Den of Mercenaries: Volume One (The Mercenaries Book 1)

by London Miller

“What’s the plan now?”

  “Now? We’re going back to your place, I’m going to spank your ass for not listening, then I’ll eat your pussy, and I’m going to sleep. Sound good?”

  Was she supposed to say no to that?

  As they left the apartment building, Niklaus opening the car door for her, neither noticed the man watching them from a few feet away.

  Chapter 26

  He didn’t take no for an answer.

  That just wasn’t the way Liam McCarthy worked. When he wanted something, he took it, by any means necessary. And when he made Hell’s Kitchen his home, and stumbled across Reagan O’Callahan, he had decided he wanted her.

  For a spell, he had found her resistance cute, even entertained it for a while, but he knew she would come around—they always did.

  But Reagan, she had proven to be more opposed to him than he had originally thought, but he would soon have more time on his hands to show her exactly why she was wrong.

  After showing his father the receipts, documenting just how much they had earned over the last six months, he had finally convinced his old man that his decision to move to the States was a good one.

  Right now, the only hiccup he was facing was Reagan, especially now that she had disappeared, and no one had seen her go in or out of her apartment.

  But she wouldn’t be able to hide for long.

  “He’s getting help from the fucking Russians!”

  Liam was toying with his phone, thinking over how best to handle Reagan’s disappearing act when Bobby, one of his brother’s soldiers, came walking into his office uninvited, but Bobby’s words managed to make it through his foggy head before he prematurely put a bullet in the man’s head.

  “What are you going on about, Bobby?” Liam asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the men were too afraid to speak what they needed to say for fear of what he would do next.

  Producing his cell phone, he opened up photos he had snapped, scrolling down to the one he needed, then angled the phone in Liam’s direction.

  Taking the device, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

  There was a barbershop, one he had never paid much attention to since it seemed rather empty the last few times he had passed it—there was no point in taking from those that weren’t receiving. But then his gaze snapped to the two men at the focus of it.

  One was Declan, of that he was sure. He had seen the lad around enough, even before he had thought to make trouble for them, but it was the other man that made him pause to look closer.

  He had seen his face before, that night at Reagan’s pub. He had been sitting at the bar with a drink in his hand, his attention on Reagan as though it had any right to be. If Liam remembered correctly, he had even mouthed off, thinking to get in between Liam and Reagan.

  And now that he thought back on it, on the way Reagan had rushed around and stepped between them, he wondered for whose sake she had done it. Was she more concerned with keeping her business secure, or had she been trying to protect him?

  Pointing to the one he didn’t know, Liam asked, “Who is he?”

  “Mishca Volkov, boss of the Volkov Bratva. Word is the Bratva and Declan have never seen eye-to-eye, but maybe Declan made a deal for their help to move against us.”

  Liam considered the information.

  It wasn’t a bad move on Declan’s part, smart even. He would have done the same thing if his family were in a similar circumstance.

  “What do you want to do about him?”

  Had this Mishca Volkov been waiting for Reagan’s brother? Possibly to have a message sent off. It would make sense, even explain how Declan had been able to make so many moves against them when he was supposed to be in hiding—he had the Russian doing it.

  “Donovan has an important meeting in three days. Three days. Find them,” Liam said, shoving the phone back at Bobby. “And bury them. We don’t need more complications.”

  And once this problem was solved, he would make sure he thoroughly explained to Reagan why not to cross him.

  Chapter 27

  “Russian.”

  There was a certain ire to Niklaus’ tone as he answered the call, shifting his hands on the wheel as he put the phone to his ear. He didn’t sound particularly excited whenever his phone rang, but whoever was on the other end this time, it was clear that Niklaus felt a way about them.

  “Despite what you think, I do have a life outside of your fucking Bratva.”

  Bratva. She had heard that word before, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she had heard it, or even what it meant.

  “I’ll pencil you in tomorrow,” Niklaus said with a roll of his eyes, even if the person on the other line couldn’t see him. “Fine. Stop your fucking bitching, I’ll see you within the hour.”

  Hanging up, Niklaus tossed his phone on the seat, then turned on his blinker before merging into the turning lane.

  “I need to make a stop first,” he explained, as he made a U-turn, heading back the way he came.

  “With a Russian …” Reagan hedged, hoping he would offer up more.

  “Mishca is his name, my brother.”

  There was definitely bad blood there from the way Niklaus spoke about him in that detached manner of his. And she could only remember once when Niklaus had brought up his family.

  “I didn’t know he lived here.”

  A tick worked in his jaw, but he didn’t sound bothered as he answered. “We grew up separately.”

  She frowned, feeling a pang in her chest. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t imagine not growing up with her brothers.

  “Don’t be,” Niklaus said with a wave of his hand. “He’s a dick.”

  Reagan didn’t get a chance to comment on that fact before Niklaus was mumbling to himself.

  “An obnoxious little shit with a hero complex.”

  “A hero complex?”

  “You have no fucking idea.”

  She really didn’t, but the way he spoke about him, with such disdain and annoyance, she was almost afraid to ask him what problem he had with his sibling.

  It wasn’t long after that they were turning into a side alley adjacent to a number of storage units. Already parked a ways down was a Jeep spattered with mud and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.

  Leaning against it was a man with curling blond hair, a rigid jaw, with almost every inch of his skin covered in colorful tattoos.

  Intense.

  That was the only way Reagan could think to describe the man standing not too far away, most of his impressive height slouched over as he leaned against that muddy truck that looked like it had been used in Desert Storm. He hadn’t spoken yet, nor had he threatened them in any way, only turned predatory eyes in their direction, but it was enough to make a sliver of fear run down her spine.

  The only thing he did was smile. But there was something about that expression that made her think if she caught him in a dark alley one night, he would still be wearing that same smile while slicing her throat.

  His gaze never left hers as he said, “You must be Reagan.” He lifted a tattooed hand to push the longish, blond strands back out of his face.

  She had thought Niklaus was someone to fear after she had witnessed what he was capable of, even Liam and Rourke, but this one? He was something else entirely.

  “I am,” she finally responded after glancing at Niklaus. “Sorry. I don’t think Niklaus mentioned you.”

  His smile only grew as he glanced at the man standing next to her. “Probably not. Our bromance has only gotten stronger over the last year and a half. He didn’t like me much before.”

  She felt compelled to ask, “Why not?”

  “Meh, I tortured him for a few days. Grisly business, mind you, but we worked it out.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Luka. Cut it out.”

  Reagan wanted to believe that he was joking, however morbid the joke, but neither of them laughed, and though the blond wa
s smiling, it didn’t look particularly humorous.

  She remembered the scars on Niklaus’ back just then, the jagged lines that she knew caused him a phantom pain even now, no matter how long ago those wounds had been made.

  This was the man that put them there?

  She would think that after everything he had told her, the retribution he had delivered after what had been done to him that this man would be at the top of his hit list.

  Yet, there he stood—almost arrogant in his way of telling her what he had done.

  Reagan didn’t think before she struck, the palm of her hand cracking across his cheek. He had to have seen the hit coming, but he hadn’t moved, nor did he try to stop her from hitting him.

  He just stood there, like this was the reaction he wanted from her.

  There was a handprint now on the side of his clean-shaven face, but he paid it no mind as he looked to Niklaus. “I like her.”

  Niklaus’ expression was unreadable as he regarded Luka, but whatever silent message he was trying to send, the man was ignoring it.

  “Ignore him,” Niklaus said, tearing his eyes away. “The woman who holds his leash is in Paris at the moment—she’s the only one that keeps him sane.”

  A burst of laughter escaped Luka as he rubbed at the handprint on his face, and for the first time, Reagan noticed the black band that encircled his finger.

  “I don’t think sane is the right word,” Luka interjected.

  “Where’s the Russian?”

  Reagan didn’t doubt that Niklaus was referring to the man he’d been on the phone with not too long ago, but she did wonder why he didn’t use a name.

  Luka glanced down at his watch. “Should have been here by now. He’s never late.”

  No sooner had that statement left his mouth before his gaze shot up, aimed in the direction of a car that was pulling into the alley. Reagan was expecting a smile from him, or at least some indication that he knew who was coming, but there was only a second, one where his face twitched with confusion, before he was reaching behind him.

  It was just a second … just one before the loud crack of a bullet split the air.

  The doors to the car were swung open as multiple men—at least three that Reagan could see before she was shoved to the ground by Niklaus—came stumbling out, guns trained on them as they fired with abandon.

  “Stay down!”

  She didn’t have to be told twice, clamping her hands over her ears to drown out the gunshots.

  Niklaus was on his feet, a gun in each gloved hand as he fired back. Though terror had seized hold of her, she looked back, trying to see whether the men were still there, and they were, but one was on the ground, a bullet in his head, his eyes open and unseeing.

  Reagan doubted she would ever get that image out of her head.

  A tire on Luka’s truck exploded, flattening instantly as a bullet plugged into it. Reagan, without thinking, scrambled away, but in her haste, Niklaus’ attention had shifted to her for a split second.

  Then, his body jerked to the side as he gave a grunt, the gun dropping to the ground.

  Shit. He was shot!

  He dropped to a knee, but didn’t go down completely. Lifting his good arm, he fired another round, the muscles in his arm straining against the recoil.

  And with that last shot, silence echoed.

  Reagan stumbled forward, reaching to help Niklaus as he struggled to his feet, but out of the corner of her eye, she caught Luka dashing forward, running for the car that was backing out of the alley.

  He ran like a man without fear, or maybe like a man that wasn’t rational. “I got him, coach!” Luka shouted out a second before he fired at the car’s tires, preventing the man from going any further.

  He jumped onto the hood of the car sliding across before dropping down on the other side as he yanked the driver’s side door open, pulling the lone man from inside and dragging him to the mouth of the alley.

  He was a grown man, one that Reagan recognized as one that hung around Liam and Rourke, but with the way Luka handled him, it was like he was handling a child.

  Stowing his gun away, Luka pulled out something else, something metal and tapered to a point. It glinted in the soft light of the waning twilight, but before Reagan could see what Luka would do next, Niklaus turned her face away, forcing her attention on him.

  Judging from the cry of pain that split the air, Reagan was sure she didn’t want to see what was happening anyway.

  “How bad is it?” she asked, reaching for the part of his shirt that was torn and saturated with blood. From what she could tell, it was still bleeding.

  “It’s a flesh wound,” he said easily, too easily, making her think that he wasn’t being completely honest. “Luka! Stop playing with your prey. We need to go.”

  “Aww, but—”

  “Now, you little shit!”

  Reagan couldn’t begin to understand the relationship between Niklaus and Luka. She would have thought Niklaus hated him, just because of what had been done to him, but beneath the insults that he seemed to keep throwing in Luka’s direction, they seemed more like friends—good friends—than enemies.

  “Fine,” Luka said as he came back over, swiping his hands along the front of his shirt, uncaring that he was leaving bloody finger marks behind. “That looks bad.”

  Luka accentuated the remark by poking Niklaus’ wound, jumping back when Niklaus moved to grab him.

  “There’s no need to get feral, Red. Give me your keys.”

  “Not on your fucking life.”

  Luka, whose expression had changed to one of sarcastic patience, gestured to his own truck. “Can’t drive mine—it’s shot to shit at the moment. If we’re going to get out of here, you have to let me drive.”

  It was beyond clear that Niklaus couldn’t want anything less, but ultimately, he tossed him the keys. “You chip my paint, I’m shipping your ass back to Albania.”

  Luka shot him a middle finger, but didn’t respond as he climbed in the driver’s seat, waiting for them to climb in after him before he reversed out of the garage, then down the alley. He had his phone out and was dialing a number before they were ten feet away.

  “Sorry, your day off is cut a little short. I had a little accident that I need you to clean up.” Luka rattled off an address to whoever he was on the phone with, then said, “I’d clean it up myself but someone’s bleeding out next to me and that’s a little more important. Oh, and there’s one I left alive, take him to the Wet Rooms.”

  Reagan didn’t know what the Wet Rooms were, but she was sure she didn’t want to find out either.

  Niklaus made a sound from the front seat, a mix between a groan and a grunt, as he rolled the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing the torn and bleeding flesh of his arm. The sight of it only made the nausea churning in her stomach grow worse.

  “Shit, I think she’s going to be sick,” Luka muttered, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “And it’s hard cleaning vomit out of things. Trust me, I would know.”

  Ignoring him, Niklaus looked to Reagan, trying to shift his expression into something other than pain.

  “You need a hospital,” Reagan said, too afraid to touch him, even in comfort, in case that only hurt him worse.

  “Not at all,” Luka chimed in. “Lauren can get him stitched up in no time.”

  Who was Lauren?

  But Reagan didn’t get a chance to ask before they were pulling into a parking structure in the middle of Manhattan, the building it was connected to far nicer than Reagan’s own place. This was the kind of place she’d dreamed of living in—a definite improvement than the closet she was currently living in.

  But she knew even in Manhattan, the places were tiny, but at least they were nicer.

  Reagan was worried, wondering how they would just walk through the front doors of a building like this. Niklaus was bleeding, and Luka…well, he looked like the reason for the blood, but instead of going through the front, they circled the bui
lding and took the elevator up to the top floor, to a penthouse apartment that had Reagan more curious as to whom they were there to see.

  “Should I even ask what you’re doing here, Lu—”

  But the girl who was rounding the corner, who looked around the same age as Reagan, stopped when she caught sight of the three of them. Then, with uncanny precision, her gaze locked on Niklaus’ wound, a flash of fear in her gaze before she reached for him.

  “Let me see.”

  “I’ve been shot before, you know.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Lauren, really. Don’t—”

  The girl—Lauren—didn’t seem to care what Niklaus was saying, not with the way she just grabbed hold of his good arm and marched him into the living room, shoving, albeit gently, him onto a barstool and told him to stay there.

  “Where the hell is Mish? I thought he was supposed to be meeting you,” Lauren called out, having disappeared into a guest bathroom, walking back out with a small first aid kit.

  “Yeah, this happened before he got there,” Luka answered. “Where’s the little one?”

  “In his room—but don’t wake him, Luka. I know you. I’m trying to keep him on his schedule, but if you keep disrupting it whenever you come around, that’s only going to make it worse on both of us.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

  But from the way Lauren rolled her eyes, she didn’t believe him—but neither did Reagan.

  “Right, sorry. Reagan, this is Lauren Volkov.”

  Volkov?

  She shared his last name? While she knew genetics were an iffy thing, Reagan couldn’t see the similarities between them, if there were any. Maybe one or the other was adopted?

  “Reagan, you said?” Lauren’s tone had changed, even the way her gaze shifted to Niklaus was curious, but whatever silent message passed between them, Reagan didn’t understand it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Reagan. I don’t know if Niklaus has mentioned me, or us, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  Reagan was too distracted by Niklaus carefully pulling his shirt off to properly hear what Lauren was saying, but she was sure there was something she was not getting …