Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(16)

If anything, that only made it worse. “Idti—Go.”

“Don’t order me around, Niklaus,” Reagan said with a huff. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”

Slapping a hand down on the bar, Red leaned toward her. “Now.”

Throwing her hands up in frustration, she did as he asked, stepping behind the bar as she glared at him. “Happy?”

Pressing a kiss to her forehead as he moved around her, he said, “Always.”

Just as quickly as he had irked her nerves, her frustration drained away. “Go on, she’s waiting for you.”

She?

Kyrnon didn’t get the chance to speak before Red was parting from her, moving around the corner, and waving for him to follow.

With a smile, Kyrnon called out, “Always a pleasure, Reagan.” As they headed toward a closed door in the back of the pub, Kyrnon looked around. “Who’s waiting on you?”

“Not just me,” Red said as he turned the knob, shoving the door open.

“Who are—”

But it only took a knife being flung through the air, the blade embedding itself in the center target of the board next to the door for Kyrnon to know just who was inside the room.

Calavera.

One of the Den, she was as deadly as she was beautiful. Most underestimated her—Kyrnon had too at one time until she had shown him exactly what she was capable of—because she was slight of frame, even as she was taller than most females at five-ten.

But the woman had a thing for knives, and knew how to use them.

Unlike the lot of them who had the Den choose them, Calavera had willingly sought it out. Her reasons were her own, and as was their custom, no one asked for what she didn’t freely offer.

One thing had been rather clear though once she had come to the Den for formal training and assignment—she was a master at knives and manipulation. They all had their specialties, but her talents got her places they couldn’t get to.

Turning warm brown eyes on him, her lips turned up at the corners as she crossed the polished floors, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her knife and giving it a tug. “It’s been a while, Celt. Where’ve you been hiding?”

Despite knowing each other for more than half a decade, Kyrnon hadn’t stuck around Calavera for any long period of time since their training days. In recent years, he only saw her when one or the other was on an assignment and needed assistance, or they just happened to be in the same city at the same time.

But he definitely hadn’t seen her since word of Z’s death worked its way through the channels. Even if she didn’t show it, he knew she took Z’s death hard—she had been rather close with him from what he remembered.

That wasn’t to say the mercenaries that called the Den home weren’t close—they all had each other—but each of them had gravitated toward one other on their team, their loyalties lying with them first, and the others second.

Kyrnon and Red.

Calavera and Skorpion.

Syn and Winter—even though Winter was not officially under contract, it was easier to think of her that way.

They were just someone they trusted a bit more.

“Right here,” Kyrnon said as he dragged Calavera into a quick hug, mussing her hair as he had done since she was a teenager. “Keeping this one out of trouble. I thought you hated the east coast?”

She and Skorpion both, actually. While Skorpion had a condo on the beach, spending most of his mornings trying to catch that perfect wave, Calavera took up residence in an apartment on the Vegas Strip. She rarely ventured this far east, and if he were being honest, it almost felt like she avoided New York entirely.

“I won’t be here long,” she said, thanking Niklaus with a smile as he tossed her a bottle of Sprite from a mini refrigerator against the wall of the office. “The Kingmaker asked for a meeting.”

It wasn’t uncommon, them all having jobs at the same time—they even overlapped occasionally—but they were never ordered to the same city at the same time.

And as he thought on it, Kyrnon also wondered what was making the Kingmaker choose the assignments he gave out. They usually were paid a fee to either hurt, kill, steal, or retrieve something, but the Kingmaker had only sent Red after a name, and now Kyrnon was trying to find a stolen painting.

It seemed fair enough for him—he did specialize in art theft—to be assigned the job he had, but even still, this all still felt personal—too personal in fact.

Personal ties were a hindrance.

But Kyrnon didn’t have all the answers.

Not yet at least, but he would … no matter how long it took.

“What do you think of him?” Kyrnon asked, dropping down into one of the chairs.

Calavera hopped up onto the table, stiletto boots swinging as she twisted the top off her drink. “Of the Kingmaker?”

Kyrnon nodded.

“He’s fine.”

“Is that the best you can do?” Red interjected, shaking his head.

“You asked my opinion, I gave it. Besides, he’s not new to me. Z-Zachariah,” she only slightly stumbled over his name, “spoke of him often.”

“And …”

“And?”

“For f*ck’s sake,” Red snapped impatiently.

Calavera laughed, seeming delighted in the face of his agitation. “Ask the question you want answered.”