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

by London Miller

  “And you hurt them?”

  He shook his head, staring directly at her. “No, I killed them. There was only one that made it out alive, and that’s because he and I came to an understanding. Once Jetmir was dead, I could finally sleep, at least for the most part.”

  “Because you finally got revenge for Sarah?” she asked.

  There was no judgment in her tone, or any bitterness in her gaze. It was like stating a fact she wanted confirmed, but, her answer wasn’t true, not entirely.

  “Do you remember the man that was shot and killed in Hell’s Kitchen around the day we met—police blamed a gang war?”

  “Vaguely. What about him?”

  “He was one of the men that was there that day. I killed him. It was also the day I met you.”

  Whatever she was about to say, she held it in as she looked to him, waiting.

  “I won’t tell you that my reasons for pursuing you weren’t selfish. I wanted to use you to get off, to remind myself that I was still fucking alive. And you gave me that, everything I could have hoped for. But I didn’t realize that you had given me more until I left the first time.”

  He faced her, wanting her to know just how true that statement was. He needed to explain that he had never stopped thinking about her over those six months, thoughts of her plaguing him constantly to the point that he had stopped feeling so fucking bogged down.

  Niklaus had in fact felt alive again in the short three days they had spent together than in the entire two years before they had met.

  “But you left again.”

  “Because it wasn’t over. I wasn’t free of that burden yet. It felt wrong being with you when I had yet to prove that I even deserved you. Once I finished with Jetmir, it was the key. I proved that I wasn’t weak, that no matter who thought to hurt someone I cared about, I could find them and make them pay. I needed to know that if it ever came to it, I would be able to protect you the way I couldn’t protect her because you mean every fucking thing to me and I would lose it if something happened to you.”

  There was a glimmer of something akin to hope in her eyes, and maybe it took seeing it to fully grasp the one thing he had yet to tell her. “I loved her, that’s not a secret, but it doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

  “Niklaus—”

  “It doesn’t mean I love you any less,” he spoke over her before she could finish whatever thought had popped into her head. He wanted her to know this, to understand, so when he said it in the future, there would be no doubt in her mind that he meant them. “Because I do love you, Reagan, and now I know I can give you everything you need.”

  And that was why he left.

  Why he needed to get away and handle his own shit before he came back for her.

  Now he was finally able.

  This time, she came to him, her hands going up to cradle his face. “I love you, Niklaus. You know that.”

  No, she had never hidden the way she felt about him, not even when she couldn’t be sure he felt the same.

  Later that night, after Reagan had fallen asleep, Niklaus climbed back out of bed, grabbing his keys and slipping out the front door.

  Chapter 29

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Niklaus asked as they made their way into the warehouse where the screams of whatever poor bastard who had shot at them echoed throughout the space—though nothing could be heard out on the street.

  Mishca was texting, a common habit of his as he had hundreds of men he needed to keep track of. But even as he seemed to be focused on his task, he still heard Niklaus’ question. “What?”

  “Sending him to do this shit,” Niklaus said with a nod of his head towards the heavy metal doors they were walking towards and the scene he knew would be waiting for them on the other side. “The Albanians really fucked him up.”

  A little over a year and a half ago, the truth had come out about Luka, and the role he’d played in Niklaus’ abduction and torture, and his role in the Organization—the Albanian Mob. Five years prior, he had walked away from it, and everything else, reinventing himself—even going as far as changing his name from Valon to Luka—though not entirely since he used the knowledge learned from a life with the Albanians to do his job.

  But in a bid to save his sister and Luka’s new wife, Alex, Mishca had sent Luka back to his homeland, only so that he could get the Albanians—at least those he cared about—in the same place at one time.

  Then The Kingmaker had come into play and fixed the problem, something he did best.

  By the time Niklaus and his team had been handed the task, the Albanians had done work on Luka, hurting him in ways that would have broken a lesser man. And sometimes, when he thought back to that fateful day, when he’d walked into the room and found Luka on the floor, a piece of jagged glass clutched in his bleeding palm as he held it to his wrists … Niklaus wondered if Luka had been broken after all.

  “Even if I told him no … well, you know better than anyone that he’s going to do what he wants. And this,” Mishca said, his words punctuated by another howl of pain, “is what he wants.”

  Yeah, but to what end? Sometimes the things people wanted weren’t good for them.

  But there was no use in arguing that with the Russian because he had a point—Luka was going to do whatever he wanted, even if it was to the detriment of himself.

  Grabbing the door handle, Niklaus shoved it to the side, walking into the freezer, feeling the temperature drop dramatically, and as he’d expected Luka was standing there with blood on his hands, and his instruments of persuasion in a bloody mess on the floor.

  Niklaus only used torture as a means to an end, and if he could help it, he avoided it entirely, but the same couldn’t be said of the Albanian across the room, his frenzied gaze on the man tied to the chair, completely naked.

  If one had the misfortune of ending up beneath the hands of Luka Sergeyev, they would quickly wish that it was as easy as a bullet to the head.

  “Come now,” Luka said with a light slap to the man’s face. “Tell them what you told me.”

  He was shaking so badly that Niklaus didn’t think the man would be able to actually give an answer, not with the way he was staring at Luka, as though he was witnessing hell in human form—he wasn’t far off.

  And if from the way he kept his back off the seat, as though leaning against it hurt more, Niklaus had a pretty good idea as to why. He knew firsthand what Luka was capable of, and knew that when he began his torture, his art of extracting information from his victims, that it would follow a routine.

  Just as he was doing to the man in front of him, Luka had done to Niklaus all those years ago—but just as he’d done to Niklaus, the same had been done to him. It was almost terrifying to consider that that scene had imprinted itself on him, replaying itself over and over again.

  Sometimes Niklaus wondered whether his friend was torturing people, or in his head, torturing himself.

  “Liam,” the man finally managed to get out, looking from them to Luka, as though trying to make sure he was saying what Luka was looking for.

  He would have said anything to end the agony he had suffered. Niklaus knew the feeling well.

  “Right, right. What about Liam?”

  “He and Rourke, they wanted them handled.”

  “Who is they?” Luka prompted.

  “Him,” the man said looking to Niklaus, then blinked in confusion as he looked to Mishca. “Or, him.”

  “Yes, twins.” Luka rolled his eyes, slapping the man on the back of his head. “We got it. Who was the other?”

  “Declan Flanagan.”

  Luka, appearing satisfied for the moment, looked to Niklaus and Mishca, folding his arms across his chest. “That name, I know. The other two?”

  “Sons of Donovan McCarthy, Irish Mob. They’re here for a transaction with someone The Kingmaker is after.” And Liam had a thing with Reagan, but Niklaus didn’t bother to mention that. “Why’d he send you and your little
friends after us?”

  “Donovan made it clear that his deal with the buyer had to go down without a hitch.”

  Intrigued, Niklaus stepped forward. “That buyer, what’s his name?” While he still would have to make sure the transaction wasn’t successful, it would make his life a lot easier if he knew who, exactly, he would be seeing through the other end of his scope.

  “No one knows. The boss keeps it close to the vest, says the buyer demands it.”

  Sounded like The Kingmaker. “What does he look like?”

  “Your height, dark hair, dark eyes. British accent. I’ve only seen him once, and it was just for a second.”

  Niklaus wasn’t going to be able to get more from the man, but the description would serve his purpose when he went to the meeting—at least he would have an idea as to who he was looking for.

  “Good enough. So what was your assignment?”

  The man just stared at him, as though his answer would make Niklaus snap.

  “It’s fine. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

  Gauging the truth of his words, the man finally answered. “Make sure neither you nor Declan continue to be a problem.”

  Kill them if necessary.

  “Hmm. We’re going to need a meeting with Declan and the Irish.”

  Mishca nodded, already on his phone. “I’ll set it up.”

  When he walked off to the side, Niklaus faced Luka. “Are you done with him now?”

  Hope … it was a dangerous thing, and Niklaus hadn’t meant to put that in the man’s eyes. He had only meant whether Luka was satisfied with what information the man had given them.

  Luka made to protest, but Niklaus cut him off. “You're done here.”

  A light died in Luka’s eyes as his smile drifted away, a rather somber look crossing his features. Sometimes, it was like looking at an entirely different person.

  “Am I?”

  “Leave him be—your work is finished.”

  There was a moment where Niklaus wondered if Luka would disregard his words, continue on sinking himself deeper into the abyss that sat at the back of his mind. Sinking into it once was one thing, but a second time? There was no guarantee he would be able to get out again.

  But he didn’t…pushing the madness back for a little while longer.

  Pulling out his gun, Luka aimed and fired, putting the poor bastard out of his misery. “There,” he said, having never taken his eyes off Niklaus. “I’m done with him.”

  “Fucking hell, I thought I’d imagined that.”

  Niklaus was in no mood for the Irishman’s banter, seeing as how it was his fault they were in this shit in the first place.

  It hadn’t taken long for Mishca to get word to Declan, especially since the man was around considering what the Russian had told him. So far, though, there had yet to be an attempt on his life.

  Declan had agreed to a meet under the condition that neither Niklaus nor Mishca came armed, and that it just be the pair of them—they had heard of Luka and his capabilities.

  “Yeah, we’ve never gotten that,” Mishca said casually as he sidestepped the man.

  Though they might have thought Mishca was being humorous, Niklaus knew otherwise. People didn’t know that Niklaus and the Russian didn’t have much of a relationship, even as they stood together as though they always had.

  “Let’s not fuck about with pleasantries, lads. What d’you want?” Declan asked.

  “In less than an hour, I presume, there’s going to be an attempt on your life,” Mishca said, as easily as one would tell a man that the sky was blue.

  “How’d you figure that?”

  “Because about three hours ago, there was an attempt on mine, but they got Klaus instead.”

  “The McCarthy boys,” Niklaus spoke up. “Right now, you and I were interfering with a deal of theirs. Considering the timing, they probably thought you were with Mishca when I came to see you in that barbershop.”

  One of the men in the back mumbled, “Can see the reason for that.”

  “Probably thinking I’m siding with Russians.” The way he said it spoke of his hatred for Mishca and the Bratva. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re here? I didn’t think us mates, Russia.”

  “We need you to play dead for the next forty-eight hours.”

  Declan frowned. “I’d start losing money sixteen hours in. Why the fuck would I do that?”

  “Because Reagan’s life hangs in the balance.”

  Declan regarded Niklaus, sizing him up. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought the Irishman was deciding whether he was good enough for a girl he used to think of as a sister.

  “Fine. You get forty-eight hours. If you don’t finish it within that time, I’ll make sure I send the final message.”

  The man beside Declan, the one he had seen in that exact same spot next to his boss back at the barbershop, shifted on his feet, just enough of a tell to let Niklaus know whatever final message Declan wanted to send, this man was it. Unlike the last time however, Niklaus didn’t simply dismiss him, instead taking in details he hadn’t before.

  Like the tattoo that spanned the length of his forearm. It was of an owl, one clutching a knife in its bloody claws, along the steel was the phrase Sinn Fien—Irish for “ourselves alone.”

  Commonly known as the slogan for the IRA—the Irish Republican Army.

  Apparently, Mishca wasn’t the only one with a secret weapon.

  It was time.

  After two nights of avoiding the McCarthy brothers, just long enough for them to believe that they had successfully taken Declan and Niklaus out, it was time for the meeting that Niklaus had been waiting for.

  As Niklaus geared up, feeling Reagan’s eyes on him as he did. He thought of strategy and ran through every possible scenario of how the night’s events would go down. With each assignment he went on, he faced targets he had at least studied for days, if not months.

  But today? The only person he knew with any certainty was Donovan McCarthy, but he wasn’t the actual target. While The Kingmaker wanted a name, he hadn’t said whether he wanted a body to go along with it. Niklaus only killed when given a reason.

  The moment his Kevlar was strapped into place, he turned to Reagan, gauging her response. This wouldn’t be the only time she saw him like this, and he wouldn’t make promises as to otherwise.

  “You’ll be careful?” she asked, sliding off the bed to cross the floor to get to him.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, letting the warm scent of her skin calm him. “Always. By the time I get back, all of this shit will be over.”

  She nodded, but still looked unsure.

  “Trust me. I can handle this.”

  “And you’ll come back to me?”

  He smiled, tilting her face up so he could kiss her lips, conveying his answer that way, but in case she still didn’t get it, he said, “As long as you’ll have me.”

  Niklaus lay on his stomach, reminding him of another time when he had done the very same thing as he completed his first job not associated with the Den. Except then, there was a sort of nausea that churned through him at the idea of killing a man, even if it was someone he hated. He had still been new back then, still affected by the blood that spilled. Now, even though he did not intend to kill anyone, he didn’t feel that same nausea.

  He was calm. Collected. Just another day on the job.

  Now, there was just anticipation that swam through him as he stared through the scope of his rifle as two cars rolled to a stop a short distance away.

  Celt was around on another rooftop doing the same. The day before, he had come in, set up specialized, wireless cameras that could still pick up everything despite how dark it was out along a few of the trees that lined the sidewalk of the park. Even better, he had called in a favor from a friend and got a couple of mics that would also pick up the sound.

  Now, whatever information he might miss, he could replay—or at the very least, hand them over to The
Kingmaker.

  Donovan McCarthy was the first out of the car, his guards just behind him as he stopped next to a bench. There was a second, then two, before the other car’s rear door opened.

  Niklaus shifted his rifle just an inch to the right, trying to make sure he would be able to see the man this meeting had been centered around.

  The man got out slowly, methodically, as though he knew his every move was under surveillance, careful to keep his face shielded, the hat he wore doing the rest.

  “Mr. Harrington, pleasure to see you again,” Donovan said with a casual air, but Niklaus could hear beyond the false cheer—the man was afraid.

  “McCarthy,” Harrington answered, and just as Luka’s victim had said, the thick overlay of an English accent colored his words. He wasn’t from just any part of England. His accent spoke of a lineage, one prone to those in manors and estates. “I trust you have everything I asked for.”

  “Of course.” Donovan snapped his fingers, his men dragging forth six aluminum briefcases.

  “Excellent.”

  Once the briefcases switched hands, Donovan looked on expectantly.

  “So you have what I need, Elias?” Donovan asked, seeming to feel a little more confident in their transaction. Perhaps he didn’t notice his slip, but he had now called the man by his first name, and judging from the coolness in the man’s next words, he didn’t appreciate it.

  “Actually, McCarthy, I’ve heard quite a few troubling things about you in this last week. Understand, when I make a transaction, one such as this, I expect there to be a certain level of professionalism that I now see you lack.”

  Donovan cleared his throat, his easiness disappearing as he straightened, never taking his eyes off Elias.

  “It’s been handled.”

  “There should never have been anything to handle, McCarthy, that’s my problem. The terms of our contract were simple. Do not, under any circumstances, draw attention to yourself until our business was complete. And you were doing so well. A shame, really.”

  “Whatever you might have heard—”

  “I don’t believe it matters now. You violated my contract, and for that, it’s been voided.”