even if I don’t agree—why didn’t you ask Luka?”

  “I don’t know. Normally, snipers know other snipers.”

  He seemed baffled by her reasoning.

  “What? That’s what usually happens in the show.”

  Shoving a hand through his hair, he tried desperately to keep the smile off his face. “How have you lived so long on your own?”

  She shrugged. “I would say that I’ll stop meeting with Klaus, but we both know that would be a lie. The bottom line is, someone tried to kill you, and if you had been able to at the time, you would have made the same call, but since you weren’t I made an executive decision. I will tell you about any further correspondence from now on. Deal?”

  Extending her hand, she looked to him, fully expecting him to comply, but for a while he just watched her, a dazed look in his eye.

  “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

  She smiled, leaning over to kiss him lightly on the mouth. “You protect me, and I’ll protect you.”

  Later that night, across the city in Hell’s Kitchen, Klaus entered a diner on the corner of Lex and 12th, oblivious to the clanging bell as he entered through the front doors. It was one of those places that was hard on the eyes, but had some of the best food money could buy.

  Klaus hadn’t chosen this place for the meet up just because of the great cuisine, but because he was hoping to see the one person that had been on his mind for the last two years. With only a first name and the place she worked, Klaus had hoped she would still be around despite not knowing anything else about her.

  It was wishful thinking, sure, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to check.

  Celt was waiting for him at an empty table, a cup of tea resting on the table in front of him. Though he was opening dozens of packets of sugar to dump into his cup, his focus solely on his task, Klaus was sure he had already clocked him walking through the door.

  Turning the chair around, he straddled it, smirking as Celt reached for more sugar. “Got enough there?”

  “Mind your own, Red,” he grumbled, gulping down half of it.

  Chuckling, Klaus asked, “What do you have for me?”

  “No one bit on the Russian.”

  Klaus frowned, rubbing his jaw. He didn’t doubt Celt’s words, not for a moment, but he was sure the sniper had to be one of their own.

  He needed to go back and check out that rooftop. The police report hadn’t yielded anything useful, and he doubted there was anyone out there that could provide any useful information.

  “You wanna tell me what you got yourself involved in?” Celt asked, signaling to the waitress that he wanted a refill.

  “Bit of side work while I’m free. I thought you were picking up another contract after your last one ended?” Klaus asked changing the subject.

  Celt took a moment, flirting with the waitress when she came over with a fresh cup. She merely smiled at his antics before turning to Klaus to ask for his order.

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” She was preparing to walk away when Klaus called out to her. “You know if Reagan is working today?”

  She eyed him curiously, looking him up and down before shaking her head. “Not today, no.”

  He didn’t know whether or not that was true—especially judging from the way she was eyeing him—but he could always check for her another time. After he nodded, she was gone.

  Celt looked from him to the retreating waitress, and back again. “Right, then. I have no idea if this has anything to do with what you’ve got working here, but I hear Rayne is in town.”

  Klaus immediately started rubbing his forehead, a migraine ready to make itself known. There were very few people in the world that Klaus made a point to avoid.

  Rayne was at the top of that list.

  Her codename name was Blood Rayne, not just because she was pale as a v
ampire with ruby-red lips, but because she had a knack for slicing the throats of her victims with a special gold ’S’ shaped blade.

  He didn’t know whether she was any good with a rifle—they all had their specialties—so he doubted she had anything to do with the shooting, but if she was in on the hunt, that made his job just a little bit harder.

  The last time they crossed paths, they didn’t exactly leave on good terms.

  “She tried to cut your balls off, I believe,” Celt said with an annoying smirk, remembering the day.

  All because Klaus hadn’t been in the mood to fuck her.

  Women were damn strange.

  “What are you going to do?” Celt asked.

  “Avoid her ass if I can, at least until I finish this job.”

  “Need help with that?”

  His eyes scanning over the diner, Klaus only hesitated a second before nodding. “Keep your phone on. I might actually need you for a change.”

  “Might? I don’t remember you spouting that shite in Budapest.”

  Laughing, Klaus said, “I hated Budapest.”

  “Right, then. Give me a ring when you get wind.”

  Rapping the table with his fist twice—the paranoid bastard—Celt got to his feet and went out the front door.

  Klaus stayed where he was, going over what little he knew about the shooting. Without checking out the rooftop—and only going off of what Lauren had told him—he had assumed that Mishca was the primary target, but if no one reacted to the news that he was still breathing, that would have to mean there was more to it than he realized. Though he secretly loved when cases weren’t all black and white, this one was one he wanted to get over as quick as possible.

  He still didn’t know why he accepted the job.

  Or at least he didn’t want to admit to himself that seeing the Russian’s female tearing up when he was refusing to help her reminded him of Sarah. Not in the fact that they looked alike, her and Lauren were vastly different, but Sarah would always expect the best in people, and if she wasn’t getting her way, she could make tears bloom in her eyes until the person she was trying to convince had no choice but to give in.

  It was why he had always tried to keep her happy.

  Klaus rubbed his chest, a habit he’d picked up whenever he thought of her. Beneath his palm, and the layer of cotton covering it, there was a crescent shaped scar that one of Jetmir’s men had put there, while another had been busy butchering Sarah right in front of him.