“Please,” Jetmir dsid with the slightest of smiles. “I will enjoy this more if you make it difficult for me.”
Niklaus didn’t get the chance to think of a response before a scream of pain ripped free from his mouth as Jetmir stabbed the first knife into the left side of his chest, just beneath his collar bone.
He felt the blade ripping through skin and muscle, but no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t escape the agony and managed to add to it as the ties binding his wrists dug deeper into his flesh.
But before he could recover from the first, Jetmir plunged the second knife parallel to the first.
“Bleed for what you believe in,” he said in a low voice. “By the end of your time with me, you’ll die for it as well.”
Panting, Niklaus watched as Jetmir took his leave, along with a few others, but three remained.
The one that had taken Sarah.
The one he had fought with.
And the blond.
It was him, Niklaus knew, that he needed to remain wary of. Because it was to him that Jetmir had given a meaningful look before he disappeared out of the room.
Jetmir hadn’t been gone more than a couple of minutes before Niklaus was cut free and dragged from the chair before his wrists were rebound, and this time, he was hung from a hook in the ceiling.
Sarah was whimpering softly, but as his gaze was to the cold, damp wall in front of him, he could only hear what was happening around him. There was the rattle of the cart, the flicker of a flame igniting, and the men speaking in their native tongue behind him. That only made it worse, having to hear everything, but seeing nothing.
Someone walked behind him, hesitated a second, then Niklaus flinched away from the cold blade that was slipped beneath his shirt, cutting through the material with ease, the sides draping open though the shirt remained in place because of the knives in his chest. He tried to breathe through his panic, wishing once again that he knew something, anything that could get him and Sarah out of this place.
But the men at his back were eager to get started, drawing the blade across his skin in a painful line. Niklaus hissed, but didn’t cry out…not yet.
Blond hair snared his attention as the one that moved like a ghost leaned against the wall so that he had a clear view of his face. He was the one holding the knife that was now dripping with Niklaus’ blood.
“Tell them what they want to know,” he ordered quietly, like his words were only meant for him to hear.
Tell them? As though he had no part in this?
Niklaus looked from him, to the wall, and back again as he tried to think of an answer, one that was the correct one to a question he didn’t know.
It dawned on him that Jetmir hadn’t given him any information to actually provide an answer for. He was beginning to believe that this was not about answers at all.
That thought made his heart hammer harder, but his lack of an answer made the blond move out of sight again.
Not even seconds later, the sharp sting of his parting flesh had Niklaus trying to get free, and as the blond dug in deeper this time, he finally cried out.
“Do you have an answer?” the blond asked, this time loud enough for them all to hear.
His breaths ragged, Niklaus whispered a plea he knew would fall on deaf ears, his own just barely picking up the sound of Sarah’s distress.
But that was nothing compared to the noise he made as the blond rhythmically, and quite patiently, took his knife to Niklaus’ back and began to really work.
*
“Leave him be, Valon.”
Valon…Niklaus repeated that name over and over to himself as awareness crept back in. Now, finally, he had a name to put with the blond.
Valon fell into his line of vision, blocking out some of the sunlight streaming in through the windows on either sides of the room.
He didn’t dare try to move, hours of agony had taught him very quickly that any tiny alteration in the way he hung caused the shredded muscle along his back to flare to life once more.
Still as vacant and unfeeling as before, Valon said, “Tell them what they want to know.”
He had been steadily working his way across Niklaus’ back, starting at the tops of his shoulders, carving long, fluid lines down to the small of his back. Unlike his counterpart—who seemed to enjoy Niklaus’ pain a little too much—Valon rarely made any noise at all, and didn’t give any indication as to whether or not this thrilled him.
Had he been in this place so long that he had begun to hope that it was Valon torturing him as opposed to the other? Was he choosing between two levels of pain?
Time passed in waves. He could no longer tell what day it was, or how long he had suffered under the onslaught of torture, but through it all, Niklaus was thankful that all their attention seemed to be focused solely on him. Sarah mostly had to watch him suffer, it was far better than her being hung alongside him.
“Still don’t want to talk?” Valon’s associate called out. “Then we’ll try something new.”
New?
What more could they do to him that hadn’t already been done? But even as his mind ran wild with possibilities—even as he fought the darkness that threatened to pull him under—he heard it.
Sarah’s whimper.
Fighting to keep his eyes open, to stay conscious, Niklaus shook his head, weakly, trying to force his head around. “Don’t…don’t touch her.”
But his words were as weak as his body.
He tried to stay conscious.
He needed to, for her sake.
But even as he heard the sound of ripping fabric…the sound of Sarah screaming behind her gag…he was sucked right back under.
*
At some point, Niklaus had been moved, transferred from the hook back to his chair. It felt like he had lost another day, drifting in and out of consciousness. His stomach ached with hunger, his mouth terribly dry, but those baser needs were the last things on his mind as the agony of his wounds kept his full attention—he had grown to ignore the knives still imbedded in his flesh.
He was lost, stuck in a place where he was just slightly aware of his surroundings, but immune to the pain he was in, at least until a bucket of cold water was thrown on him, bringing him back to focus.
The pain came rushing back almost instantly, enough to nearly take his breath away, sparking over every nerve-ending until he was gritting his pain to get through it. Valon dropped the bucket and moved back.
“Your time is up,” Jetmir announced as he crossed the room, his first time back in this place since Niklaus was brought in.
Though Niklaus wasn’t looking at him, he knew the man carried something heavy, the liquid inside sloshing around before the container was set down. Once Jetmir was beside him, he fisted Niklaus’ hair, forcing his head up, and with the action, Niklaus finally saw Sarah.
The sight of her was worse than anything they could have ever done to him.
She was bruised all over in varying shades of healing. Gone was the beautiful girl that had been laughing with joy as they explored the city, replaced by someone he hardly recognized. Makeup was smeared all over her face, her clothes gone, leaving her stark naked, and though he wished he hadn’t, Niklaus’ eyes zeroed in on the blood coating her thighs.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
She hung her head, never once looking at him, but he thought he saw a tear drop onto her leg.
“I have given you ample opportunity—more than if we are being honest—to tell me of your business and the men you intend to meet in a few days’ time, but you have continued to defy me. To what end, only you can know. Perhaps it is the Russian way?” Jetmir released his hold on Niklaus. “What more must be done before you break?”
Blinking more water from his eyes, Niklaus looked to him, noticing the black lighter he held in his left hand, an engraving he couldn’t make out on its onyx casing. A sliver of anxiety shot through Niklaus each time
Jetmir flipped the top back, igniting the flame to flicker in the darkness of the room. He had long since stopped begging, knowing that he would never get out of the room alive. But he had never stopped begging for Sarah…at least from what he could remember before his body gave out on him.
“Tell me what I want to know,” Jetmir said, his tone soothing for once, the same request that had been demanded of Niklaus since entered this place.
No matter how vehemently Niklaus denied any knowledge of what they were talking about, none of them were convinced he was not the person they sought.
For what felt like the hundredth time, he said, “I’m not who you’re looking for. I don’t even know what it is you want!”
Sighing, as though Niklaus had disappointed him once again, Jetmir grabbed the red, plastic container from the floor by his feet, walking over to her, whistling as he began dumping the contents onto Sarah’s head, the liquid soaking her hair and washing away the red that stained her body in seconds.
Her eyes pleaded with Niklaus as she seemed to snap out of whatever fog she was under, her cries of alarm not quite muffled by her gag.
When the acrid scent of gasoline hit him, Niklaus began begging in earnest, not caring how weak he sounded. “Please…I’m not who you think I am. I live in Florida. I work construction! Whatever you want. Money? I can get it for you. Anything. Anything you want, I’ll do. Just please, please, let her go.”
Jetmir held the lighter out, his expression thoughtful as the flame sparked and danced, as if it too was anticipating the moment of contact.
“One last chance.”
Niklaus met Sarah’s gaze, helplessness eating at him. He could see it in her eyes, the moment she knew she was going to die, and instead of fear, there was acceptance.
Acceptance that there was nothing he could do to stop this.
And maybe…maybe acceptance that a part of her believed this was his fault.
No matter how short the time would be, he knew the look on her face would haunt him until he died. Her lips were moving, as though she was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t understand her words…and he never would.
“Please…”
The word had barely passed his lips before Jetmir dropped the lighter.
Time slowed to a crawl as Niklaus watched its descent, falling end over end until it clamored on the floor, bouncing a couple of times before settling. Then, he watched in horror as the flames rushed over her, licking at her skin until she was consumed entirely.
Chapter Three
His ears were ringing.
From his screams or hers, he wasn’t sure.
The smell of burning flesh refused to leave his nostrils. For as long as he lived, he knew the stench would stay imprinted on his mind, along with everything else about this place, including the people in it.
Jetmir had watched him the entire time Sarah was burning even after she had stopped screaming. It wasn’t the act, that was getting him off, but Niklaus’ reaction to it.
When he was alone again, or so he thought, Niklaus finally let himself break down.
God, how pathetic he felt crying as though that could do anything to bring back the life that just been taken. All these years, all the taunts that everyone threw in his direction, they had been right. He hadn’t been a good choice for her because in the end, he had been the one to get her killed.
Even if it was no fault of his own, he still felt that way.
He also knew that it wasn’t out of sympathy that the bag was placed back over his head, probably only put there so he wouldn’t see the next wave of suffering he was about to encounter.
Niklaus sniffled, wishing he could wipe his face. He didn’t care much for his dignity—if there was even a shred left. In the span of minutes, he had lost everything.
Then…
He heard steps, quiet ones, but loud enough for him to tense in fear.
Was this it?
Was this the end?
He was almost grateful that it was finally here, and maybe, the crushing guilt that was sitting heavily in his chest would finally lift.
Faster than Niklaus could have anticipated, one of the knives lodged in his chest was ripped free. He tried to grit his teeth against the pain, but it felt worse coming out than it had going in. A moment later, the other was ripped free as well.
He felt cold, rough hands on him, pulling the shirt free from his skin, swiping away the blood that was flowing freely from his new wounds.
There was a curse, or at least that was what Niklaus thought since he couldn’t understand the language.
If he had to guess, it was Valon, only because no one else had seemed even remotely moved by the fact that Niklaus had continuously tried to tell them how he wasn’t the man they were hunting.
Without a word however, Valon moved away, leaving the bag in place, but what Niklaus heard next, for once, didn’t make him worry.
Nothing could be worse than hearing Sarah screaming as she was burned alive.
There was a grunt of surprise from someone across the room, the sharp sound of something splashing against the wall, and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor.
Then nothing…
It seemed Sarah wouldn’t be the only one to die in this room.
Chapter Four
Though he might have only been twenty-one-years old, Mishca Volkov had seen many things in his short life, more than he should have really. Though it could be said, a few of those awful things had been committed by his own hand.
Since he was a boy, he had learned what it meant to lose someone you loved, learned that while his life may have been one of luxury and comfort for a spell, there was a price to pay for all of those things. He knew his family was different from others, not because of their financials, but because of the men that frequented the manor that had been his childhood home.
For as long as he could remember, there had always been men wearing suits and carrying guns coming to meet with his father in the dead of night, all of them treating Mishca with the same respect his father received.
He might not have known why this was at the time, but he had learned to accept it as his due.
By the time he was sixteen, Mishca had learned the true nature of his father’s business and the role that he would one day play. That wasn’t to say it would be handed to him freely.
It didn’t matter that his father was the Pakhan—the Boss—of the Volkov Bratva, an extension of the Vory v Zakone, or Russian Mafia. To earn his title as Captain, he had to work for it, and work in their world involved fear and bloodshed. He had quickly begun making a name for himself, though it was still closely tied to his father’s, but the day he turned eighteen, he was given a job that awarded him the stars on his chest and a second pair on his knees.
When he had entered that smoky basement, ready to accept the marks of the Bratva, he was not as eager as some would have been in his position. After all, these stars were like a birthright to him. No, by this point, especially with what he had needed to do to earn them, he had begun to resent the life he had been given, even if it had found a way to dig itself under his skin.
Since that night, he had acquired a small fortune and actually begun to manage his own crew of sorts, even at his young age. Some thought he would not be a good leader. He didn’t have their level of experience—namely the number of anonymous bodies left in morgues without fingers or toes or teeth—but they couldn’t help but respect him.
If there was nothing else he required of them, it was their respect.
In his lower Manhattan apartment, Mishca lay on his back in the king-sized bed, completely naked, a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair on her knees at the foot of the bed, expertly taking his cock into her mouth. His scarred fingers were entangled in her hair, helping her along though with her talents, she didn’t need it. Perhaps it was because he’d been drinking a bottle of Vodka over the last hour that this was doing nothing for him.
Naomi knew this, but she often
liked to use sex to bend him to her will. He could admit that after their first encounter in the Manhattan Public Library, back when he was still in school, her charms had worked on him and he had soon found himself under her spell, but Mishca hadn’t been raised a fool. Soon he realized just what she was trying to get from him. He knew at some point he would have to be rid of her, but until that day came, he would enjoy her.
His Blackberry chimed incessantly where it lay on the nightstand. Though Naomi made to protest, pouting up at him, he ignored the look and grabbed his phone, answering as it was starting on its third ring.
“Yeah?” He spoke in Russian, never wanting to talk business when Naomi was in the room.
“We need a meeting…now. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Without saying anything more, Mishca’s driver and bodyguard, Vlad, hung up. For as long as Mishca could remember, Vlad had been in his life, acting not just as an employee, but as a confidante as well. And more recently, his second-hand. If he was calling a meeting, it had to be important.
Pushing Naomi off him, he headed into the closet, only stumbling once, dressing as quickly as he could. After punching in the combination to the safe, pulling out his gun, and closing it back, he reentered his bedroom.
Watching him from her new position on the bed, eyes glittering with awareness, Naomi was quickly over her sulking. Sometimes Mishca forgot she got off on that shit.
“I’ll call you after.”
That was all she ever got nowadays. The ‘I love yous’ had stopped a long time ago.
He took the elevator down to the lobby, not surprised to see Vlad already waiting for him next to Mishca’s pride and joy, a black S-class Mercedes. The man was nearly as tall as Mishca, but with broader shoulders and graying hair. Vlad was at least two decades his senior, and yet, he still hadn’t made it any higher in the organization.
In this, Mishca understood his privilege.
Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1) Page 2
