She had been trying in vain to free her hands from the zip-tie that bound her wrists, but so far, the hardened plastic had only bitten into her wrists, cutting the skin, but she was too determined to focus on the pain.
Moving her arms as much as possible, she fought to get free, until the cord caught on a groove in the back of the chair. She froze for a millisecond, slowing her speed, trying to determine if it was deep enough to be affective. When the tie didn’t give, she slowly began working it, making sure she held onto it, praying that when it broke, it wouldn’t hit the ground.
Already she could feel the tightened grip slacking. It took longer than she would have liked, working at an agonizingly slow pace.
Finally, it broke.
She looked up, making sure Brahim or the others hadn’t noticed her movements. She had no idea what her next move was going to be—there was no visible weapon in sight—but she knew that if he followed through on his threat, she wouldn’t die, not like this.
On the other side of the room, there was a hole in the rotting floor, and if she remembered correctly, they were only one floor up. Maybe if she timed it correctly, she could dash over to it, jumping down and make it out the building before they could get to the stairs.
Until Brahim turned to look at her.
Lauren tried not to look guilty as he walked towards her, tossing the pit of his apple as he came. Heart hammering, she prayed he wouldn’t circle the chair and notice what she had done.
“They said I could not do it,” Brahim said conversationally. “They mocked me, but I’ll show them.”
When he wasn’t trying to be menacing, he reminded her of a child. She could see the similarities between him and his brother, but whereas Jetmir exuded a maniacal sort of rage, Brahim seemed docile, besides the whole kidnapping her thing.
Keeping his attention before he could make another move, Lauren asked, “Who mocked you?”
He frowned, rubbing his jaw. “Everyone. I admit I am not as great as my brother, but what chance was I given? I’m always in his shadow, but no longer.”
Brahim looked at his watch again then glared at her. “I expected the diamond by now. Maybe you don’t mean as much to the Russian as I originally believed?”
He phased it like a question, like he was now questioning what he had done.
Brahim didn’t seem to realize what she did mean to Mishca. Despite the warnings she’d been given, the harsh words, and the mocking smiles, Lauren knew she meant far more to him than anyone realized.
“Mishca doesn’t have it,” she said solemnly. “If anyone does, it’s Naomi.”
“No,” he said shaking his head harshly. “No, she told me he had it.”
Son of a bitch.
“He doesn’t, but if you let me go, I will do everything I can to get it back to your family. Mishca will listen to me. If you don’t hurt, Mishca will just let it go. Please. ”
He looked like he was wavering, but one of his men barked something at him making him clench his jaw.
“You’re lying to me.”
“I’m not, I—”
“Shut up!” He retrieved his gun, pointing it at her. “If I don’t get a call in the next five minutes, you’re dead. Diamond or no diamond.”
He left then, leaving Lauren to contemplate his words. It didn’t matter though.
She had lied when she said if he didn’t hurt her, Mishca would let it go.
Whether she walked away—or died trying—he was a dead man.
Vlad grabbed the back of Mishca’s shirt, halting him mid-jump out the car. It was the first time he had ever done so and in his current state of mind, Mishca was too pissed to differentiate between friend and enemy.
Lightning fast, he had the barrel of his gun flush against Vlad’s forehead.
“Back. Off.”
He doubted it was the first time Vlad had ever had a gun pointed in his face, but the fact that he hadn’t even blinked was still unnerving.
“You are too emotional, let us go,” he said calmly, never bothering to knock the gun out of his face.
“Nyet!”
The ten other men with them looked on, but all knew that when Mishca gave that hard ‘no,’ there was no arguing with him, but Vlad was not like them.
“You will make a mistake. You will die. Do you want her to see that?”
At that, Mishca pulled his gun back. “Izvineniya—Apologies.”
Vlad nodded, but Mishca wasn’t done.
“I have to go.”
He could either go with them, or without them, but either way, he was entering that building.
Frowning, Vlad stared at him—seeing his resolve—and nodded. “Try not to get us killed, yes?”
Nodding in agreement, Mishca got out of the car, rechecking the clip and loading a bullet into the chamber.
He had no real idea how many men Brahim had with him considering not many of the Albanians were as loyal to him as they were to Jetmir, but Mishca brought enough of his men to take any number down.
“Ostat’sya zdes’—Stay here,” he ordered a few of them, leading the way into a building he was far too familiar with.
It was one that marked a particular event in his life, one that had turned his world upside down, and explained many of his mother’s mental problems.
Even after his initiation into the Bratva, he still hadn’t learned everything.
As soon as they stepped inside, they waited.
It was an old building, on the outskirts of town with very little access to it. Mishca was all too familiar with the history of this place.
There was trash and debris all over the ground floor, an old staircase on the opposite side of them.
Mishca held his hand up, stopping Vlad and Luka from continuing. He pointed at the ceiling, hearing the footsteps above them. It didn’t sound like many, but he couldn’t be sure.
Giving Luka a pointed look, he didn’t have to explain what came next. Grabbing a small rock near his feet, Mishca held onto it as they silently moved out of view of anyone coming down the stairs. When they were safely concealed, he tossed it.
It bounced a couple of times before settling down, all conversation above them stopping.
Brahim said, “Go check it out.”
Two sets of footsteps sounded then, both coming down the steps, one stopping midway. The first man appeared at the bottom, holding his gun out in front of him, but his first mistake was putting his back to them.
Without even the squeaking of the boards, Luka grabbed the man and before he could make a sound, he put one hand on top of the man’s head, another beneath his jaw, and twisted, effectively snapping the man’s neck.
Vlad helped moved the man’s body out of the way.
Luka, deepening his voice to imitate the man, said up the stairs in perfect Albanian, “Kalon brez pas brezi—Come down.”
The man hesitated, but finally came down the stairs. He too was taken out in a matter of seconds.
Mishca was trying to be patient, trying to keep a level head as he ascended the staircase, blind to what was happening above, but when he heard Lauren’s yelp of pain, he said fuck all to reason and went charging up the stairs.
First man he encountered, double-tap to the chest.
Cursing, Vlad played catch up, running ahead to take the hit if anyone was able to shoot back. He had always promised to protect Mishca with his life, even when he was throwing it away.
By the time they were down the short hallway and entering into the large space where Mishca spotted Brahim, three more men were dead.
Brahim spun around slowly and as Mishca raised his gun to finish him off, he immediately dropped his arm when he saw what Brahim was holding.
He was holding Lauren to his chest, his arm banded around her, his gun just inches from her head.
“You shoot, she dies.”
He didn’t have to say a word. Vlad and Luka lowered their guns, though he did have to give Luka a hard look when he didn’t take his finger off the trigge
r.
“How did you find me?”
“Put the gun down and I won’t kill you,” Mishca said through gritted teeth though everyone in the room knew that that was false.
Brahim gave Lauren a measured stare, one that Mishca didn’t understand, but he was itching to take him out, but there was no way to do that safely without harming Lauren in the process.
“Give me the diamond and you can have the girl back.”
There was a sort of desperation in Brahim’s voice, one that told Mishca everything he needed to know.
First, this wasn’t about Mishca, himself. He realized now that Jetmir hadn’t known what Brahim had done, and this was his attempt at recognition amongst his organization’s ranks, but someone should have warned him about the consequences of his actions. He didn’t know how, but this wasn’t going to end well for either of them.
Second, Naomi had something to do with this. There was no reason for the Albanian to think he had anything to do with their precious stone, yet he had gone out of his way to kidnap Lauren and demand it?
When he found her, no matter how long it took, she would pay for her part in this.
“This is not a negotiation,” Mishca said raising his voice. “It ends now.”
“You don’t demand me!” Brahim snapped, bringing his hand up to wrap around Lauren’s throat.
Behind him, Mishca thought he saw a glimmer of something across the way in another window, but he was too distracted by Brahim to get a good look at it.
When he put the gun flush against Lauren’s temple, Mishca’s eyes finally shifted to hers. What he saw there took all of the bravado out of him.
Fear. It was such an ugly emotion on her, one that ate at him. In that moment, just staring into her eyes, he regretted it all. He could have fought harder for her to leave, or at the very least, tell her the truth from the beginning so she would be prepared and more willing to listen to him.
“Nichego ne sluchitsya s vami—Nothing is going to happen to you,” he promised in Russian.
He wanted to reassure her, reassure himself that because he got her into this, he would get her out.
“Take me instead,” Mishca said still looking at Lauren though the words were directed at Brahim. “Until you recover your property, you can hold me. I’m sure your brother will agree to this after what I did to him.”
“Jetmir?” Now Brahim was furious. “What have you done with him?”
“Ne v etom delo—Not the point. Do we have a deal?”
“No, you—”
But he never got to finish that thought, because as soon as he removed the gun from Lauren’s head, pointing it now at Mishca, the glass behind him shattered.
Lauren screamed, scrambling away as a projectile exited the front of Brahim’s head, his body going limp and slumping to the floor, a pool of blood quickly staining the floor.
Mishca looked back at Vlad and Luka, but both of them looked confused as well, already looking to the open window for answers.
Leaving it for the moment, Mishca grabbed Lauren, yanking her into his arms as he held her with as much strength as he could muster. Her entire body was racked with shivers, but she wasn’t sobbing, which Mishca didn’t know whether to be thankful or worried.
So much had happened over the last few weeks that he was worried she was growing accustomed to his violent lifestyle, and that was the last thing he wanted.
Over her shoulder, he spied Brahim’s body and he didn’t have to worry about if he was still breathing. From experience, Mishca knew there was about a dime sized hole in the back of his head, while he didn’t even want to contemplate what the front looked like…if there was still one.
Mishca finally drew back, cupping Lauren’s face as he kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again, knowing that it probably wouldn’t help, but he felt the need to say it anyway.
Her eyes were watery and blood-shot, but she wasn’t crying. She just looked relieved.
“Let me take you home.”
She nodded, but before he could call Luka and Vlad to him, loud footsteps on the stairwell stopped him.
They were deliberate, meant to call attention to whoever was arriving, and as Mishca looked from the window, to the corpse, and back to the hallway, he stiffened.
He knew who was coming.
Twelve more steps brought the stranger to the entryway.
He was distinctly male, with a sniper rifle across his back, throwing knives strapped to his thighs, decked out in full tactical gear that was as dark as the man’s soul. His face was concealed by a black mask, the design rather plain with only the eyes cut out and a space for the nose and mouth.
He wasn’t just a man with a gun, Mishca knew, but a brutal mercenary, one that lived and breathed his occupation, all to feed his vendetta, and one that was just as mysterious as he was legendary.
For the last few years, after using multiple contacts around the world, and abusing every resource he had, Mishca had tracked this particular individual, one that he knew had become a lethal weapon.
Especially know for shots like the one that had taken the life of the dead Albanian on the floor.
The mercenary stopped, his head cocked to the side as he surveyed them with casual disinterest, unconcerned with the guns trained on him.
Not that he needed to be. Undoubtedly, he was the best shot there.
Knowing the man’s skills and the lack of exits, Mishca chose instead to pull Lauren behind him, making sure every part of her was shielded by him.
She was trying to see past him, but he wouldn’t allow it, because at the moment, he had no explanation he could give her, not one short enough at least.
Sensing Mishca’s dilemma, the mercenary canted his head in the other direction, sighing heavily behind his mask.
He couldn’t see his face behind the mask, but Mishca would bet his life that the mercenary was amused by his actions.
Finding his voice, Mishca asked, “Where are my men?”
“Alive.”
Already, despite the danger he posed, Mishca felt his temper flaring, in a way that only this man could do. “Why are you here?”
“I made a promise to you,” the mercenary said in a flat tone, his words distorted. “When you die, it’ll be by my hand.”
Luka, having a particular disdain for mercenaries and authority, didn’t appreciate the mercenary’s words, but Mishca couldn’t allow him to draw his weapon, not against the man in front of them.
“Ostavit’ yego—Leave it,” he said harshly. “He’s not here to kill me.”
Lauren’s hands tightened on the back of his shirt, her fear for him making this that much harder.
“No?” The mercenary asked looking around, drawing a pistol from the back of his pants. “It kind of feels that way.”
“You don’t play with your targets,” Mishca responded evenly though he had never been sure of that fact.
He had always assumed—because of the precision in which all of the marks were hit without any evidence left behind—that when the mercenary got a job, he completed it quickly and efficiently.
“Don’t be so sure about that, Russian,” the mercenary said with a hint of amusement in his voice.
Mishca stared at him, trying to see through the black mesh that shielded the man’s eyes though it was impossible from that difference. He knew all too well what eyes hid behind it.
“Not while she’s here to watch,” Mishca responded gesturing to Lauren. “Especially not in this place.”
That seemed to break the mercenary’s resolve. No longer did he appear casual, but his body grew taut with tension, his fingers tightening around the gun he held.
Mishca had never been back here since that day, but he could still remember it like it had happened just hours before.
Where there was a hole in the floor was where he, himself, had found the mercenary.
A time he hated to think about.
It seemed years’ worth of anger broke out
of the mercenary, his attention now focused solely on Mishca. Not waiting for a command from Mishca—though one was not coming—Luka swung at him, but effortlessly, the mercenary spun out of the way, the heel of his palm swinging out at the same time, landing a well laced hit to his jugular, sending Luka to the floor wheezing for air.
Vlad, wisely, stood where he was. After all, he knew the man behind the mask.
Mishca reached behind him, trying to pull Lauren forward and away from him, not wanting her to get accidentally hurt if anything happened, but she clung to him, refusing to let go.
She didn’t realize they were now facing the one person that hated Mishca the most in the world.
Up close, the mercenary was only an inch taller, if that, but his presence made him seem bigger, though at times he could appear smaller as well, a good trait to have in his line of business.
“Careful,” he said with barely restrained fury. He didn’t bother pointing the gun at him because he knew twenty-three ways to kill Mishca without trying, and those were just the ones he could think of at the moment.
There were men that cowered in Mishca’s presence, but this one, no, he didn’t fear anything.
He couldn’t know for sure, but Mishca thought the mercenary’s gaze slipped past him to where Lauren was standing at his back, making his arm tighten with awareness.
He might have thought he knew the mercenary’s plan, but he could never be sure.
“It would only be fair, would it not, if I took your love from you,” the mercenary said though there wasn’t any real threat in his tone.
Now, just that quickly, he sounded bored.
“Except, I only kill those that wrong me.”
“I didn’t,” Mishca said, remembering when he had said something similar all those years ago.
“Guilty by association.”
He felt Lauren stiffen behind him and Mishca nearly cursed. He needed to end this.
“We don’t have time for this,” Mishca said. “Do you not realize what you’ve done? The Albanians are going to want blood for this.”
Until the End Page 20
