The mercenary shrugged. “Personal problem.”
“And you think they won’t find out it was you?” Mishca retorted, trying to get him to see reason. “Someone, somewhere has seen your face.”
Laughing, the mercenary pushed his mask up, over the beanie he wore to cover his hair, revealing his face for the first time.
Lauren’s gasp was audible in the decrepit building.
The mercenary looked at Mishca, a burning fury in the identical set of blue eyes they shared, so different from the broken spirit Mishca had seen before.
“I’m not the boy you used to know,” the mercenary said echoing Mishca’s thoughts. “If anyone can identify me, good. I’m counting on it.”
“Klaus—”
It was the first time Mishca had said his name in what felt like ages and it had the desired effect as he lost his maniacal smile.
“Never speak my name.”
“And how will they differentiate between us?” Mishca asked solemnly. No one had ever been able to tell the difference until you truly looked.
“I could always kill you then continue my mission.”
“You’re not going to kill me,” Mishca repeated.
“Why not?” Klaus asked with genuine confusion on his face like that had always been a part of his plan.
“Because despite your hatred for me, brother, it would be like killing yourself.”
Mishca had thought he’d made his point and finally gotten the upper hand, but he was mistaken.
“Maybe, but you’re not me,” Klaus said calmly.
Mishca hadn’t noticed the blade hidden in his palm.
Entering the building that was slated for demolition in only a few months’ time, the first thing Jetmir noticed was the smell.
There was nothing quite similar to the scent of death, but it was one he had grown used to in his thirty odd years. Yet today, that acrid smell made his jaw clench in anger.
It had taken a few days—more time than he would have wanted—to track down his brother, but now that he was here, Jetmir was not prepared for what he found.
The Russians had left him in a field far out of the city. It took hours before he could get in contact with any of his men, and even longer to hear about Brahim’s idiotic plan.
He should have listened to him, knowing that Brahim would have stood down if he would have treated him like any of the other members as opposed to a kid brother.
Brahim was beneath a hole in the ceiling, the varying weather taking its toll on his body.
Jetmir didn’t have the opportunity to prepare himself for how he would find his brother, instead, it was slapped in his face, his brother’s dead, unseeing eyes following him as he moved closer.
His skin had an unnatural pallor—the skin around his mouth blackened—his flesh better preserved because of the cold weather. Even in death, he looked like a child, far too young to have beaten Jetmir to the grave.
For once in his life, Jetmir felt remorse. It was his job to protect him, to shelter him until Brahim was ready to have a role in their syndicate.
He had failed him.
Jetmir looked down at his brother’s body, ignoring the smell of him, ignoring everything that might draw his attention away. He needed to commit this to memory, so that upon leaving, he would remember this moment.
Crouching down, he touched his brother’s eyelids, shutting them gently. At least this way, he could imagine him being at peace.
“What did you do, you stupid little shit?” Jetmir asked though he already knew the answer.
Out the corner of his eye, he could see his men turn their back, giving him the privacy he desperately craved.
Whispering a soft prayer, Jetmir stood to his full height, turning his back on the body just as quickly as he had arrived.
On his way out, Jetmir told them, “Deal with it.”
He needed to take care of something.
Putting a cigarette to his lips, Jetmir lit the end of it, watching the sickly man as he prepared Brahim’s body. He didn’t have the time to go through the hassle of getting his brother overseas, so he chose instead to have him cremated.
As the man pulled the lever, the doors opened like the gates of hell, fire licking at the edges of the steel incinerator.
The conveyor belt rattled to life as the body atop it rolled inside. It would be the last time Jetmir would lay eyes on his brother.
When the job was done and the cremator was compensated for his services, Jetmir took a private jet back to Albania, to the home that he shared with his mother.
It was known as the compound, due in part to the fact that it resembled an armed fortress, complete with enough security to man a small army.
During the hour long drive it took to get there after his plane landed, Jetmir thought of how he would tell his mother. Back during the days of his father’s rule, she was known for her strength in lieu of tragedy, but with old age and a failing mind, she was not the woman she used to be. Also, she had never lost a son, and with her fragile heart, Jetmir feared what Brahim’s demise would do to her.
The gates to the compound swung open, allowing Jetmir’s car to roll inside, slamming shut behind him.
As he stepped out of the car, he noticed the newest addition to the cars outside the mansion, knowing that his special guest was already tucked inside.
And for the first time since his brother’s body was found, Jetmir smiled.
One of the soldiers outside opened the door, stepping back so Jetmir could exit with the silver urn in his hands.
No one spoke, just inclined their heads in respect as he passed.
“My son is home,” Mirela Besnik called as she came down the limestone steps, her face bright with mirth.
She stopped short when she saw what Jetmir held. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head and knew the exact moment she determined who was inside after shifting her gaze behind him and not seeing her youngest son get out.
When a choked sob escaped her, he sighed helplessly.
“Mama, I—”
She slapped him, snatching the urn from his hands as she went storming back into the mansion.
There was nothing he could do at the moment, not when she was too upset with him to listen to what he had to say. Instead, he followed behind her silently, and as she went up the stairs to her room, he stayed down in the den, snapping his fingers for one of the men inside to bring him a glass of Brandy.
A half dozen crates sat near the fireplace, ones that were filled with military-grade assault rifles and ammo, a spontaneous purchase he had made months before he decided to track Naomi down.
Bastian, a loyal soldier of his, presented Jetmir with a file, one that had everything he’d requested before he arrived.
“Let’s go.”
Bastian followed him back outside where all of his men were gathered, waiting for his orders.
When Jetmir had their attention, he pulled out the first picture in the folder.
“If you do not know, this is Mishca Volkov,” he said, his voice echoing in the silence of the courtyard. “He murdered my brother and I want his head.”
He tossed the photo to the ground, pulling out the next one.
“But he does not deserve death quickly. Before he dies, I will force him to watch as you,”—he pointed at each of them in turn—“have your way with his precious whore.”
This got a smile out of half of them.
Lauren’s picture fluttered down, joining Mishca’s on the ground.
Jetmir flung the folder open, more gray photos spilling out, so many different faces amongst them.
He might have appeared calm to them, but Jetmir’s thoughts were chaotic as he tried to focus on the task at hand.
“I want them all dead, understand?”
Once he had their acceptance, Jetmir retreated back inside, this time not stopping in the den, but heading up to where his guest was waiting.
There hadn’t been a mob war in decades, at least not
one that attracted attention by the media, but Jetmir knew that innocent blood would stain the streets of New York, along with the blood of his enemies.
He did not value human life, especially those that opposed him. If the Volkovs thought they had suffered before, they had no idea what he had planned for them.
Not bothering to knock, Jetmir opened the door to one of his guest bedrooms.
She turned to him, her arms folded across her chest petulantly, annoyed at his lack of haste to see her. Extending his hand, Jetmir curled his fingers around the hand of the woman that would help him exact his revenger on the man that had taken his brother from him.
Anya Volkov smiled, her eyes alight with a terrible hunger, sparked by hatred and greed. She didn’t know she was but a pawn in the grand scheme of things, but until she was no longer useful, she would make a valuable ally. No one was safe.
War was coming.
THE FINAL HOUR
SPRING 2014
To everyone that has read or reviewed my work, thank you. Every message I receive, every comment, every gushing review is like a dream come true for me and words cannot describe how happy it makes me the you, the reader, are enjoying Mishca and Lauren’s story.
It has truly been a labor of love.
I know everyone despises cliffhangers, but just remember that Until the End is the bridge story between In the Beginning and the conclusion to Mishca and Lauren’s story, The Final Hour.
And I’m pretty sure everyone is curious about Mishca’s long lost brother, Klaus. As of now, he’s still my favorite little secret.
If you have any questions or just want updates for the upcoming books in the Volkov Bratva Series, visit me at the following website:
http://facebook.com/londonmillerauthor
I would love to hear from you!
Best Wishes,
L.M.
Until the End Page 21
