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

by London Miller

  But it wasn’t Kyrnon’s place to question those above him. When he had signed that contract, essentially handing his life away until the end date on the last page, he had given up his right to question anything.

  Now that Z—and still, no one knew the truth as to what had happened to the man—was no longer in charge, Kyrnon was looking forward to this latest encounter with The Kingmaker.

  Inside, a teenage girl sat behind a podium, her phone in hand as she paid more attention to it than she did to Kyrnon’s sudden appearance, even as the door chimed at his entrance. A couple feet away, an elderly woman with kind eyes sat alone, smiling at nothing in particular, but when she noticed him, she stood and waved for him to follow her as she shuffled her way to the back of the restaurant.

  Industrial-sized fans nearly drowned out the sound of machines working in the sweltering kitchen where two men stood with guns at the ready, a woman, who was seated and looked rather calm despite her surroundings, and The Kingmaker stood close by as money was counted and bundled.

  Though he took in the scene, Kyrnon didn’t look away from The Kingmaker as he grabbed the man’s attention.

  “Kyrnon—or do you prefer Celt? It’s awfully difficult trying to keep up with these things,” The Kingmaker said, just loud enough to be heard over the noise in the room.

  Tempering his reaction—he never reacted well when people used his name—Kyrnon merely said, “Celt.”

  “Right then, Kyrnon. Let’s have a wee talk, shall we?”

  Now, he was starting to understand why Red hated the man so much.

  But unlike his friend, he was better at concealing his emotions, so even if The Kingmaker managed to say something that would offend him, he wouldn’t show it anyway.

  Dutifully stepping off to the side, Kyrnon folded his arms across his chest and waited for The Kingmaker to walk past him, then followed him into an office, closed the door once he was inside. Surprisingly, the sound of the fans was completely muted inside the room.

  “Now, as you could probably imagine, I have a job for you,” The Kingmaker said as he circled the desk on the other side of the room and took a seat. Judging from the photos on the wall, the office clearly wasn't his, but he seemed quite comfortable in the space. “There was a painting that once belonged to my family for generations. It was a rather grotesque and somber looking thing, but I was rather partial to it all the same.”

  Kyrnon hid his surprise well. From the stories he had heard about his new handler, the man issued orders without comment, and if he did, it was never with embellishments, but threats and promises of punishment if his orders weren’t acted out as he had demanded.

  The Kingmaker drummed his fingers on the desk, drawing Kyrnon’s attention to the small “K” that was tattooed on his hand in the space between his thumb and index finger. He briefly wondered whether the initial was for his moniker or something else.

  But as though he could feel Kyrnon’s gaze on it, The Kingmaker moved his hands out of sight.

  “About three years ago, the painting was loaned to the Cinquantenaire Museum in Brussels. Not even a week later, the museum was robbed, but the only thing stolen was my painting.” The Kingmaker flattened his hands on the desk, seeming lost in the past as he rambled on. “For the better part of six months, I tried to find the men responsible—or any information at all about the theft, but nothing. No one knew anything. And believe me when I say people do not want to not have an answer for me.”

  Before he could say anything more, Kyrnon asked a question of his own. “What was the name of it, your painting?”

  “L’amant Flétrie—The Withered Lover.”

  Casting his mind back to his own whereabouts around that time, Kyrnon tensed. He remembered that painting—it had been showcasing in a gallery that he was frequenting when he had been in Brussels around the same time. Though he hadn’t been in the country for more than a few hours, The Kingmaker could easily think that.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Kyrnon,” The Kingmaker said with a laugh. “I know you weren’t responsible—you were busy handling that job with the banker, no? The men responsible, I’ve already handled them, personally. You’re here now because you are, quite frankly, one of the best at what you do.”

  “Right.” Kyrnon cleared his throat, scratching at the hair on his jaw. “What exactly are you asking me to steal? What’s the job?”

  “L’amant Flétrie,” The Kingmaker repeated. “You see, three years ago when I was prying the fingernails off one of the thieves’ body, he wouldn’t tell me who hired him for the job. By the end of it all—and this went on for hours, mind you—he, nor his partner, were willing to give up who contracted them. However, their silence told me something their lack of words had not—they feared their boss more than they feared me.”

  The Kingmaker’s tone had changed, darkened, a barely concealed rage coloring his words. “Even as I offered them death in exchange for an end to their suffering, they remained silent. Nevertheless, though it took some years, I finally found the man responsible.”

  Elias.

  It finally clicked. Now it made sense, why The Kingmaker had only asked Red to find a name, and not do anything more. Obviously the man was capable—he had been able to elude The Kingmaker for three years. Kyrnon had witnessed that day in the park when the man in question had brutally murdered his associate because of a slight the man made. More impressive was how Elias had been able to have the scene cleaned in less than ten minutes.

  At the moment, Kyrnon couldn’t decide who would be the worst enemy to have between the pair.

  “Whether his arrogance precedes him is still in question, but my painting is up for auction in a few weeks here in New York, though I know not where. The location is a carefully guarded secret apparently.”

  And it had to be a good one if The Kingmaker still didn’t know.

  “And you want me to retrieve it?” That word sounded far better than “steal.” “Wouldn’t it be flagged, considering it’s been stolen before?”

  Kyrnon didn’t mind taking risks—that was his job after all—but sometimes that same risk wasn’t worth the hassle. He had learned the hard way about trying to complete impossible tasks, especially when he’d had to escape from a prison in South Sudan for trying to smuggle blood diamonds—that weren’t actually blood diamonds he had grown to learn—out of the country.

  “Let’s just say that the painting’s theft was never reported, nor did the curator of the museum feel the need to inform anyone of what had taken place there, with the exception of myself, of course.”

  Kyrnon knew what that meant. Either the curator was dead, or he had been paid a large sum of money to disappear.

  “So, yes, I want you to return what belongs to me, but I also need you to find out how it got into the country in the first place. I have it on good authority that after last month’s unpleasantries, Elias is not in the country presently. And considering I have men everywhere, I’m surprised that I have just learned of its presence here.”

  “And when I find out?”

  The Kingmaker looked to him, his gaze rapt. “Shut it down. Whatever it takes. Can you handle that?”

  Kyrnon nodded. “I’ll see it done.”

  “Excellent. I presume you still take payment in the form of gold?”

  Kyrnon didn’t mind wire transfers, or briefcases full of cash, but he rather enjoyed accepting payment in the form of jewels and gold. There was just something tangible about it, as opposed to just numbers on a screen.

  But then, he also liked shiny things.

  “Aye.”

  “Your payment will be waiting at the usual drop location. Also …” The Kingmaker pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers, sliding it across the desk toward him. “The gallery, Cedar Art, is in Greenwich Village. I suggest you start there.”

  Slipping the note into his pocket, Kyrnon nodded. “Why here?”

  “Its owner, Elliot Hamilton, received a phone call from a man named G
abriel Monte. To you, he’s no one, for men like me, he’s a smuggler. Capable of moving just about anything in a short period of time. I’m sure you can understand my meaning without me having to spell it out.”

  As he was turning to leave, The Kingmaker called out to him. “Be careful where you step, Kyrnon. Snakes are very well hidden.”

  Not knowing what he meant by that—and not caring enough to ask—Kyrnon made his exit.

  It was only a few days later that Kyrnon was finally able to look into the gallery.

  Upon first glance, there was nothing particularly outstanding about Cedar Gallery—or perhaps that was only because Kyrnon had been in more than a hundred galleries in his time.

  This one’s exterior was painted a shiny black, gold letters depicting its name hanging above the large windows that provided an unobstructed view inside. There was a showing tonight, if Kyrnon had read the article online correctly, and though the space had seemed small from the few pictures he had seen, there were at least a dozen people inside already, with a few more waiting to enter.

  Climbing off his bike, Kyrnon removed his helmet, fastening it to the handlebars as he then turned his attention to Cedar. He wasn’t particularly dressed for the crowd tonight—his usual ensemble consisted of jeans and plaid, though for the night he had switched out the flannel for a chambray shirt beneath his leather jacket—but no one seemed to pay him any mind as he stepped up onto the sidewalk and entered the gallery.

  The interior was brightly lit, and from what he could see, there was an area off to the right that was reserved for the wait staff, rows of glasses filled with champagne nearly taking up the entirety of one table, hors d’oeuvres on another.

  “Champagne, sir?”

  Quietly thanking the man, Kyrnon grabbed a flute from his tray, but didn’t drink from it—he never drank on the job. Rule seventy-seven. If he wanted to get the job done without getting caught, he had to stick to his rules.

  There was an art to a great theft, and Kyrnon was a master at it. After all, he had been taught by some of the best.

  First, the security.

  Every gallery—or places in general—had their own security system, one they believed was impenetrable. Some were easier than others to bypass, just a matter of cutting off the signal to certain cameras, or lasers that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. Sometimes it was a matter of shutting down the power to the place entirely, or in rare cases, for bigger jobs, he had Winter—the Den’s resident hacker—break into the system and shut it down remotely.

  Second, location.

  A thief needed to know what they were looking for and where. If they had a somewhat decent blueprint to guide them, it would be easy enough to work out a plan of attack and escape routes.

  But all of that would mean nothing without the last crucial piece—and this one could mean the difference between success and failure.

  The inside man.

  While not all jobs required them—Kyrnon had completed quite a few without help—it made things run a bit more smoothly when there was someone that could provide information that he might not otherwise be able to get his hands on.

  And from the looks of it, his inside man would be one of the numerous females working for Elliot—preferably one that was close to the man.

  It was in his scan that he saw her.

  Even if it wasn’t her hair that grabbed his attention, it definitely would have been the dress. While rather conservative in the front, just low enough to display the delicate charm hanging around her slender neck, it dipped low in the back, exposing the tattoos decorating her spine.

  From his position, he could see her clearly, even with the distance that separated them. Earlier, he hadn’t been able to fully appreciate the view, but now … she was a beauty to look at. Full, pouty lips, ample curves that he wanted to get his hands on, and warm golden skin that brought out the tawny flecks in her eyes.

  Beautiful, he had thought when he saw her rushing toward the train that was mere moments from taking off, but seeing her now … the word didn’t do her justice.

  Kyrnon had never cared much for the lunar cycle, but as he followed the crescent moon from its position at the nape of her neck, the full moon right in the center of her back, and the edge of another crescent where her dress cut it off, he cared then.

  Earlier on the train, had he not been on his way to the meeting with The Kingmaker, he would have gladly struck up a conversation and found a way to get her back to his loft, but he assumed he wouldn’t be seeing her again.

  Kyrnon wasn’t one to believe in coincidences.

  What was the likelihood that she was both on the same train and in the very gallery that he was meant to scout?

  He didn’t hesitate in walking over, placing his untouched drink down on a nearby table.

  She stood in front of a Macgeweyer painting, one of the man’s earlier works before he descended into a life of drugs and debauchery. Kyrnon was familiar with it—was familiar with most considering his occupation—even knew that it was worth a pretty penny, but presently, the only thing that had his attention was the girl to his left.

  “D’you like it then, the Macgeweyer?”

  Turning, a smile was already on her lips, but as she realized who was speaking to her, her eyes widened just slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up further. “It’s one of my favorites. Thank you for earlier, by the way. I don’t think I got the chance to say that.”

  “No problem at all.”

  “I never caught your name …”

  He hesitated a moment, thinking over his answer. Not many knew his name, most just called him by his moniker. Even when he met someone new, he usually offered the same.

  But for her, he found himself saying, “Kyrnon Murphy.”

  “Amber Lacey. Nice to meet you … again, Kyrnon.”

  He liked the way she said his name. She wasn’t from New York, he knew that much from the almost slow drawl in which she spoke—probably the West Coast though he hadn’t spent much time over there.

  “I …”

  “Amber,” a tiny woman with a pixie cut interrupted, smiling apologetically at the pair of them. “Elliot needs you for a moment.”

  Kyrnon looked to Amber as she looked to him, her lips parting as she prepared to say something, but he beat her to it. “I’ll be around.”

  Nodding once, she disappeared with the girl, leaving him to watch after her, and the way her arse swayed in that dress.

  For as long as he could remember, Kyrnon had been an arse man.

  Once she was gone out of view, he continued his walk through, making note of the few laser projectors in the ceiling around certain, more expensive pieces. But in a glance, he could easily see that while what hung on the walls was decent enough, they still lacked in comparison to L’amant Flétrie.

  This didn’t seem like the kind of place someone like Elias would have The Kingmaker’s painting displayed. Most black market dealings were in more secluded locations, where they could more readily control the traffic, and were able to have people killed if needed.

  But for whatever reason, Gabriel and Elliot had made contact.

  Kyrnon still needed to find out why.

  Chapter 3

  For Amber, the last couple of days had been spent working on The Withered Lover, setting up the canvases, mixing the paint and getting everything as organized as she possibly could before she even picked up a paintbrush.

  It was just her process.

  Yesterday, she had finally been able to actually start, and the minute that first stroke of her brush fell over the canvas, she felt at home. All worries of her screwing up flew out the window as she let instinct guide her. Hours later, when she was finishing up for the night, she had looked back at the pair side by side, only seeing the barest trace of light gray on the canvas she was working on.

  To anyone else, it might have looked like nothing, but to her, she could see what it would become, and what would ultimately complete it.

&nbs
p; Tonight, though, she had only been able to work on it until four in the afternoon when one of Gabriel’s movers—as Elliot liked to call them—came to retrieve L’amant Flétrie for the day.

  The painting was never kept in the studio, removed whenever she was done working and brought back in whenever she came in.

  Amber didn’t understand the need for it all, especially if no one knew where it was. It just seemed like too much hassle having to take it from one place to another each day, but then again, she didn’t really know the owner of it, so she couldn’t say whether he was just that paranoid, or the precaution was needed.

  She would have worked longer had Elliot not been holding a showing, this one displaying a sculpture on loan from a wealthy family in Manhattan.

  But in the course of her work, she had forgotten all about the showing, and realized belatedly that she wouldn’t have time to get home, change, and be back in time for the event. Luckily, Tabitha’s apartment was across the street from Cedar, and she was more than willing to let Amber raid her wardrobe for something to wear.

  “You should wear this one,” Tabitha had said from her spot at the vanity, carefully winging her eyeliner, even as she pointed to the dress she was speaking of, still wrapped in plastic from whatever store she had bought it from.

  Though she wasn’t independently wealthy—the wealth was her father’s after all—Amber wasn’t a stranger to designer clothing, but that didn’t mean she was willing to shell out thousands of dollars on a dress she might only wear once. It was all about comfort for her—jeans and shirts over dresses any day—but when she was on the floor, Elliot had the final say in what they wore.

  And his standards were high.

  Once she was dressed, makeup applied, and jewelry on, Amber fussed with her hair, manipulating it the way she liked. Having been blessed—or cursed, depending on the day—with extremely curly hair, it had taken trial and error to learn how best to tame it, though even on the best of days, it still had a mind of its own.

  That was the thing about naturally curly hair, it did what it wanted whether you liked it or not.