Crooks & Kings
A Wild Bunch Novel
London Miller
Contents
Newsletter
Also by London Miller
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Bundle Deal
Preface
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by London Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Image: Adobe Stock
Editing: Jenny Sims Editing4Indies
Proofreading: Judy Zweifel
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For Becca
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Also by London Miller
VOLKOV BRATVA
In the Beginning
Until the End
The Final Hour
Time Stood Still
Valon: What Once Was
Hidden Monsters
The Morning
DEN OF MERCENARIES
Red.
Celt.
Nix.
Calavera.
SEASONS OF BETRAYAL
Where the Sun Hides
Where the Snow Falls
Where the Wind Whispers
Careful the friends you keep, one might be carrying a knife.
Christophe ‘Fang’ Lupei
Prologue
January 31, 2017
Christophe Lupei knew what it felt like to be helpless.
The feeling threaded through his every thought when he’d been back at the orphanage and under the care of a tyrant. It swam in his veins like a dark promise he couldn’t ignore. But he’d fought those demons. Overcame them.
He hadn’t felt this kind of weakness again … until now.
How quickly he was snapped back to the past when his back was against the wall, and he had to fight his way out. No, he needed to fight his way out because someone was relying on him.
Someone who meant the world to him.
As he stood there, the barrel of his rifle pointed at the man on his knees before him, he focused on one thing—one person.
Aidra.
Aidra.
Aidra.
Her name whispered over and over inside his head, maddening him, goading him to finish this at his own speed instead of waiting as was his protocol.
Christophe had never cared for politics and the dramas it involved. The politician begging for his life meant nothing to him, nor did he give a shit what the man could give him for sparing his life.
He had to die for Aidra to live.
Simple as that.
But this wasn’t his kill, or his call, to make.
He had to wait for the two men seated in plush wingback chairs to finish asking their questions.
They were brothers on opposite sides of the underworld. One was known only as The Kingmaker, a fixer of unparalleled abilities—he was capable of starting and ending wars, all for a price.
The other brother, however, was a former assassin, and the man who’d single-handedly cut through at least thirty men to free Christophe and so many others from a place he wished he could forget.
Nix, his name was.
The Facilitator.
And his handler.
Every second of the seven and a half minutes he stood there, he saw the conversation going on around him, but he didn’t hear a word.
He couldn’t focus.
He couldn’t think.
His finger slipping around the trigger of his rifle, Christophe considered pulling it, knowing the moment he did, the hot lead would tear its way through the man’s skull, and he’d be dead before he hit the ground.
“I’m a man of my word,” The Kingmaker said, drawing Christophe from his thoughts. “I won’t kill you this evening.”
The man, whatever the fuck his name was, didn’t have a chance to even sigh in relief before Nix aimed and fired.
Not even two minutes later, Nix’s phone rang.
Blood rushed in his ears, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. Frozen in place, Christophe waited on bated breath until finally, Nix was ending the call and looking at him.
“Thirty-two fifty-one Adame Street. Go, and don’t hesitate to cut through anyone in your way.”
He didn’t have to be told twice, nor did his brothers who were right at his heels the second he bolted from the room.
Once he was on his motorcycle with the address plugged into GPS, he took off without looking back.
“Slow down,” Aidra would have said if she was with him, her arms squeezing tight around his middle, “or you’ll crash and kill us both.”
She’d always hated when he drove recklessly, and even now, as he raced to save her life, she would probably be more concerned about him wiping out than the fact he was going well over a hundred miles an hour trying to get to her.
But Christophe didn’t care.
He just wanted to make sure he could get there in time so she could yell at him about being reckless with his own life.
He needed to get to her.
A robotic voice droned in his ear, spouting directions for the warehouse he was heading toward. It would have been a twenty-minute drive, he was sure.
Christophe made it in seven.
Squeezing the brake hard, it sent his bike skidding across the pavement, but even as he laid it down with little care to its paint, he was taking off across the parking lot, running faster than he ever had in his life.
His brothers were close behind, their booted feet echoing off the ground as they dashed after him, but his gaze focused straight ahead, only thinking about what he would find on the other side of the locked door.
Pulling the gun from its holster at his waist, Christophe fired, rearing back to send his booted foot against the door.
A crash sounded then a curse followed as a man ran out a back door, just a blur at the edge of his vision, but he didn’t direct his attention to the runner.
Rather to the tank set up in the middle of the floor.
Aidra …
Her hands and ankles were bound, but her eyes were wide with panic as the water feeding into the tank was nearing the top of her head.
“I’m going to get you out!” he said—he promised.
If it was the last fucking thing he did.
Christophe scrambled forward, trying to find the opening, but the latch was impossible to open, no matter how he twisted and pulled—and finally, losing his patience, he shot the fucking thing.
Nothing.
The bullets only embedded themselves in the metal but nothing more.
Tăcut, who was only a foot away, tried to shoot at the glass, but besides a vague scuff where the bullet struck, the glass held.
They’d made a tank of reinforced glass.
If possible, the panic only grew in Aidra’s eyes, mirroring what he felt.
He needed to think.
He needed to think.
Nothing was ever truly bulletproof. If you shot it enough, its integrity would start to fail, and eventually, it would break.
That was easy—there was enough ammunition between the two of them that by the time they were done, there would be nothing left but dust.
He could get her out.
He would get her out, but even as hope filled him, time wasn’t on his side. The water was already above her head.
Three minutes …
He had three minutes to get her out before she drowned.
Christophe fired until his gun clicked, until the center of the glass was opaque, and he could no longer see Aidra’s face, but he did see the rest of her—the way her legs had stopped flailing and her arms had gone limp.
The panic and acute pain filling his chest were nearly too much. Too real.
She wouldn’t die. She couldn’t.
Not like this.
Not when he was right there and could save her.
One minute, Tăcut was beside him, and the next, the man was gone, only to return seconds later with a sledgehammer from a nearby workbench, and with every bit of strength he possessed, he sent it flying against the glass.
One hit.
Another.
Another.
Until finally, finally the glass front shattered and water gushed out, nearly taking them off their feet, but Christophe stood fast.
“Aidra!” he shouted, even as he pulled her from the tank, ignoring the feel of her clammy skin as he laid her flat, shoving the strands of her hair back from her face.
Stacking his hands on her chest, he pressed, trying to force the water from her lungs. Rearing up, he opened her mouth, blowing in air before he repeated it all again.
He didn’t stop, even as his arms cramped, even as he felt one of her ribs crack under the pressure.
But she never uttered a sound.
He knew.
He knew, but he didn’t stop.
She didn’t deserve this—not Aidra. She was too kind, too giving, too sweet—too much of what was good about him to be taken from the world as violently as she was.
Gut-wrenching screams echoed all around him, the noise nearly splitting his head open, and the only thing he wanted at that moment was for it to fucking stop.
But as he cradled her in his arms, holding her tight against him, he realized the screams were coming from him.
He whispered words she couldn’t hear.
Apologies.
Promises.
He would make this right.
He would avenge her until there was nothing left of him—at least what little was left now that she was gone.
Even as his mind seized on the bloodlust quickly churning to life inside him, Christophe remained where he kneeled, holding her close as he should have done before.
He should never have let her walk away.
His brothers stood silently around them, eyes on anything but the sight he must have made.
Of the lot of them, he knew how best to channel his pain, how to bury it deep until there was nothing left to feel—but he didn’t this time.
He let his grief consume him.
He needed to feel everything.
Christophe leaned forward, pressing his lips to her cold temple as he whispered a prayer, words he had never offered to another.
Don’t go, he wanted to say.
What would he do without her smile and laughter and joy?
How could he look Nix in the face, knowing he had failed the one task the man had asked of him—keeping her safe.
“She’s fragile,” Nix had said so long ago. “Whether she wants to admit it or not. Protect her—even if you have to protect her from herself.”
Their petty argument before she had stormed away from him played itself over in Christophe’s head, a reminder that he should have gone after her immediately instead of waiting.
He should have paid attention.
He should have driven faster, tried harder, broken through that fucking box before the fight in her waned.
Christophe should have done a lot of things.
Chapter 1
June 30, 2017
“You know, you’re doing that wrong,” a thoughtful voice said from behind him.
Christophe hung from his ankles; a knife clutched in his hand as he tried unsuccessfully to cut himself free. A fine layer of sweat coated him, the muscles in his abdomen straining from holding the position for so long and trying to get himself free.
But the interruption broke his concentration, and he was forced to drop back down, blood rushing back down as he blinked a few times to clear his vision and make sense of who was standing behind him.
First came an impressive set of legs, tan and toned, with a figure-hugging skirt practically molded to her thighs. Even upside down, his eyes started a slow trek up her body, lingering on shapely hips, a tiny waist, and breasts that were barely contained in the sheer shirt she wore.
He had never believed in love at first sight before, but that must be what this was.
She—whoever this woman was—was beautiful, and despite the little notch between her brows as she regarded him, he could still see the hint of interest in her eyes.
For six weeks, he had been training here at the Lotus Society facility, yet he had never seen her before. She had the same polished accent as Nix, but it was definitely nicer to hear coming from her.
“Yeah?” he asked, deftly turning the knife between his fingers as he watched her. “You want to help me out then?”
A smile touched her lips, gone as quickly as it formed. “That’s not in my job description.”
“No? I don’t even know who you are.”
But he wanted to know—he wanted to know everything about her.
For a moment, he thought she looked unsure, but as she turned to walk away, heading down the hallway she’d come from, she called over her shoulder, “Aidra. I’m Nix’s assistant.”
The thought of her leaving before he got more out of her forced him into action.
For a half an hour, he’d been suspended from the ceiling, left with nothing more than a box cutter and luck to get himself down. He’d been content to take his time with the assignment … until he saw her.
Using every bit of strength he had left, he forced himself up, slicing as quickly as he could at the ropes binding his legs. Not even thirty seconds later, the rope snapped, sending him spiraling to the floor where he landed on his back, the air knocked from his lungs.
Even with pain radiating through his entire body, he didn’t care.
He merely got up, brushed his jeans off, and started in the direction Aidra had taken.
Jerking awake, Christophe tried to get his bearings, his gaze darting around the sweltering room.
Where was … right. The apartment—his home for the last five months, and the one place he’d remained to spend his days drinking himself into oblivion. But even as he sought refuge away from the never-ending thoughts of her when he was awake, Aidra still found her way in his dreams.
Yeah … five months didn’t mean shit.
It didn’t matter how often he found himself seeking the bottom of a bottle—whether it was a dark variety, a light, or a mixture of both—he still couldn’t escape his memories of her.
His Aidra.
The woman he’d loved and lost.
Even with an abundance of alcohol swimming in his veins, he remembered the way she used to roll her eyes when she was flustered, or the way she would trace a heart over his chest when they were in bed together. She was there. A part of his very being.
No matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed to purge the misery he felt.
And now, he was dreaming about the first time they met.
It felt like a lifetime ago now that she’d stumbled her way into the training room he was in as he completed his first lesson.
Nix didn’t know that little detail, and if he did,
he wouldn’t have been pleased.
Relationships, in general, were frowned upon in the Lotus Society—the secret organization of assassins both he and Nix once belonged to. They were complications, and one of the most important rules in the Society was that concentration on a job could never be lost—especially not because of matters of the heart.
Or his cock, as it were that day.
He’d only been thinking about one thing then, but as the years passed and they grew closer before she ultimately found her way into his bed, Aidra was more than just her looks. She had been everything to him.
And in a single night, he had lost her.
Nah, five months didn’t mean shit.
He still felt her death like a punch to his ribs, and despite what Nix had told him the last time they spoke, it didn’t seem as though time was fixing anything.
Time.
How often had he heard time healed all wounds? That time was what he needed to process and cope with the reality of losing the woman he loved?
He’d wanted to believe it too, needing to grasp onto anything that meant he wasn’t feeling like he was drowning as Aidra had.
Even now, as he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the disheveled strands of his hair tight, he could still see her floating in that tank, eyes wide with panic as she fought to breathe. The man who’d put her in there had been smart, but not smart enough. He hadn’t gotten the fuck out of town before Christophe got to him.
He’d felt a certain thrill feeding the man’s remains to pigs—it had felt appropriate.
But even as revenge was sweet, Aidra was still gone, and he’d still felt like shit after.
No, time was a little bitch he wanted to shoot right in the fucking face.
Stumbling to his feet, Christophe wandered into the bathroom. Reaching across the tub to turn the dials, water sprung from the showerhead above him. It took no time at all to strip his clothes off and climb in, the cold water further waking him from his stupor.
Silence reigned as he stood in the shower, waiting for the water to warm. The nothingness clawed at his subconscious, inner demons waiting to be let out.
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