Den of Mercenaries

by London Miller

  “Dead, but that isn’t of any importance. I need you for a job.”

  What the actual fuck?

  Z was dead?

  How the hell hadn’t he heard considering word got around quick enough when someone bit the bullet. He was tempted to ask the man how it had all went down, but with one look at him, he thought better of it, figuring the man wouldn’t be revealing details.

  “Listen. I don’t know where you’re from, but I just finished a contract and I have some down time before I need to report in. Catch me later.” By that time, Niklaus would be gone and almost impossible to track down. While he didn’t mind his job on the best of days, one meeting with this guy told him that they were not going to get along.

  The man laughed, though it didn’t sound amused in the slightest. “I would have thought that after you killed Rayne, you might be a little more inclined to listen to reason.”

  Shit.

  That’s what he got for helping the Russian with a problem. Having come back to New York City to settle the score, he hadn’t thought it would get him here. He remembered that day well.

  Trailing the Russian, waiting for the perfect moment to put a bullet in his head. There had never been much love between them—it was only a touch better now—and though the thought of killing him hadn’t fazed Niklaus in the slightest. It was only after he was staring through the scope of his rifle at Brahim Besnik—the brother of the man that was at the bottom of the river by now—and the girl he held at gunpoint did Niklaus feel a shift.

  He had hesitated, and to this day, he didn’t know why, but ultimately, he had ended up putting a bullet meant for the Russian into Brahim instead, effectively saving the girl and putting an end to a problem he hadn’t known about.

  It was for that same girl, Lauren, who was now married to the Russian, that he had killed a fellow mercenary, one that hadn’t been in his organization, but one nonetheless. While there were no alliances in their trade, it was frowned upon to take out the competition. But Niklaus hadn’t been thinking of that when he saved Lauren’s life.

  Even after all these years, the Russian was still fucking up his life.

  But more curious was the fact that the man knew that it was Niklaus that had taken her out. It wasn’t like he was sharing that information, and he doubted Celt would have told anyone.

  So how did he know?

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

  “Interesting. I don’t believe I asked for an excuse,” the man said with a lift of his brow.

  Niklaus really fucking hated arrogant people like him, especially when they had some power over him. Despite the risks and dangers of the life he lived, he wasn’t ready to die, so turning down this assignment was obviously not an option.

  “Who’s the target?”

  Niklaus was handed a single photo, and once he looked it over, focusing on the lone face circled in red ink, he cursed under his breath.

  Maybe death was a better option.

  Not because the particular individual featured there terrified him in any way, quite the opposite in fact, but because of how heavily guarded he was at all times, especially when he was back in his home country.

  Russia was notorious for protecting their own, even if the one they were protecting was a Bratva boss … or maybe it was because he was a Bratva boss that they felt the need to protect him.

  The last thing on his mind, however, was the fact that the man was connected to him.

  “How much, and how do you want it?”

  “You misunderstand. I don’t need him dead—though what you choose to do with him after is entirely up to you.” The man rested one hand on his leg, tapping his thumb against his thigh as he seemed to contemplate what he would say next. “Six months ago, he brokered a deal that garnered him around seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I need the name of the man behind the deal.”

  “Right.” Sounded simple enough, but what Niklaus didn’t understand was why all the extra drama?

  “And I’ll need this handled quietly. If you require assistance, only look to those within the Den. If anyone stands in your way, kill them.”

  Niklaus didn’t offer a response to that, but did raise his gaze so he could look at the man. Though mostly concealed by shadows, Niklaus could see that he was young, much younger than Z had been, but definitely older than Niklaus. Late twenties to early thirties? Light hair—strawberry-blond maybe?—cold gray eyes. He looked like any other rich bastard with a taste for violence. But Niklaus could tell there was something more to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “What do I call you?”

  The door to the Escalade was opened suddenly, letting in the cold night air, signaling that it was time for Niklaus to leave, but as he readied to do just that, believing that he wouldn’t get an answer to his question, the man spoke.

  “You can call me The Kingmaker.”

  Chapter 16

  Present Day

  “Kill the gate.”

  Niklaus issued the command seconds after he and Celt dropped off the back of the speeding truck, its hulking frame still carrying on down the road even as they moved towards the reinforced iron gate that surrounded the massive property they meant to infiltrate. In seconds, there was an audible click as the lock disengaged, the rolling gate shifting open just far enough for Niklaus and Celt to slip inside, closing again once they were on the other side.

  Thousands of miles away, one of his associates, Winter—who was more of an outside contractor since she wasn’t officially part of the Den—sat behind a laptop, having already hacked into the mainframe of the security system for this particular estate, waiting for her next instructions.

  While Niklaus didn’t usually like hackers—they could wield far too much power with only a keyboard—he needed Winter for this assignment, especially if he wanted to get them out of Russia alive within the hour.

  Mikhail Volkov might have been the former head of a vast criminal organization, but he still possessed a lot of power and influence, and there was also the number of corrupt politicians in his pocket. With a single phone call, he could have the property surrounded in minutes—and the last thing Niklaus wanted was to spend the next thirty years locked in a gulag fighting for his life against prisoners and guards alike.

  They already had one former member trapped in one with no way to get him out … yet.

  “You have twenty minutes to get in and out, Red,” Winter said over the earpiece they all wore. “Your plane leaves in forty-five minutes. If you’re not there when it takes off, you’re in deep shit.”

  Red.

  For the last seven years, that had been his new name, the one he had earned through bloodshed and relentless work. Nowadays, outside a select number of people in New York City, that was the only name he answered to.

  It wasn’t just a title. It was an embodiment of everything he had become.

  Whenever he heard it, he could feel the almost phantom burn of the branding iron that had been used on him, a reminder of the life he had given up for everything he had gained—a reminder that he was no longer a scared boy.

  They all bore the brand somewhere, but only Niklaus wore his on his neck for all to see.

  Palming his Glock, he headed for the monstrosity of a house that loomed just ahead, Celt at his heels.

  Dressed all in black—as was his custom—with a beanie covering his hair, and a mask concealing his face, he blended into the night, remaining unnoticed even as he came upon the first few guards.

  There were three that patrolled the front, all carrying assault rifles, and all of which were trigger happy and more than willing to shoot first rather than ask who they were. With the slightest of gestures from Niklaus, Celt moved around the house, going for the last two that were waiting on the other side.

  Making sure Celt was clear first
, Niklaus took a moment to screw on the silencer, waiting until Celt was out of sight before he aimed at the first guard. The man had paused in his check of the grounds to reach for his phone. Before he had the chance to answer, however, Niklaus pulled the trigger, exhaling after the bullet exploded through the chamber and imbedded itself in the man’s forehead.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Silently, Niklaus jogged over to the man, relieving him of the walkie-talkie that was clipped to his belt, then dragged his body towards the bushes, keeping him out of sight.

  Thirty seconds later, the other two were dead as well.

  For months, Niklaus had studied the security and their protocol, making sure that when this day came, his task would go off seamlessly. Of course, all the training in the world couldn’t account for human error. That was why Niklaus usually preferred jobs where he was on the other end of a sniper’s rifle, and could handle things from a distance.

  Up close and personal? He saved that for people that had crossed him.

  But when it came to this particular job, he hadn’t had a choice. And, whether he wanted to admit it or not, this one was personal as well.

  The guards outside were the easiest, they were too spaced out for there to have been much of a problem, but inside, there were at least seven more on the ground floor alone, and another four guarding the floor where Mikhail’s office was. He could just see movement out of the corner of his eye, but then there was a flash, and nothing more.

  “I’ve got it covered,” Celt said, his voice scratchy and slightly out of breath.

  Nodding, though he couldn’t be seen, Niklaus went on to the stairs, slowly moving up as he kept his gun at the ready. The first man to appear took two shots to the chest. The sound of his body hitting the floor brought the other two running, but before either could register what happened, they were down as well.

  The threat neutralized, Niklaus holstered his weapon and headed for the office, stepping over the bodies that blocked his way. Once he was inside with the door closed behind him, he took a breath.

  Obviously surprising the man seated behind the sturdy looking desk, he touched a finger to his ear. “Cut the power.”

  Not even a minute later, it was done.

  Mikhail Volkov hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to hit the panic button that was on the underside of his desk.

  While he was nearing seventy, Mikhail didn’t look his age. If anything, he looked closer to his mid-forties thanks to his size and dark hair that was liberally sprinkled with gray, a little more since the last time Niklaus had seen him. There was no trace of fear in his eyes as he glared at Niklaus, his hands twitching with the need to reach for the gun Niklaus knew was sitting in the top right-hand drawer.

  But even he had to know that Niklaus would get a shot off before he could even touch the wood.

  “Who sent you?”

  Niklaus didn’t answer, not right away. The plan was to get in, get the information, and get out, but now … Niklaus had other plans.

  After all, this was the last time he would ever see the man.

  Making a split decision, Niklaus reached up with a gloved hand, shoving his mask off his face to the top of his head. While the man might not have vocalized a response to seeing Niklaus’ face, his eyes gave him away.

  He sat back with a slight smile, seeming pleased with the mercenary standing across from him. “Hello, Niklaus.”

  “You didn’t mistake me for Mishca? I’m touched.” It wasn’t like the two simply resembled each other, they were twins. And since he had done the Russian a favor not too long ago that involved him acting the part of club owner, Niklaus had grown out his hair and beard to the point that it was nearly impossible to tell them apart.

  “I believe I would know the son I raised.”

  If that was supposed to be a jab at Niklaus, Mikhail would have to do better than that. Mikhail was no more Niklaus’ father than the Russian was his brother. He had gone twenty-one years without knowing either of them existed, and though he had developed a relationship of sorts with the Russian over the last three, nothing had really changed for him. Not really. He was still as bitter as he had always been.

  When Mikhail’s eyes skirted to the door, Niklaus merely shook his head, helping himself to one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  “All of them?” Mikhail asked, surprise clear in his tone.

  “I needed your full attention and interruptions only piss me off.”

  That wasn’t necessarily true. He could have left them incapacitated, but it only took one waking up before he was meant to cut this meeting short.

  “I should have guessed it would be you,” Mikhail said after he focused his attention back on Niklaus. “Despite my son’s hatred for me, he would never pull the trigger himself. Tell me, how much is he paying you for this?”

  “He’s not.”

  “Does he know you are here?”

  Niklaus shrugged. Whether he did or didn’t, it no longer mattered. Ignoring his question, he instead said, “This isn’t personal.”

  “No? Then tell me, who wishes me dead?”

  “Came for a name,” he said in lieu of an answer.

  “And you believe I’m willing to hand this over?”

  Russians were notorious for their codes of silence, but Niklaus doubted Mikhail was going to make this difficult for him. As he had implied, Mishca might not have been willing to pull the trigger, but Niklaus would.

  Tapping his gun against the desk, Niklaus asked, “What choice do you have?”

  “What name are you looking for?”

  “A year and a half ago, you brokered a deal that moved two containers worth of guns and explosives. I need to know who you brokered that deal for.”

  Mikhail frowned, his bushy eyebrows bunching together. “This is what you threaten me for?”

  Once again, Niklaus shrugged.

  He hadn’t understood the need for all of this either. The Kingmaker, as he had officially been dubbed, had seemed pretty resourceful. It wouldn’t surprise Niklaus if he had walked in here on his own and demanded the information. Why send Niklaus to do it?

  “The McCarthy family.”

  “And …”

  “I cannot say who paid for the merchandise. I had product, the McCarthys had a buyer, that is all I know. Perhaps you should tell the man that holds your leash if he wants to find the man he seeks, to get the name from them.”

  “You made a deal and didn’t know your buyer?” Niklaus asked, forgetting about his assignment for the moment. “Seems kind of reckless … even for you.”

  “And yet I have managed to remove myself from whomever it was that sent you to me. Had I known the name, I’m curious to know what would have become of me?”

  “You’re running out of time, Red,” Winter said in his ear.

  It was fine. He had the information he needed…but in case he was lying … “Open the safe.”

  “What safe?”

  Mikhail couldn’t sound any more like he was lying than just then. “The safe where you keep your accounting records. Open it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  Niklaus didn’t give him a chance to finish that statement. He shot him in the shoulder. “I won’t ask again.”

  “Suka!”

  Niklaus smiled. “No, I haven’t been someone’s bitch in a long time. So either open her up, or I’ll put another bullet in you and watch the dust come out.”

  Shuffling over to a painting on the wall, one hand to his bleeding wound, Mikhail moved it to the side stumbling through putting in the code and finally getting it open. He grabbed the heavy looking book that was inside, tossing it at Niklaus’ feet.

  “There. Now get the fuck out of my home.”

  That had been the plan. But now that he was staring at the man he hadn’t seen since he was surveying the Russian, a different kind of emotion swam through him. One that he had grown all too familiar with.

  Like his arm was not hi
s own, he raised his gun, seeing the dawning realization in Mikhail’s eyes.

  “Seven years ago, Jetmir Besnik and his crew snatched me and someone I cared about off the street because they thought I was one of you. Sarah? She was just collateral damage. But, me? They wanted to make me bleed, and for three days, they did. On that third day, Jetmir set Sarah on fire … but I’m sure you already know this considering you struck a deal with the lot of them.”

  “And I hear you’ve taken your revenge, no? The Besnik family is no more. You should be appeased.”

  Niklaus shook his head, stepping forward so that he was close enough to Mikhail to see the look in his eyes. “Is the man who leads the lamb to slaughter not just as guilty as the man who slits its throat? I know the part you played in it all, Mikhail.”

  Mikhail shook his head frantically, still in disbelief. “Mishca wou—”

  “Mishca sends his regards,” Niklaus said as he pulled the trigger, leaving the man to bleed out on the polished wood floors.

  Niklaus hated New York City and everything it stood for.

  It was portrayed as such a glamorous place, one where people would kill to be, but his first introduction to the city left him resenting the very name.

  How long had it been since he was last here?

  Not that long, maybe a year at most—which also happened to be the last time he was on US soil at all—when Lauren gave birth. Despite his attitude towards the Russian, he still made it a point to be there when he was needed.

  But when he had called The Kingmaker with an update, the man had wasted no time in giving him a location, and instructing him to go to the one place Niklaus had been trying to avoid.

  It was what it was.

  Before the meet, he stopped by a storage unit he kept in Brooklyn, unlocking and lifting the garage door, smiling at his baby inside.

  If there was one thing he missed, it was definitely his car. It had taken a few years and a hell of a lot of money to get her back in running condition, but now that she was, he loved her all the more.

  The ’67 Chevy Impala was a masterpiece, and one of the few possessions to his name that he actually cherished.