Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(7)

Scrubbing himself clean, ridding his body of the grime and dirt of O’halla that made up a secret floor of a warehouse he owned across the city, Kyrnon was back out again and getting dressed before heading into the kitchen, bypassing everything until he reached the pantry.

Inside, he reached behind a shelf, pressing against a hidden panel in the wall, pulling a small square of drywall off. Feeling around the space since it was impossible for him to see in it, he pulled free his favorite gun—a Sig—and a box of ammunition. Loading his gun, he placed the box back inside.

Though it was rare he had anyone over, at least not while he was present—and he wasn’t trusting by nature—he still made it a point to keep his things hidden away just in case.

Kyrnon was nothing if not practical.

Pulling the slide back, he made sure there was a bullet in the chamber before holstering the weapon. Lacing his boots up, then strapping on his vest, Kyrnon was out the door.



* * *



Stepping out onto the platform, the doors to the train at his back sliding closed, then taking off with a whir, Kyrnon ascended the stairs onto the street above, hands in his pockets as he walked towards the designated place.

Unlike Z—the man that had recruited, trained, and handled Kyrnon—the Kingmaker didn’t follow that same tradition.

When he called, and the man didn’t do this often, one was expected to just show without question. Though he had been the new handler for a little over a year now, the Kingmaker hadn’t called on Celt except for one other occasion, and that was only to wrangle in Red should he not readily agree to the Kingmaker’s meeting.

Since then, Kyrnon hadn’t seen much of the Den besides Red last year when he needed assistance with a man known only as Elias, and the family in Hell’s Kitchen.

And unlike some others, Kyrnon was moderately happy about being called in. At least now he would have something to do with himself.

There was a pizza parlor at the corner of 15th and Lexington, one of the best in the city even though Kyrnon had no interest in actually visiting the place. Even as the heavenly aroma of mozzarella cheese and warm tomato sauce filtered out through the open door, his attention had been snared by the shiny black Escalade parked at the curb.

He was in the right place.

But, if there was one thing about his handler he disliked, it was how dramatic the man seemed.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand precaution. Hell, he was constantly checking over his shoulder, paranoid that one of the many people he had crossed during his work with the Den had finally caught up with him. He understood the need for it.

It was the fact that he had not bothered to give Kyrnon a location until an hour before the meet.

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.