The Final Hour

by London Miller

  “Hey,” Mishca said smacking him a couple of times in the face. “You’re going to want to focus for this.”

  Jetmir glared at him, the scar on his face pulling.

  “If you’re going to kill me, just do it!” Jetmir snarled as Mishca turned his back on him.

  Pausing mid-stride, Mishca faced him once again, canting his head to the side as he saw the shadow behind Jetmir’s head move. Right on time.

  “I’m not the one you should fear,” Mishca said easily, nodding once to Klaus as he came out of the darkness, all emotion wiped clean from his face.

  Years ago, Mishca had warned Jetmir that if they ever crossed paths again, he wouldn’t walk away from it. He should have heeded his warning.

  “Don’t make a mess,” Mishca called back as he left though he knew one thing.

  Even if Klaus took Jetmir apart piece by piece, there would be no evidence left of him for anyone to find.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” Klaus said as he took his time rolling up his sleeves, rotating his neck on his shoulders.

  There wasn’t a day that went by since Jetmir had destroyed his life that Klaus didn’t think of how he would make the Albanians pay. He had sacrificed much more than anyone could ever realize to get his revenge, and more time than that learning how to shut off his emotions.

  Sure, he bantered with the Russian, but that was because he enjoyed it, and while he had been furious with the Russian’s interfering with his plans for Brahim, ultimately he was thankful.

  He’d tracked the Albanians as soon as they had touched down on American soil. It seemed that fate had been in his favor since his contract had been up, and instead of signing again, he took his leave, wanting to ensure that he would be free to do what he needed.

  Once he had realized that it was the Russian they had been after, he had pulled back, just to see what he would do about them. It didn’t take long to realize that the Russian was still the soft idiot he had been when they’d first encountered each other since he hadn’t immediately gotten rid of the French woman of his past, not that it really mattered to him. He had been surprised that he had someone to go home to.

  When he had first seen Lauren, Klaus had hated her. She was too nice, too understanding of the life the Russian led, and more than all of that, Klaus hated that the Russian was happy. He didn’t deserve that happiness, and for the longest time, Klaus had wanted to tear that happiness to pieces and watch it turn to dust.

  On that fateful day, after setting up his rifle on a neighboring rooftop, staring without blinking through his scope, his target on Brahim’s head, he thought of just waiting until Brahim killed the girl—he’d hoped for it—but through that same scope, he saw that desperate, pleading look in the Russian’s face, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of when he had begged for Sarah’s life.

  Before he had even realized it, Klaus had pulled the trigger, taking out Brahim with one shot.

  He was elated—as he normally was after killing one of those Albanians—but there was a burning anger in him that had him rushing over there just so he could face off with the Russian.

  To this day, Klaus didn’t know what his intention had been by approaching them, stepping out of the shadows of his life for the first time in what felt like ages. A part of him had still wanted to kill the Russian, but as he had so arrogantly spouted, Klaus wouldn’t have killed him in front of Lauren.

  Now here he was, practically allies with the very person he had vowed to kill on hundreds of different occasions. That was how it worked in their world.

  Enemies one day, allies the next.

  Klaus removed his mask, tossing it to the side. When he took Jetmir’s life, he didn’t want him to be confused as to who or why this was happening.

  Laughing bitterly, Jetmir said, “The brother? I was sure the Russians would have finished you off.”

  Klaus swung without thinking, glad that he had taped his fingers beforehand. That first hit wasn’t enough, not nearly, and he found himself swinging again and again, the blows carefully placed, not doing too much damage though he did draw blood.

  By the time he finished, Klaus’ arms felt like lead, but he felt better at the sight of Jetmir’s bloodied face. Though he wished otherwise, Klaus didn’t have time to torture him for days, not when he was needed elsewhere.

  This would have to be enough—though he was very well going to enjoy every second of it.

  Walking backwards, he picked up the container he’d left out in clear view, making sure Jetmir could see what it was before he unscrewed the nozzle and pulled out the hose. Taking his time, Klaus began pouring gasoline on Jetmir, starting at his head, making sure he was completely soaked before dropping the container some distance away.

  “For years,” Klaus said casually, ignoring Jetmir’s earlier outburst, “I’ve studied you, learning everything I needed to know about you and your associates. There are a couple of things I know. One, you have a pension for setting your enemies on fire.”

  “This is about that girl, no?” Jetmir asked, shaking his head to get his hair out of his eyes.

  Klaus didn’t respond because Jetmir was right, and because he didn’t trust what he would say next. He was sure that if he had bothered to ask him for her name, Jetmir wouldn’t have known it.

  “It wasn’t personal.”

  Despite the fact that he was drenched in gasoline and knew that he was facing death, he still taunted him, just begging for Klaus to overreact and make a mistake. Pulling out a metallic black zippo lighter, he could just see his reflection in it, the dead look in his eyes.

  Never in the last five years that he had imagined this day did he ever think that he wouldn’t be spouting nonsense as he listed every reason why he was killing Jetmir, stumbling over his words as grief took him over. Instead, the grueling torture he’d suffered as a part of his initiation had drained all of that emotion out of him. Now, he only felt bits and pieces, not truly caring that he was controlling a man’s life.

  Maybe tomorrow that would worry him.

  “Two,” Klaus went on as though Jetmir hadn’t spoken, “your organization consists of dozens of ruthless, arrogant men who are only loyal to the highest bidder. How do I know this?”

  Klaus reached up, pulling his hair to the side to show Jetmir the tattooed lines starting just behind his ear. Each line represented a single person that had been there the night they snatched them from the street, the ones that had tortured him for days.

  Currently, there were nine lines tattooed on his skin, and Jetmir would make number ten. While Klaus didn’t know Luka’s story—yet—he would soon before deciding whether he would be another notch there as well.

  “It was just business,” Jetmir said again, though not apologizing for his actions. He was a proud man, and despite having wronged so many people in his short life, he wouldn’t apologize for anything.

  Klaus smiled, slowly, then flipped the top open, flicking the lighter so the flame burst forth from the top.

  In perfect Russian, he said, “Oko za oko—An eye for an eye.”

  Klaus tossed the lighter, watching it’s quick descent back to the ground, never taking his eyes from it as it finally hit the ground and the flames raced towards Jetmir as it connected with the gasoline.

  In seconds, he was engulfed, his screams echoing around the warehouse, but no one would be able to hear him. There was something mesmerizing about watching his skin charring, the acrid scent coating the air, the way his muscles seized in unimaginable pain.

  And yet, despite the fact that Klaus watched this with unwavering dedication, he still didn’t realize he had lost a piece of his soul long before he had ever made it out of that building years ago.

  As Klaus dumped the last of the bags, he wiped his hands on his jeans, watching the bags dip beneath the surface of the water, slowly sinking to the bottom. He had heard many stories about what it would be like once the person you were seeking revenge against was finally gone. Most sai
d that the joy was short lived, if they even felt it at all, but Klaus couldn’t agree with that.

  He felt lighter, like he had been given a second wind. Nothing could compare to how he felt right now.

  Turning away, he lifted his hood, not in any particular hurry since he was alone…at least that’s what he thought.

  As soon as he was facing the street again, twin headlights gleamed in the distance, nearly blinding him. Before he could even think to reach for his gun, he heard the unmistakeable click of multiple machine guns.

  Sighing with a roll of his eyes, he held his hands up in mock-defeat, shuffling along as two came forward, urging him to the black Escalade that was idling. Once Klaus got a good look at them though, he dropped his hands.

  Sometimes he forgot how uptight his Boss’ guards were.

  When one of them gave him a push, he spun around, punching the man in the gut before anyone could restrain him. He really hated the fucking help.

  “Get in the damn car!”

  It seemed Celt had been invited to this little party as he pulled open the back door of the SUV, a stupid grin on his face. He held up a black hood, his smile spreading wider as he saw Klaus’ expression.

  “Just like old times?”

  Snatching it from him, Klaus snarled, “Fuck you.”

  But the hood did bring back memories of the day he was brought to the compound for training…

  Pulling it over his head, he climbed into the back, reclining back once the door was closed behind him, two sharp hits against the door making the car start rolling.

  His senses were on high alert as he waited for the other person in the truck to talk. His breathing was careful, and there was enough space between them that there was no way anyone else could know that he was there, but Klaus was trained for this kind of thing.

  While he did trust Celt to a certain extent, Klaus did wonder who the hell he had set him up with someone that was this damn still.

  He ticked off the minutes they drove in his head, cataloguing each turn as well. By the time they stopped, gravel crunching beneath the tires, they had only traveled about fifteen minutes.

  Klaus sighed loudly, his patience wearing thin as he waited. Instead, the person across from him opened the car door and climbed out, the car shifting with their weight. It was only a few moments later before someone else took their place.

  Unlike the previous inhabiter of that space, there was nothing subtle about this one. Though not overpowering, Klaus did catch the masculine tones of whatever cologne the man was wearing.

  “There’s no need for you to keep that on.”

  Klaus snatched off the mask, immediately looking to the man that had thought it was necessary to practically kidnap him for a meeting. More importantly, he needed to figure out who the hell he was. Since he had worked under contract, he had only ever met with the man that had found him in the alley.

  If there was a newcomer—and that Celt was working for him too—meant one of two things. Either Klaus was going to be bid off, or they were all under new management.

  Neither idea appealed to him.

  They were parked beneath a bypass, the lights cut though Klaus could see the shadows of people surrounding the car.

  “Niklaus.”

  He particularly hated when people used his entire name. “Klaus.”

  The man across from him wore a blank expression, not even a little amusement in his gaze. It was almost uncanny. “I thought it was time we had a little chat.”

  He had a marked accent, a combination of Irish and Welsh, if Klaus wasn’t mistaken. He had spent enough time in those regions to catch the inflections.

  “Who are you?”

  “Your new handler,” he said evenly, his head canting to the side as though he were the one studying Klaus instead of the other way around.

  The guy was fucking odd. Klaus scratched at his jaw, hiding his confusion well. “And my last one?”

  “Dead, but that is unimportant at the time. I need you for a job.”

  Klaus blinked, his original suspicion had been right. “Listen, I don’t know where you’re from, but I just finished a contract and I have some time before I’m supposed to report. “

  He laughed, but it didn’t sound as though he was amused. “I would have thought that after you killed Rayne, you would listen to reason.” He lost that brief smile. “Especially since you’re facing death because of it.”

  Klaus was too seasoned to portray any reaction to the man’s words, but on the inside, he was squirming. With a casual shrug, he explained, “I was on the job. Not much I can do about that.”

  “I don’t believe I asked for a reason.”

  “So what are you proposing?” He had no other choice but to accept whatever he was offering. Despite the life he lived, Klaus wasn’t ready to die.

  “As I was saying, I need you for a job.”

  “Who’s the target?”

  Klaus was handed a single photo. He looked it over, focusing on the lone face that was circled. Blinking twice, he wanted to make sure he was seeing correctly before a curse passed his lips.

  Death was definitely a better option.

  With Mishca’s pending court date, along with the media surrounding him, Lauren felt like she couldn’t escape the scrutiny, and now she just wanted a moment to herself. Mishca wasn’t around as much, doing as much damage control as he could now that half of his men—along with Mikhail’s—were in police custody.

  Not only that, but apparently Ross still had friends in the police force who’d updated him on everything going on. That conversation had not gone well, but whatever Mishca had said to him over the phone after stepping out of the room, had clearly appeased them for the time being.

  Between the unmarked police cars outside their building and the constant swarm of reporters, Lauren just wanted a slice of normal, if only for a few hours. She’d called Amber, almost expecting her to decline since the cat was officially out of the bag, but she was more than happy to help her get away from all of the chaos.

  “Is it really as bad as it looks?” Amber asked, sliding the New York Times across the table for Lauren to see.

  Right on the front was a rather candid shot of Mishca and Mikhail, the headline reading: THE FALL OF THE THIEVES-IN-LAW. Lauren didn’t bother reading the article, turning the paper over as she raised her hand, signaling for the waiter.

  “Mish says it’s not, but I don’t know how true that is. He always wants to protect me from the truth.”

  Amber shrugged, taking a sip of her water. “Can’t say that I blame him. This shit is crazy.”

  Rubbing her eyes, Lauren nodded, looking out at the street to where she saw a black SUV pull up. Dismissing it, she turned back to Amber. “You’re telling me. I should have at least prepared for this, but Mishca always seemed untouchable. I didn’t even think of the possibility that this could happen.”

  “I’m sure he’ll come out on top, Lauren.”

  The agents were trying for stealth, but after the run-ins she’d had in the past, Lauren was very aware of everything going on around her.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” Lauren said still looking at the agents. “Call Mishca and tell him the FBI picked me up.”

  “Wait, what?” Amber turned to see who had grabbed Lauren’s attention, her eyes widening when she saw the men in suits steadily walking towards them. “But you don’t have to go with them, right?”

  “Yea, but I don’t want you to get involved in all of this. If they see me with you, they might interrogate you next. Call Mish.”

  Lauren quickly scribbled down Mishca’s new number on a napkin and stood up. She could practically feel the eyes of the other guests on her as the men flashed their badges, escorting her out after making brief introductions.

  Though the ride was short and silent, and Lauren was left mostly to herself, she did well to hide her panic from those around her. Being brought in—this time by the FBI—had her thinking back on everything that had happened
since she met Mishca.

  Would they ask her about Viktor again? Had they somehow found out about what happened to the Albanian mobster she had shot to death in Mishca’s club?

  There were so many possibilities that by the time they got to their destination, she had to stuff her hands in her pockets, just so the agents couldn’t see their trembling.

  After her identification was checked, and she was practically paraded around the station, Lauren was escorted to a room whose walls appeared to be made of steel, except a single one that she knew was a one-way mirror. More surprising than that, she wasn’t taken to an FBI field office, rather down to a local NYPD precinct, the officers in uniforms giving it away.

  She was left in the room by herself for a while, and she figured they were on the other side of the mirror watching her, waiting for a reaction that they weren’t going to get.

  It took some time, longer than Lauren thought necessary, but she was finally joined by a female FBI agent.

  She was tall, at least six feet with coffee colored hair and piercing brown eyes. Lauren recognized her from the club shooting—Agent Green, she thought.

  Agent Green presented a cup of coffee like a peace offering, sliding it across the table for Lauren. She refused to touch it. If they wanted her fingerprints—not that they would have anything to match it to—they would have to get them another way.

  “Comfortable?” She asked with wide eyes, like they were just two friends meeting up rather than a pseudo-interrogation.

  “Fine. Should I be asking for an attorney?”

  She lost her easy smile. “You’re not under arrest, Ms. Thompson.”

  Lauren narrowed her eyes on the woman, her next words spilling without a single thought. “Volkov. Mrs. Volkov.”

  Agent Green just smiled. “You do realize whose bed you’re sharing, don’t you? I can understand the allure, I suppose. He can be charming—they normally are—but he’s still a murderer.”