by Lietha Wards
Retribution
Retribution
Lietha Wards
Copyright 2015 by Lietha Wards
Published by the author. Distributed worldwide by Smashwords.com
This edition is available exclusively to Smashwords members for evaluation purposes only. It may be amended and updated at any time by the author so please visit Smashwords.com to ensure you have the latest edition.
All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Lietha Wards
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
Ryan waited patiently for the older man behind the large highly polished dark stained desk to finish. He was thumbing through a light tan file folder thickened with material. This was something that could have been done before he showed up. The man knew he was coming. He had an appointment and was expected, but he was trying to show how omnipotent he was, and maybe irritate him a little, by making him wait.
It wasn’t working.
No one could ever accuse Ryan of not being prepared. He was already ten steps ahead of the ruthless bastard. He’d also dealt with people more powerful. So, it would take a hell of a lot more than assessing looks and paper flipping to intimidate him. Yet he couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed even if he didn’t let it show. This was a waste of time—his time. It was the old man’s way of trying to establish his power and authority so he would know the consequences if he fucked up. In reality, he didn’t need this menial education in intimidation. He’d read the intel and seen the photographs of the bodies that the psychopath was suspected of. Well, the bodies that they found.
Truth was, he was well aware of Peter Nickolov and his organization. He already knew he was dangerous. And as much as the exhibition pissed him off, he intended to just play along. He still had the advantage and always would. He expected the circus display, but it was probably a little over the top.
He knew why.
He was an outsider, and to Peter, it was necessary to make sure he knew who was potentially employing him. Peter never hired anyone that wasn’t from his home country. This was a first for him.
When he initially arrived, Ryan was led into the office on the main floor of the large mansion flanked by two of Peter’s men. Peter spared him a brief glance, taking his attention from a file he was reading, and without saying a word, waved a hand toward a large, empty, red velveteen chair in front of the desk, indicating for him to sit. It was placed there alone, purposefully. The rest of the men in the room were standing.
There were tall, enormous windows behind Peter allowing access to the bright light of the Miami sun. There were no lights on in the room causing Ryan’s vision to try and adjust. For now, everything was in shadow. The desk was highly polished so it reflected the sunlight toward Ryan, obscuring his vision further. He was sure it was all done deliberately, an intimidation tactic, just like the two big goons standing close behind him.
Ryan sat down and stretched out his long legs waiting patiently while his eyes began to adjust to the darker room. The chair he occupied was a large wing-back piece, most likely a European import, comparable to the desk. It had thick wood carved legs with intricate designs and gold leaf accents. The whole room was filled with those types of pieces. Not Ryan’s style. It seemed a little on the gaudy side.
A few minutes later his eyes started to accommodate. Now, he could clearly see the file folder that Peter was studying. It was fattened with information. He immediately recognized some of the photos the man spread out on his desk; photos of people, places and significant events. It was his background. This was a file on him. He should have been surprised, but he wasn’t, even though he had to admit that it looked remarkable in paper form. He honestly didn’t realize he’d had that much experience. He withheld a smile.
Peter kept flipping through page after page scrutinizing everything carefully; photos, reports, and confidential files. He’d yet to even speak to him. He knew the man went over his file with a magnifying glass already or he wouldn’t be sitting in the same room as him.
This was part of the show.
Even though Peter hadn’t spared him more than a glance, he was obviously waiting for some sort of reaction at the information he had on him.
Truthfully, Ryan was bored. He resisted the urge to look at his watch because he needed to portray someone who was always in control. This job was important to him. It seemed like a damn eternity, but he was certain it was closer to ten minutes.
Every now and then there was an interruption of quiet by the shuffling of papers in front of him, and shifting of feet from the two men behind him. Peter cleared his throat once then flipped another page. Ryan near rolled his eyes.
At least the passing silence allowed his eyes to fully adjust to the light in the room and he could see that Peter aged fairly well for a man in his sixties. Of course he’d seen plenty of photographs, but they always seemed to miss something. You couldn’t read a person very well by a photograph.
He still had a full head of hair, yet it was starting to thin on the crown. He had a thick grey mustache, neatly trimmed. He had a tan but it was from a tanning bed, not the sun. It was too even, too dark for this time of year. His age was showing around his mouth and eyes. There were deep wrinkles. His shoulders were still quite broad, and Ryan suspected he was still very capable of killing a man with his bare hands if he had to. Speaking of which, his hands were carefully manicured. It still didn’t hide the heavy scarring on his knuckles. He could only imagine what his victims looked like after meeting those fists. Peter had large hands. They probably had the same effect as a sledgehammer when hitting facial bones. He’d told people it was from working in the salt mines in Russia, but he knew better.
Peter finally glanced up at him to see if he was getting a reaction. He knew he was able to get his hands on information that he didn’t think possible. He wanted to make sure the man knew it too. Instead, the younger man met his eyes with unequaled confidence. Although he should have been annoyed that his show of power wasn’t working, he actually found himself impressed. He needed a man like this. A man that had no fear.
Ryan purposely kept his expression unreadable as a result of five years of training and ten years of service. He sat in the chair as if it was the most comfortable one he’d ever been in his entire life. His posture was completely relaxed.
With his experience, he’d be comfortable in Beirut in the middle of a missile attack. Something he’d actually been through a few times.
He held the older man’s steady gaze, then lifted his brows ever so slightly.
There was a barely discernable smile as Peter scanned down his body for a moment, then resumed his scrutiny of the paperwork.
Ryan almost mimicked it—the smile. Peter was impressed. Not with just the file, but his physique. Yes, he had on an expensive suit, but his form was unmistakable under it.
Ryan’s poise was also impeccable—expression-wise and physically. His elbows were on the armrests with his fingers interlocking. He was eased back in the chair with his head slightly cocked to the side and his long legs were stretched out in front of him crossed at the ankles. It was purposeful, the open posturing. It was confident and relaxed. Nothing in his body language indicated that he was impatient and wanted to get on with it, or that he was the least bit intimidated. He was trained to display extreme tolerance. Also, not much scared him anymore. Even the icy blue coolness of the older man’s
eyes, that could send shivers up a normal man’s spine, did nothing to him.
Peter shifted in his seat and flipped a few more pages and Ryan already knew he didn’t like him, but he needed the job. It wasn’t the money, for he had plenty of it. There were other reasons. As for Peter Nickolov, the man reviewing his file, he would be professional around him, and unless he was psychic, wouldn’t know his true feelings.
He took advantage of the silence to further study him while he turned another page. This was information that he was somehow able to obtain from a normally unobtainable source hence the exhibition of reviewing it in front of him. Yet, Ryan didn’t act surprised, because he expected it. In fact, he was instrumental in making sure he could get his hands on it. However, he only released it in certain circles and didn’t make it easy. It just gave him an indication of how much influence Peter had. Something he had to find out. Ryan didn’t like surprises.
Peter was in his mid-sixties, a hard man who didn’t like mistakes and those who knew him, knew better than to cross him. He was vicious, a murderer, and yes, Ryan was doing his best to get a job with him. He was doing that by keeping his mouth shut, looking patient and composed.
Peter definitely liked a show. He wore an expensive William Fioravanti dove grey suit, light blue shirt and grey tie. Ryan preferred Kiton, or Oxxford, which is what he was wearing today. It was a dark grey pinstriped suit with a white shirt and black tie. While he liked Fioravanti also, owning a few himself, but he found the tailor made Oxxfords more comfortable. The Fioravanti was more expensive. Peter liked to look good.
If that didn’t do it for the older man, the amount of platinum and gold he wore would have. He could probably direct traffic with it. Peter’s watch was a platinum diamond encrusted Rolex, which he knew cost upwards of around seventy-five thousand. His thick fingers also seemed to be partial to heavy gold rings. This man certainly liked to make a lasting impression with his wealth.
Ryan knew all about him. He was a Miami council member, well respected in political fields. He was also one of the largest drug dealers on the east coast. That was one of his businesses. He was also into child labor and prostitution.
He originated from Eastern Europe, but no one was quite sure where. It was estimated that it might possibly Chechnya. He came over at the tender age of fourteen as a refugee, got his American citizenship and married the daughter of a prominent lawyer. They had two daughters six years apart though he knew for a fact the man wanted a son most preferably to take over the family business. Unfortunately his wife died before she gave him one. Some say it was a heart attack, but he knew better. It was a heroin overdose. The only thing he didn’t know about was if it was intentional or accidental. Rumor had it that Peter had caught his wife cheating. Sitting there looking at him while he flipped through page after page, made him realize that it was probably true. His demeanor breathed psychopath with a twist of narcissism. It was hard to love a heartless man and it was obvious that he’d had a hard life until he immigrated. There were reports that he was already familiar with killing people before he came to the States. Ryan didn’t doubt it. His eyes were cold, soulless. Unfortunately, he’d seen plenty of people that held that same look. It wasn’t common at all, but in his line of work, it was. These were people that left a lot of death in their wake. People he didn’t mind killing.
Did that make him any better than Peter? Probably not.
Yet, there was a difference.
He did have a soul.
He was capable of loving someone.
He knew the love of family, the closeness of brotherhood, and deep anguished grief over losing someone.
No, he may not be better than the man across from him in body count, but he sure as hell was different. He clenched his jaw to control his anger and anguish. It was still so fresh.
So, as much as Ryan disliked him, he was there, not only because of the request of his superiors, but because of personal reasons. He took in a hushed deep breath to keep his emotions under control. His eyes went over Peter’s face again. There were old scars there, streaks of white that set them apart from normal skin color. He knew what knife scars looked like, having a few himself. It was said that it was his preferred weapon when dealing with those that got in his way. One looked as though it just missed his right eye, distorting the hair on his eyebrow, and must hurt like the devil when he got it. It ran halfway down his face to his jaw. The other was on the jut of his chin. He bet this man was a force to be reckoned with in a knife fight.
He flipped a photograph around and stuck a finger on it. “This was you?”
Ryan leaned forward and looked at the photo. He then leaned back and met his eyes again. “Yes.”
“I heard about that in the papers. A terrorist siege on an ambassador and his family in Iraq. No casualties?”
“Not on my side.”
“The other?”
“Fifty four.”
“Jesus Christ.” He stared at him in awe. “How many men took that building?”
“Including me—three.” He kept his voice even and calm as if he were discussing the weather.
“I’ve seen enough. This is impressive,” Peter finally admitted. He sprawled several more photographs out in front of him to examine them better. “Really impressive.”
No shit, Ryan thought in response to his compliment. He already was aware of that. There was no need to answer him because it wasn’t placed in the context of a question. Honestly, he wasn’t a man of many words anyway. Besides, he already knew his history was impressive. He was the best of the best in his field, yet unknown in many circles, including Peter’s. It was that way for a reason. As for his new potential employer, again he was just letting him know that he could get his hands on anything, including his past. It was a warning to him that he couldn’t have secrets.
However, if he thought to rattle him a little, it didn’t work. He needed Peter to have that file. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been called upon, and he wouldn’t have his thick greedy fingers on it. Only he had to make it look like Peter was able to obtain it without his knowledge and here the man was dangling it in front of him as if it was supposed to make him understand how much power he had in those circles. Ryan had to resist from smiling cynically. Only if he knew it was censored and modified to be used as bait. As soon as the information hit the market, Ryan expected a phone call, and two days after it was released he got one. Well, he got over a dozen, but Peter’s was only one he was after.
He took in a relaxed breath and looked out the window past Peter. It was a terrific view of the Miami skyline. The back, of the property, like the front, had an expansive well-manicured garden. There was also a large swimming pool. The mansion was set back from a private beach and had a high stone wall. It was a sin to have such privacy when the scenery would be beautiful if opened up. Yet he understood the need for the privacy. Peter being who he was had many enemies.
He’d been to Miami a few times for jobs, but nothing permanent. He smiled to himself. The women were beautiful though—shapely, but had a little less class than he preferred. He honestly shouldn’t categorize them, but he had a world of experience. He liked living overseas, mostly in France, his mother’s native country. They had a villa there that had been in his family for generations. And the women, oh the women! There was something about French women; sassy, classy and beautiful. He also had an apartment in New York where he spent many months out of the year for business. He almost smirked again. He was growing bored and his mind was wandering.
“I have men in my employ that don’t come near this type of training, and they are the best around,” Peter stated without lifting his head. Every time he looked through the file, he’d seen something new, and every time he was just as impressed. He wanted the best, and he was pretty sure he’d gotten him.
If you think so. What he’d seen so far didn’t leave an impression. Ryan brought his eyes back to him but still never said anything. He didn’t seem to expect him to. Peter was just talking
out loud letting him know that he knew a lot about him. His accent was noticeable but not impeding to the point where someone couldn’t understand him. It wouldn’t matter, Ryan spoke Slavic and Chechen besides French and English and a few others. As for his men, that was pride speaking. He’d sized them up when he came in. They were typical Russian mercenaries, brutal war formed men, trained in the field, so they lacked the discipline he had—and the brains. They were what he, and others of his expertise, referred to them as; meatheads. They were easy to find in the war torn country, in abundance, and therefore easy to replace, because well, they were—easy to kill.
After another few minutes Peter shut the file, folded his hands together on top of the desk and met Ryan’s eyes, “I like what I see.”
Of course you do. “Good.” Ryan said confidently. He knew for a fact that none of the men that Peter employed had anything near his talents or his references. They were mere mercenaries, big and brainless, but loyal, and although Ryan was fronting as one, he was better. He was intelligent and tactical. He was trained by men that were a dying breed, put through trials of extreme survival and discipline.
“There’s something I did not see in your file. Have you ever protected a woman?”
“No. Not long term. Just rescue and recovery.” How hard could it be?
Again, the barely discernable smile. “What’s your rate?” he said, finally getting to the point.
“Five thousand a week.” Peter didn’t even bat an eye at Ryan’s price. Again, no shock there.
Then, slowly, Peter let an expression reach his hard face, but it wasn’t surprise. It was amusement. “Well, I’d throw you out of here if you weren’t such a hard find and your reputation speaks volumes.” He sat back in his seat, opened a drawer on his right, and took out a stack of banded bills tossing it on the desk in front of him. “That’s the first month.”
