“He’ll be overseeing your training. Only he will determine when you’re ready. I suggest you try and best him or you’ll never see the outside of this place again.”
But the question was, best him at what? He still had no clue who they were or what they did. Soldiers? Doubtful. Assassins? Maybe.
Z climbed to his feet, nodding back at Celt. “Training starts now.”
Any sense of understanding Niklaus thought he possessed about Celt disappeared the moment they were alone, and in another room with concrete floors and an array of weaponry in a glass case across the back wall. The first time they entered, Niklaus had been instructed to pick a weapon, any of the number that were on display.
With his body still healing, he had decided against his fists, choosing one that looked like a rather large stick. Niklaus was satisfied, at least until he saw the flash of a smirk on Celt’s face.
That should have been his first clue that this wouldn’t be nearly as easy as he had hoped.
Celt didn’t pick a weapon, and minutes later, Niklaus learned why.
He didn’t need one.
No matter how Niklaus struck out with his weapon, whether it be spontaneous or calculated, Celt avoided the blow, sidestepping each one.
“You’re too predictable,” he said, catching the stick the next time Niklaus swung, pulling it free from his grasp and tossing it across the room. “You’re showing me everything—that’s your weakness. You’ll be dead in an hour.”
The more he talked, the worse Niklaus felt. He already had enough baggage weighing him down, and worse were the memories that plagued him of how helpless he had felt in that house with Jetmir and the others.
They had so easily overpowered him, and the idea of that happening all over again had Niklaus tossing his weapon, letting it clatter to the floor as he faced Celt once more.
Celt had his guard up, that much was clear despite how he tried to put on a relaxed air. It was obvious he expected Niklaus to attack him now, lash out because of his words, but he didn’t.
Instead, he said, “Show me.”
“Show you what?” Celt returned, but Niklaus could tell by the way he asked the question that the man knew exactly what he was asking.
“Show me how not to lose.”
Sitting in the boiler room, shirtless, sweating, Niklaus kept his breaths even as Celt tugged on thick, black gloves, wrapping his hand around the handle of the rod sticking out of glowing red coals. As it was pulled free, the end of it glowed vibrantly, forcing his eyes to the symbol there.
He had been training for this moment even if he hadn’t known it at the time.
Six months spent in a padded room with Celt teaching him how to fight, and which weapons were best to use. His training was tedious, to the point that even in his dreams, he was assembling and disassembling weaponry, learning every little aspect there was.
It was one of Celt’s rules, one of the many that he’d told Niklaus over the course of their work together: learn your weapon, or die trying to use it.
It hadn’t just been Celt teaching him however. Over the next few months, there had been others, a team of sorts that came in and out of his life sporadically.
After Celt, there had been Calavera, a specialist in knives that would have put Valon to shame. Though he sported more cuts than he would have liked after their time together, he appreciated the knowledge more.
After her came Skorpion, Grimm, and another man whose name Niklaus still didn’t know. He didn’t know where they came from, or where they went, but they had all offered him some knowledge that would serve him well for his duration with the Den.
All of it, more than thirteen months of training had led up to this point where there would be no turning back from the path he had taken. With a single mark, he would be branded with the very thing he needed to get the revenge he sought …
He had only a spare moment to take it in before Z signaled for two—ones Niklaus had worked with, but had yet to learn their names—to come forward and grab hold of him, keeping him in place.
Niklaus knew what to expect—Celt had warned him.
Dropping his head forward, he drew in a deep breath, trying to keep his wits about him. It was quiet for so long that Niklaus wasn’t sure if this entire process was only meant to frighten him, but just as he’d begun to relax, his shoulders slouching, Celt pressed the heated metal to his flesh.
The agony was enough to make his eyes water, but he gritted his teeth to get through it, refusing to cry out even as the pain threatened to force it out of him. He was sure he would pass out before the process was over, but worse was the overwhelming scent of burning flesh that suffocated him. It brought back memories better left to the past.
However, before he could sink too deeply into them, Celt pulled the rod away, the heavy metal clanging on the floor after he dropped it.
When the hands on him disappeared, Niklaus felt lightheaded and weak, almost to the point that he was seeing stars, but he managed to stay upright, blinking to clear his vision as they all circled to stand in front of him.
He was careful not to move his head too much, not wanting to make the pain any worse, but he made it his mission to look at them all.
From the very beginning, Niklaus had never seen Celt crack, never a smile, or any expression besides the blank, emotionless mask he always wore, but now for the first time, a hint of a smile curled his lips as he nodded at Niklaus.
“Welcome to the Den, Red.”
Chapter 9
2012
Shouldering his duffel bag, Niklaus kept his gaze at his feet, even with the opaque sunglasses concealing his gaze. It only took a single person, or the right angle of a security camera, to catch his face, and blow up his carefully crafted identity. Thankfully, most people by nature were unobservant, too lost in their own lives to remember someone that excelled at remaining forgettable.
Usually the jobs he took were sanctioned, preplanned ops that only required him to show up, pull the trigger, and disappear with the help of an entire organization.
But today’s job? This one was his alone. Though it was the middle of the day when most people were roaming the streets, Niklaus couldn’t put it off any longer—not if he wanted to end the man’s life on this side of the Pacific.
Careful not to brush anybody as he moved, Niklaus slipped like a ghost through the crowded streets, heading for the five-story building a block away. Before turning the corner, entering the alley that had the sharp scent of rot and garbage clinging to it, he checked the time on his watch, making sure he was on schedule. Even a few seconds could mean the difference in success and failure.
Fingering the key in his pocket, Niklaus pulled it free, slipping it into the lock, twisting until the door popped open. Heading up the back stairwell, he made it to the roof. Dumping his bag, he moved to the edge, just close enough so he could see over. At least a hundred feet down, stuck on one of the street signs that stood there was an orange flag taped to one side, one he had placed there weeks ago. He waited, watching as it barely fluttered in the brief winds that blew. For now, conditions were perfect.
Stowing his glasses away, Niklaus crouched, unzipping the duffel, carefully removing the piece of rifle inside. A year and a half of brutal training, another six months of shadowing his mentor, Celt, and finally a year of working on his own had prepared him for this very day—the day he would take the life of a man for no other reason than because he wanted it ended.
Artem was no innocent, not like some Niklaus had needed to hunt down in the past. He was knee-deep in human trafficking, sold guns to anyone that was willing to buy, and had a plethora of men that were willing to kill for him at a snap of his fingers. But it wasn’t for these crimes that Niklaus had decided to put a bullet in his head.
No, it was because two years ago, before Niklaus had become the well-trained soldier he was, Artem had helped take something from him. Someone that had meant more to Niklaus than words could do justice.
For Sa
rah, Artem would die.
No, Artem hadn’t been there that day, but he had been part of the long line of men that had made that day possible, which meant he shared just as much responsibility as the others.
For all intents and purposes, the man was getting off easy compared to the hell Niklaus had rained down on others, and for what he had planned for the main three that had been in the room with him.
Jetmir, Valon, and Fatos.
After he had learned their names, he never forgot them.
The first would die slowly, painfully, and in every way that he didn’t know he feared until Niklaus was too spent to do anything more. For him, he would take his time and savor every minute. The second, he would be tortured as Niklaus had been, then he would die too. The last? A combination of the two.
But those three were for another day.
If not for the lot of them, Niklaus didn’t think he would be on the rooftop, ready to take Artem’s life. Perhaps Artem only had himself to thank for his own death.
Assembling his rifle, Niklaus checked the scope before moving to the edge of the roof once more, his back to the brick fixture on his left.
Staring across to the restaurant, Niklaus clocked every man milling about the place, oblivious to the danger they were all in. He, especially, paid close attention to Artem, who looked to have gained a hundred pounds since the last time Niklaus had seen him. He held a glass of brown liquor in his meaty fist, the fat around his neck jiggling as he laughed boisterously at whatever one of his men was saying to him.
Seeing him so happy when Niklaus was plagued with guilt made anger simmer to life inside him, but there was no place for that. Not anymore. Exhaling, Niklaus centered his thoughts, concentrating on the present, letting his training take over.
For men that prided themselves on being untouchable, a large number of them stuck to the same routine every day, making it far too easy to learn their schedule and track them down. Niklaus had only just decided to go after one of them when he was sent to New York on an assignment and saw Artem walking the streets with his security detail. As soon as the job had ended, Niklaus had reached out to a few contacts he’d garnered over the last year, trying to get as much information as possible. Two weeks later, he knew every move Artem made and would make.
It was almost laughable how easy it had all been.
Snapping to attention, Niklaus’ gloved finger slipped around the trigger as he watched and waited.
The security rose first, keeping a uniformed line as they headed out the door first, checking for any threat on the street before their boss was to exit. Niklaus didn’t withhold his smile. The idiots never bothered to look up.
No one ever did.
Artem stepped outside, tugging at the bottom of his suit jacket as though that may help it move further down over his girth. He was smiling, gesturing wildly as his truck was pulling up.
Niklaus didn’t get anxious, just waited until Artem was lined up exactly where he needed him, the target now on his forehead.
One breath in …
Artem waved to someone …
Niklaus exhaled.
He pulled the trigger.
The rifle recoiled as the bullet shot through the chamber and out of the barrel, moving with lightning speed across the distance to land in the center of Artem’s forehead.
Pandemonium erupted as Artem’s security whipped out their guns, searching for an enemy they couldn’t see, civilians screaming as they ran for cover.
Niklaus didn’t stick around to admire his work. Disassembling his rifle in seconds—a talent he had learned from one of the best—he dropped the pieces into the bag and took off, leaving nothing behind, not even the shell casing.
Forty-five seconds from rooftop to alley …
Blood rushing in his ears, Niklaus ignored the cries of alarm, focusing more on the men barking orders in Albanian, on the hunt for him.
He’d almost cleared the alley when two of the Albanians finally caught sight of him. Niklaus kept moving, pretending like he hadn’t heard them call out. Adrenaline and rage coursed through him, a combination that didn’t prove well for the two confronting him.
This organization had taken so much from him …
He was no longer afraid.
Reaching for the gun holstered at his back, he had his finger on the trigger before the two comprehended that he was the one they wanted. He put two bullets in each of their chests before either could reach for their weapons.
Two blocks down, his car was waiting, the keys already in the ignition. It hardly looked like it ran so there hadn’t been any worry someone would try to steal it while he was on the roof.
Tossing his duffel into the back seat, he started the car, the engine roaring to life. He didn’t pull off right away, letting the comfort of his car calm him a moment before he finally put the car in drive and eased out, following the flow of traffic.
One hand on the wheel, he used the other to brush the damp strands of his hair back out of his face.
Glancing over at the digital display that lit up the dash, Niklaus still didn’t let himself enjoy the satisfaction of another job well done.
Not yet.
A bell chimed as Niklaus entered the diner in Hell’s Kitchen, a few curious eyes shifted in his direction before turning back to their own menus. Pushing back the wet hood of his jacket, he shrugged out of it as he headed for an empty booth in the back, one that was near the windows and still proved a decent vantage point to see the rest of the place. Thankfully, the weather had turned to shit after he’d finished with Artem. He was a good shot, but rain would have made the job a lot harder than it needed to be.
When he had left his motel room earlier, needing a minute away from the place, and had found the diner not very far away, the light drizzle had turned to heavy rains, nearly soaking him through, but he didn’t mind it. He found comfort in it.
Reaching his booth, he tossed his jacket on the vacant side, taking his own seat as he picked up the laminate menu that looked like it had been printed in the late seventies, scanning his options. He wasn’t much of a picky eater. There was something about greasy food and tacky decor that had drawn him to this place.
It reminded him of home.
He had only begun to read the other side of the menu listing every kind of sandwich they offered when he noticed someone moving towards him out of the corner of his eye.
While he didn’t sense a threat, he tensed up anyway, swinging his gaze in that direction.
Even though he knew plenty of women that were just as capable as he was—Calavera for one—this one didn’t look like she could hurt anyone.
She wore a pale yellow uniform with a red apron tied around a tiny waist, and while the clothes weren’t the most flattering, they did nothing to take away from her overall appeal. She was pale with an abundance of freckles on her face, a button nose, and light auburn hair that looked like it was trying to fight its way free of the bun she had it in. No jewelry adorned her skin, and she didn’t look to be wearing any makeup, but that didn’t mean Niklaus didn’t find her attractive.
She was definitely that.
However, she did look tired. Bags under her eyes, her steps carefully measure as though she had been on her feet all day. When she reached his side, still keeping a safe distance between them, she smiled, revealing straight, white teeth.
“Hi, I’m Reagan. I’ll be your server. What can I start you off with tonight?”
“Coffee.”
She nodded, not bothering to write that down. “Do you need a few more minutes with the menu, or are you ready to order?”
Stretching an arm out in front of him, he tapped his thumb against the linoleum, keeping in time with his heartbeat—a calming tactic that he had quickly learned if he wanted to survive the madness that threatened to take him under after a kill. Her gaze flickered down to the movement, and then she turned those wide eyes back on him and blinked, almost like she was truly seeing him for the first time.
/> Tilting his head a fraction, he asked, “How’s the steak?”
Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, Reagan looked thoughtful a moment before answering his question. “They’re good. Haven’t heard any complaints.”
“And you? Do you like them?”
Niklaus wasn’t sure what compelled him to ask, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him.
A blush crept its way up her neck, staining her cheeks. He wasn’t sure whether it was from his questions, or the fact that he was staring.
Why was he staring?
Clearing her throat, she nodded again.
“I’ll take one, medium rare. Fries on the side.”
“I’ll get that right in for you.”
“Thanks.”
But his words were lost on her as she had already headed back towards the window that looked into the kitchen. He watched her go, taking in the details of the rest of her. She was curvy, curvier than what he usually preferred, but he couldn’t deny, especially as she leaned over the counter calling out to a “Reggie,” that he was drawn to her—whatever the fuck that meant.
On the other hand, maybe it was just the way her ass looked in that skirt.
Either way, he needed to get laid.
While he waited for his food, he looked around at the other diners, feeling a bit out of place around people that looked relatively normal compared to him. They might all have been out for a late dinner, or just passing the time with present company, but only a few hours ago, Niklaus had killed a man, and was now here to remind himself that he was still human—that he wasn’t too far gone and not just a walking weapon.
Since the very first time he had pulled the trigger, ending the life of a man that had the misfortune of having his name in a file, Niklaus had tried to find a routine, something to keep him grounded and not lost in his own morbid thoughts.
Ever since, Niklaus had gone out to eat afterward. The first time, he’d promptly thrown up all of his food when he’d thought about what he had done. After the third, he was able to keep the food down, and after the sixth, he no longer thought about it.
Den of Mercenaries: Volume One (The Mercenaries Book 1) Page 5
