Their father was dead.
Their sister a distant memory.
And their mother … no one hated Abigail Runehart more than Kit.
“I won’t pretend to understand what goes on in your head,” Uilleam said with a slight shrug and wince. “But you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t have any information.”
“Luna tells me that the shooter rode a motorcycle and shot you from a considerable distance. Did you get a look at him—particularly, the jacket he wore?”
Uilleam narrowed his eyes, as though in thought. “No, I was too busy getting shot to pay attention to whatever the fuck he was wearing. Your point?”
Kit’s lips quirked in a corner. “They call him the Jackal.” When Uilleam didn’t comment, Kit went on. “He’s been quite prolific over the last five years. He was also the one responsible for what happened to your mercenary last year.”
Uilleam frowned. “And you’re only telling me this now?”
“I don’t involve myself in your affairs unless I need to.”
Kit didn’t care about the mercenaries under his control, and had it not been Uilleam that had felt the unforgiving hand of the Jackal, he wouldn’t have gotten involved now.
“Who’s his handler?”
“No one knows.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Kit arched a brow. “You must be mistaking me with one of your mercenaries, brother.”
“Then how do you find the Jackal?”
“You don’t,” Kit said, a truth that he wished he didn’t have to share. “He finds you. Whoever he is, he’s very good—and whoever he works for, they’re more paranoid about their anonymity than even you.”
Uilleam shook his head. “Ghosts can’t stay hidden forever.”
“My resources are at your disposal should you need them.”
“Duly noted.”
“Don’t give the nurses too much trouble,” Kit said as he got to his feet. “Take it easy over the next few days.”
Uilleam scoffed. “My work is never done.”
“Then take a break. You were shot five times for God’s sake—you’re lucky to be alive.”
“I don’t think luck had anything to do with it,” he said. “He missed every major organ, and if we ignore the sheer number of bullets, it wouldn’t have been life threatening.”
Even Kit couldn’t hide his surprise then.
He’d heard the assassin was good, but that was far beyond anything he had expected.
“I wasn’t meant to die today,” Uilleam said, gazing off at something across the room. “Of that much I’m sure.”
“I’ll ask around,” Kit offered after a beat of silence, “see what I can find.”
“Give my thanks to Luna, would you?”
Kit nodded, excusing himself once the nurse came to check on Uilleam. As he was leaving, and spotted Skorpion on his way out, he was reminded of the other reason why he had come here.
But it wasn’t to Skorpion that Kit directed his question.
Instead, he called the one man that might have had the answer, and was willing to share it with him.
“Uncle,” Kit greeted once he was secure in his car and the Bluetooth was turned on. “Is this a good time?”
“It’s never a good time,” came his disgruntled reply. “What can I do for you?”
“Uilleam contracted Luna for a job in California and—”
“He did what?”
Since Zachariah had agreed to take on the job as wrangler for the mercenaries, it was rare that the man didn’t know what assignment belonged to whom—he was their handler after all.
What was Uilleam hiding?
“Perhaps he was intending to meet you.”
Then why hadn’t he mentioned it?
And why involve Luna?
Curious that he would ask Luna on an assignment that he didn’t tell anyone else about, especially knowing that Kit would be in California at the time—more curious considering who he’d met with at the time.
Whatever Uilleam’s intentions, it had something to do with Luna—he just had to find out what.
Chapter 18
Kit could remember almost to the exact moment when he knew everything wasn’t all what it seemed with his younger brother.
It was during one of those cold, winter nights years ago when Kit had been barely old enough to call himself a teenager. Despite spending most of his days away at the boarding school his father forced him to attend, during the two very short weeks during the winter holiday, he was permitted to come home.
Kit hadn’t minded staying away, enjoying the peace that came with not having to worry about a tyrant living only one floor above you. Besides, this year he had finally made a few friends—an impossible feat in the remote estate where one would have to travel at least twenty minutes by car just to find a neighbor.
As a child, he’d been rather content being alone, finding enjoyment in solitary acts—anything to stay out of his father’s way—but as he got older and grew tired of puzzles and word games (both in which he excelled at), he longed for other human interaction besides the family he’d rather not be a part of.
Well, with the exception of Uilleam.
Everything had changed when he was born, from the relationship between their parents, down to the way the household was run. Their mother had spoiled Uilleam rotten, but in the process she also shielded him from the wrath of her husband—something she had never done for Kit.
Perhaps that was where his need to protect Uilleam at all costs had come from. His mother, though never having outright said as much—had conditioned Kit to look after him more than he possibly needed.
And it was for that reason that when Kit heard his father’s booming yell, he’d hopped down from his perch on the windowsill and went running.
So as long as he was in the house, usually Alexander Runehart let Uilleam be if only because he was terrorizing Kit—this would be the first time in a long time he’d heard his brother in trouble.
But, when he hastened down the two flights of stairs, it wasn’t his brother that he found to be in trouble with his father, but Clifton, one of his security.
Kit had never liked the man, nor the man him. Though Clifton was nearly two decades his senior, the man was often jealous of Kit—though there was very little reason to be—simply because he would become his father’s successor one day.
It didn’t matter that Kit wanted no part of the Runehart legacy.
Nor did it matter that what time Kit did spend with his father, he was being terrorized—no, the man only saw what he wanted to see.
That, he could handle. Clifton wouldn’t be the first to dislike him, nor would he be the last. He had learned rather quickly how to ignore what bothered him. The problem came in when his father hadn’t gotten enough enjoyment out of inflicting his punishments, but sought out others to do the same.
Clifton gleefully volunteered.
Blinking as he took in the scene before him, Kit saw Abigail with a hand to her chest and fire in her eyes standing off to one side, Uilleam diligently by her side though slightly behind her.
In her left hand, she held a diamond studded choker, one of her most prized possessions. She didn’t know it was a necklace Alexander had taken from the dead body of his former mistress—Kit thought only he was privy to that knowledge.
Cold, accusing eyes were trained on Clifton, but his own attention was fixated to Alexander and the cleaver he held in his right hand.
“You think to steal from me?” Alexander asked, a dangerous light to his face.
Though Kit longed to ask what was happening, he kept his mouth shut, knowing that he would rather be clueless than to garner his father’s attention.
“I would never steal from you, boss,” Clifton said in a gravelly voice, his unease prevalent. “This is some kind of mistake. I—”
“How eager you were,” Alexander went on as though the other man hadn’t spoken, “to punish my son for eating when he w
asn’t meant to be, yet you betray me by stealing from my wife?”
Kit remembered all too well the punishment he had taken for sneaking down to the kitchen for a slice of the massive cake that lay sitting on the counter. He had just been setting in to eat a giant slice with a spoon when Clifton had found him in there.
He had meant to run upstairs, flee before the man could call on his father, but Clifton snagged him before he could take a step, fingers fisting in the back of his sleep shirt. In his haste to make sure he didn’t get away, Clifton had managed to knock over the towering cake, sending it splattering to the floor before it could be saved.
Once Alexander arrived shortly after, Clifton had wasted no time in placing the blame on Kit, and even offered to do the punishment himself.
Alexander wasted no time in agreeing.
He was to get twenty lashings with the same heavy silver spoon he’d intended to eat with—because no one will steal from me, he’d said.
Kit had barely made it through seven before he was wailing in agony, feeling like Clifton had managed to break a number of bones in his hands.
Only when he was knocked to the floor by a closed fist did Kit realize Uilleam stood in the shadow of the alcove, his expression unreadable, but he’d disappeared in the blink of an eye.
It was that same kind of expression reflected on Uilleam’s face now. He too, watched without speaking.
Kit quickly put two and two together, realizing that Clifton was being accused of stealing the necklace Abigail now held.
“I didn’t!” Clifton exclaimed, his panic growing as two of Alexander’s security moved to grab him. His gaze cut to Kit, as though only now realizing he was in the room. “It was probably the kid,” he shouted out desperately. “I saw him looking at it the other day—little shit is trying to set me up.”
Alexander sent Kit a dismissive glance. “He’s been away these last few days, if you remember. He would have had no time to do it, but I thank you for showing me the kind of man you are. Hold him.”
Clifton screamed bloody murder as Alexander drew nearer, gleaming cleaver in hand. A part of Kit wanted to look away, to close his eyes against the horror he was about to witness, but the rest wanted to watch Clifton suffer.
And with one mighty arch of the cleaver, Alexander severed Clifton’s fingers from his hands, leaving spurting, bloody stumps behind.
Gushing red spilled over the table, soaking into the white table cloth, and sprinkling over fine china. Kit could almost taste the copper in the air.
Clifton collapsed to the floor, crying and yelling even as he tried to clutch his bloody hands to his chest.
Alexander’s security dragged him out.
As though the last five minutes hadn’t transpired, Abigail sniffled, raising her chin slightly. “You should find better security.”
And they moved on, as though nothing had happened.
It wasn’t until later that night that Uilleam made an uncharacteristic stop by his room. He hadn’t said a word as he joined Kit by the window.
Then, with a voice as calm as day, asked, “I never did like him. And he lied when he said you knocked over the cake—and I’ve never liked liars either.”
He was just a boy then—or should have been—but as Kit watched his brother turn to leave as he had so many times before, he couldn’t ignore that curling feeling of unease sitting low in his stomach.
Quiet and unassuming, that was how their father liked to describe Uilleam, but Kit learned that there was much more to his brother than what he allowed to show.
And he didn’t think that was good at all.
Not much had changed over the later years, only Uilleam got better at what he did and Kit outgrew his father’s rampage. The first chance he was able, he’d walked away without looking back.
They both led separate lives, taking them down two different paths.
Yet, somehow they ended up here—together once more. And just as he had that night, Kit felt the familiar tightening.
Uilleam was playing a game, he realized, except now he didn’t know what game it was, only that Luna was somehow a part of it.
He just needed to find the connection.
Kit made it a point to find his own information. While he didn’t have the skills of a hacker, he made do, but despite his best efforts he hadn’t been able to find anything on Luna.
That wasn’t uncommon—Uilleam made it a point to scrub his mercenaries’ identities once he selected them, making it far easier to keep them off the grid—but Kit could recover at least a few details of the lives they led before they joined the Den.
With Luna, there was nothing.
Even if he weren’t suspicious of Uilleam’s motives before, he was now. Because it only begged the question, what was he trying to hide?
It was for this reason that Kit found himself entering Calypso’s Tavern, a watering hole in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. While the interior looked like it hadn’t been renovated in more than thirty years, the floor worn and damaged in certain spots, those that ventured inside weren’t concerned with the aesthetic of the place, but rather the freelancers that took up residence inside.
Two pool tables sat toward the back of the space, a number of round tables occupying the rest of the floor. The lighting was dim, hard rock spilling from speakers mounted on the ceiling.
Benji, the resident bartender, was at his post, a bottle of whiskey in one hand as he laughed at whatever story he was being told by the burly man seated in front of him. Once he was finished pouring the row of shots, pocketing the bills the man slapped down, he looked up, surprise in his gaze as Kit approached.
“Been a while, Nix. What do I owe the visit?”
“Is he back there?”
Though Kit had ventured into this place more than a dozen times, he had only come for one person so he never bothered to use a name anymore.
“Yeah, he is, but he’s in a shit mood so watch yourself.”
When was he not?
Accepting the warning with a nod, he started for the back room, blinking to adjust to the sudden change in lighting. Unlike the dull yellow tone that was prominent throughout the bar, the back hallway was saturated in red. There were three doors, one leading to a restroom, another for storage, and the last that was painted black—and unlike the other two, this one was made of reinforced steel.
On that door, Kit knocked twice.
“Password!”
“Must we really do this when you quite obviously know it’s me?”
There was a camera just above the door, one that allowed the man on the other side of the door a clear picture of who was standing on the other side—there was also another outside the tavern.
Undoubtedly, Kit’s presence had been noticed before he had even walked through the doors.
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem giving the password.”
With a roll of his eyes, Kit finally, begrudgingly answered, “Beware the Jabberwock with jaws that bite and claws that catch.”
When the heavy bolt disengaged and the door finally swung open, revealing the man on the other side, Kit frowned.
“You do know that your password is not very clever,” he said once he was allowed entry.
The other man shrugged. “Gets the job done though, no?”
Semyon Kreshnik was not like most hackers. While he was a proud blackhat, he still had a moral compass, but no one was ever sure which way he would lean. If one came to him with the wrong offer, he wasn’t opposed to using his skills against them.
And worse, he didn’t give a shit about money.
“What can I do for you, Phoenix?” Semyon asked as he closed the door behind them, shifting the lock into place. “I thought you were retired.”
While the Lotus Society had a number of hackers on their payroll, Kit had always preferred using outside contractors, especially when it came to information he needed kept private.
“I am retired,” Kit said studying the display of six screens against th
e wall.
While he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing, it all made sense to Semyon as he returned to his seat, dropping the wireless keyboard in his lap. Tattooed fingers flew over the keys, the screens blacking out one by one.
“I guess we’re all retired until we’re not,” he said glancing back. “So what do you need? I owe you that favor from Moscow last year, so let’s clear it.”
Semyon was very much like Uilleam in that way—he didn’t like owing anyone—and though Kit had told him there was nothing to repay, he insisted.
“I need you to find someone—Luna Santiago.” Kit also gave her date of birth and where she was born, but he also added, “It may be hard to find her considering every trace of her was scrubbed by one of The Kingmaker’s associates.”
Semyon gave him a droll stare. “Associates? Right. If they were any good, he wouldn’t have offered me a job.”
This was the first he was hearing of this. “And you didn’t accept?”
“I’ve never played well with others. Might want to have a seat, Nix,” Semyon said with a nod of his head to the black leather couch against the wall. “This might take a minute.”
“How’s he doing?” Luna asked as she walked with Zachariah through the halls of the compound, just spotting the edge of a man’s bare feet dragging across the floor as he was dumped in what was affectionately known as the Silent Room.
It wasn’t because the room ever stayed that way. Sure, in the beginning there was nothing but the voices to keep you company when you were inside since it was pitch black and soundproof.
It was never the place one wanted to stay for long lest the demons trapped in their heads came rushing back to suffocate them.
After the silence came blaring, high-pitched noise that was loud enough to create an instant headache. Then came the lights that flashed so bright one’s pupils dilated painfully, and only after long, agony filled seconds did it all start over again, creating a vicious cycle of discomfort that broke even the strongest of people down.
Most that came to this place seeking the benefits were already broken to a point that nothing could have been worse than what they had already experienced—and ultimately, the Silent Room had helped to center them instead.
Den of Mercenaries: Volume One (The Mercenaries Book 1) Page 71
