Den of Mercenaries

by London Miller

  Neither of the Russians had seemed to care anything about him. That much was obvious since they were so willing to barter with the men that had wanted Mishca in the first place. Who was to say that if those men made the Russians an offer, they wouldn’t be more than willing to turn him over, or worse, kill him because of all that he had witnessed.

  He couldn’t go to the police, especially since he didn’t know where he had been kept, and with the way these men acted, he doubted the police could help him.

  Niklaus didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew that staying put in another strange room with people he didn’t know or trust was not the best option.

  Since there was nothing of his in the room, leaving this place was easier, though his heart did skip a beat when he exited the room and turned the corner, finding a man seated with a newspaper in hand. From the bulge at his hip, it was clear he was carrying a weapon, and with his proximity to the front door, there was no way Niklaus could get past him.

  Trying to think of a quick plan, he shuffled through ideas, but was spared when an exclamation sounded from the kitchen, sending the guard in that direction. Grateful for the distraction, he quickly fled the apartment, foregoing the elevator for the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could.

  Only a short while later he was outside breathing in the stench of exhaust and cold air, but after his time with those men in the building, Niklaus breathed it in deeply.

  He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, glad that he could move more easily. Curious gazes shot in his direction, but no one offered to help him, nor did anyone give him a second glance. It was almost like he was invisible despite his appearance.

  The adrenaline of his escape was wearing off, leaving him depleted, and before long he didn’t think he could go any further. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so weak, and despite having eaten only hours earlier, he felt lightheaded.

  Turning down an alley, he dropped to the ground next to a dumpster, trying to catch his breath as a feeling of helplessness rose inside of him once more. Squeezing his eyes shut and balling his fists, he forced himself to swallow it all back down.

  He survived, that was what mattered.

  No matter what else, he had survived.

  But at what cost …

  Niklaus jerked his head up when he heard the clang of a bottle being kicked on the ground, fear seizing him as he thought they had already found him. With one eye still nearly swollen shut, it was hard to make out the man that was moving towards him. Even with that hindrance, the man seemed to stick to the shadows despite the looming sun, and only when he stepped into a small patch of sunlight could Niklaus even make out the silvery strands of his hair.

  He was dressed in a black turtleneck, same colored trousers, and expensive looking leather shoes. Even with the scar that sat just above his top lip, he didn’t look to be any older than his early fifties.

  “I’m not going back,” Niklaus uttered finding his voice, scanning the ground for a weapon of some sort. If they were going to try and take him, he would fight.

  “That’s not my offer.”

  While he might have spoken softly, he had a strong voice, one that made Niklaus pause in his movements, trying to see the man better. Another thing that made him stop was his lack of an accent.

  “Who are you? Do you work for those Russians? Are you here to kill me?”

  “Who I am is unimportant. I’ve come to offer you a gift.”

  This was all some kind of fucking bad dream. Tomorrow, he would wake up with a hell of a hangover, in his hotel room with Sarah asleep beside him. There would be no Russians, no other crazy foreigners, and definitely not a mysterious man making him an offer in an alley.

  “What kind of gift?”

  “Vengeance against the Albanians that brought you to this point.”

  Russians and Albanians? This was too much. Niklaus laughed bitterly, gesturing at himself. “I don’t think I can do anything. I couldn’t even help my …” He trailed off, refusing to finish that statement.

  “But you will,” he went on. “Once you learn the trade of dead men.”

  That didn’t even make sense. “What are you talking about? And what do you get out of this?”

  “There’s only one way you can find out.”

  Niklaus noticed then, the idling truck at the curb, black with tinted windows. Had they been following him the entire time?

  “How do I know the Russian didn’t send you?”

  The man with the white hair merely shrugged. “You don’t, but you can’t expect to hide from them forever, can you? They will find you, whether the Besniks or the Volkovs. Eventually, they will catch up to you. You know the police will be of no help, do you not? No matter how you spin the tale, the blame of your lover’s death will rest upon you by the time they finish with you. Is that what you want?”

  He wanted to believe his story would be enough, that his own wounds would be enough, but the man’s words had him doubting himself.

  He hesitated. He could walk away. He doubted the man would stop him if he tried, but like he said, he would only get so far before they found him again.

  And after all he had suffered at their hands, did he not want revenge?

  “What would I have to do?” Niklaus asked, meeting the man’s gaze.

  Slowly, the man smiled as though that was the answer he had been waiting for.

  Chapter 7

  Cold.

  That was the only thing Niklaus registered for the next few hours. Like before, time was an odd thing as he was moved from one vehicle to another, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a plane as well.

  As they passed through the rolling gates, the bag was removed from Niklaus’ head, and as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight streaming in through the back windows, he wasn’t quite sure what the purpose of the hood was. Besides the concrete building looming ahead, there was nothing left to see. There were trees, lots of them, and besides the guards with vicious looking dogs, the place looked rather abandoned.

  By the time he was back on the ground, nearly half a day had passed unbeknownst to him. A single car ride later, he was being transported into an armored compound that resembled a prison more than a training facility. It definitely didn’t look like a place that he would want to enter after his captivity. And it definitely didn’t look like a place that the man who had found him would frequent.

  Soon, he was hustled out of the van towards the entrance. Various corridors faded to the background of his mind as he walked through dozens of doors as his surroundings began to blend into themselves.

  Finally, as they reached the end of a long hallway where a lone door loomed ahead of them, Niklaus began to second guess his decision to come to this place, even more so when that door was opened and he was pushed inside.

  Still weak from his injuries, he stumbled, hitting the concrete floor hard as he rolled over to keep them in his sights. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of them as they all stared down at him with the door open at their backs. All of them wore ski masks and dark clothing, and while their arms rested at their sides. Niklaus didn’t doubt that they were waiting for him to make a move.

  After a moment, they shuffled to the side as the man from the alley appeared in the doorway, surveying Niklaus with casual indifference. The light illuminated his profile, making him seem like some sort of god, but Niklaus didn’t believe in that.

  Not anymore.

  “You are not a prisoner here,” the man said. “This door will remain unlocked and should you choose to leave, no one will stop you. If you choose to stay, however, the life you led outside this room will cease to exist.” The man came forward then, crouching down so he was eye level with Niklaus. “I am not cruel. I’ll at least tell you what to expect. First, they will break your mind, then—if you are sane enough to notice—they will break your body. By the end, you will beg for death, far worse than anything those Albanians put you through.”

  One by one, the men exited until
there was no one left but the man and Niklaus.

  “But should you finish your training, you will be better for it. And you may even thank me for what you become.”

  The man turned for the door, but before he could leave, Niklaus called out to him. “What? What will I become?”

  Only glancing back for half a second, the man said two words that made a chill run down Niklaus’ spine.

  “A weapon.”

  He couldn’t see a thing, not since they left him in complete darkness, on his stomach in the center of the room. Even noise evaded him, only the sound of his heavy breathing and the occasional person walking outside the door granted him any reprieve. And somehow, food was always put into his room without him ever seeing the person who left it.

  Niklaus couldn’t say how long he had been in the room, and the longer he lay there, the more time his mind had to focus. Not on the mysterious place he now resided in—though he had had plenty of time for that as the possibilities were endless—but after so long, his thoughts had drifted from the present to the one place he didn’t want to revisit.

  Sarah.

  Thoughts of her plagued him, hounded his every breathing moment to the point that he could almost swear he smelled her perfume surrounding him, that soft lilac fragrance a comfort in the barren recesses of his mind.

  The further he slipped into that headspace, the less pain he was in.

  She was smiling at him, the only look he ever wanted to see on her face. Before he knew it, Niklaus was reaching for her, wanting to touch her to make sure she was real, but as his fingers came into contact with her skin, he burned.

  Jerking his hands away, he stared at them, wondering why he hurt. An apology was ready at his lips, but as he looked to Sarah, flames were consuming her, slowly melting her flesh away, but all the while, she stared at him, pleading with her eyes.

  “I-I …” He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t force the words out if he tried.

  Niklaus couldn’t even bring himself to look away as he watched her burn to nothing, and as she did, the memories of his time with the Albanians came rushing in.

  The smell of burning flesh …

  The pain he suffered …

  The laughter …

  The crying …

  His weakness …

  Niklaus didn’t realize he’d been screaming all over again until a piercing sound emanating from the walls woke him, making him cringe and slap his hands over his ears. His throat was raw, his cheeks wet with tears.

  He was almost glad for the sound, if only because it drew him out of a terrible place, but as quickly as the sound had started, it tapered off, leaving a slight ringing in his ears.

  Niklaus moved to sit up, flexing his arms, feeling the strength returning. His back was itching like mad, but he was thankful for this because it meant he was healing. The physical pain was finally dulling, the mental…well that still lingered.

  For a while, Niklaus had forgotten about the echoing noise that had woken him from his nightmare, at least until it started again, seeming louder than last time. This time, when it tapered off, it was only gone for seconds before it started back up again. Time and time again, the sound came to life, ringing even louder.

  He had mistakenly tried to time it, wanting to prepare himself for the next burst, but soon the intervals in which it played changed, making him wary every time silence filled the room.

  Next came the lights.

  From complete darkness to the brightest and hottest lights he had ever seen. They nearly blinded him, making his head pound as his pupils dilated painfully. For the longest time, the two sensory items alternated, working in accord until he was on the floor, just trying to remember how to breathe.

  Soon, he thought he heard a voice within the shrill sounds, and was almost inclined to laugh at the thought. Even in his miserable state, he never forgot that the door was still there, waiting for his failure and cowardice to bring him to it, but even as the pain went on, and he finally found himself crawling across the floor for it, his arm shaking terribly as he reached for the knob, he never opened it.

  A piece of him, no matter how small that piece was, refused to let himself give up.

  When he dropped his arms to his sides out of pure exhaustion, everything shut off once more and he was left to the darkness.

  His old friend …

  The door swung open, making Niklaus jolt as he rolled to see who stood there. He felt wired, his movements jerky as he forced himself to a sitting position, trying to get a better look at the man coming towards him.

  He couldn’t be much older than Niklaus, maybe a few years, but he had the eyes of a man that had seen many things. Unlike before, he was not wearing a mask. At least Niklaus thought he was one of the men that had dragged him into this room based on the tattoos that circled his forearm.

  Or was that somebody else?

  Niklaus was losing it …

  In one hand he held a plate, in the other a glass of water.

  How long had it been since Niklaus last ate?

  He couldn’t care less about the food, his attention focused solely on the water. They both were set down a few feet from him, but Niklaus waited until the man took a step back before reaching for the water, drinking it down as fast as possible, not noticing that because of his trembling hands, water was sliding down his chin and wetting his shirt.

  As the man backed away, Niklaus’ grip on the glass grew tighter. He didn’t know how much more he could withstand. The man from the alley had been right. Physical torture was one thing, this was worse … and they hadn’t even touched him. His will was slowly deteriorating.

  Hesitating in the doorway, his arms now folded across his chest, he took a moment to study Niklaus, seeming to reach a conclusion.

  His next words both fortified Niklaus’ resolve and terrified him more.

  “Do not fear death,” he said in a gravelly, lilting accent. “Embrace it. Pain is inevitable, learn to love it.”

  Chapter 8

  His hand out beside him, Niklaus tapped out a cadence on the concrete with his thumb and middle finger, forming a rhythm that only he could understand. After his last visitor, no one else came back to the room, but the lights and sounds had started right back up. He had eaten the food brought to him, and ended the stomach pains he hadn’t realized were plaguing him.

  This time, even as the madness crept ever near, he didn’t try to block it out—didn’t try not to feel anything. Instead, he gave himself over to it, letting the sounds penetrate his ears and the lights bleed into his eyes and warming his skin. He held onto the man’s words like a lifeline, finally giving himself over to the very thing that was threatening to take him over.

  Madness. He was beginning to welcome him like an old friend …

  It was like a sickness, slowly poisoning him the longer he remained in that room, but gradually, that madness turned into something else, something he couldn’t identify.

  He thought of the faces of the Albanians, committing them to memory, burning them there to the point that if he was asked years from now what they looked like, he’d be able to paint a clear picture. He vowed to himself that he would make them feel exactly how he felt at his lowest moment.

  And although Mishca, his twin brother and savior, should have been the lone person in that entire fucked-up situation that he was grateful for, his fury burned brightest for him.

  He didn’t know when, and he didn’t know how, but one day he was going to make that Russian pay.

  It was only a matter of time …

  Very soon, Niklaus no longer reacted to the lights and sounds. Whenever one, or both, came on, he blinked like it was all second nature.

  Finally, after what had felt like days locked in that hole, the door opened once more, the man from the alley walking in, along with the one that had brought him food, and a few others. Since they were all there sans masks, he figured that he had passed the first test.

  He was brought from that room to anothe
r one that had windows. He gave them the briefest of glances, taking in as much of the outside as he could, before he devoted his attention to the other occupants. For all he could discern about his location, he could have been down the street from the first place he'd been held, or across the ocean in an entirely different country.

  The new room Niklaus entered was brightly lit with LED lights across the ceiling, a steel slab of a table and chairs cutting the room in half. He sat in one, no one speaking to him, or he to them. The man from the alley took the opposite one.

  “Niklaus, I don’t believe I’ve given you my name. Call me Z.”

  That was an odd name to go by—or letter—but he didn’t question it, merely nodded.

  “How has your week in the hole been?”

  A week? One week?

  It had felt like ages had passed in that darkened room. How exactly was he expected to answer that question? “Fine.”

  “And your injuries?”

  Truthfully, they had been the last thing on Niklaus’ mind considering what else he had been preoccupied with inside that room. He wasn’t at one hundred percent, but better than where he had started.

  “They were worse.”

  The corner of Z’s mouth tipped up, but he didn’t offer a response to that. “Considering you’ve come to the Den broken, your training will be considerably harder than most.”

  There was something worse?

  He gestured to the only one that Niklaus recognized—the one that had brought him the food and water. Now that he was out of that room, it was easier to make out what Celt—a name he had heard someone else use—looked like.

  Tall, as most of the men in the room were, he had broad shoulders and green eyes that almost seemed too light, along with a full beard that was about a shade or two lighter than his darker hair.

  With only the slightest of chin lifts, Celt acknowledged Z’s words.

  “He’ll be overseeing your training. Only he will determine when you’re ready. I suggest you try and best him or you’ll never see the outside of this place again.”