Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(76)

There was no point in arguing it with him. Besides, this was just another way that he said ‘I love you.’

“I love you, Kyrnon.”

He smiled slow and steady a moment before he kissed her lips.

A promise, and and an answer.



FIN





CODA





Seven weeks ago …



“Sir?”

Uilleam was buttoning the front of his suit jacket when Dominic appeared behind him. Though it had been on the schedule for days now, and he had a knack for remembering times and dates, he still asked, “Is the jet ready?”

“The pilot is on standby, awaiting instruction, sir.”

Passing one last fleeting glance to the delicate box that sat on his desk, a place it would never be moved from if he could help it, Uilleam exited his office.

One of the luxuries his money afforded him, besides the multiple acres of land, was the private airstrip, one of the few things at the Runehart estate he utilized often. There were days, like today, when he was doing nothing more than walking the grounds, and seeing the ghost of what had been a wondrous place when he was a boy, that he missed coming here.

Once he was on the plane, he gave short instructions to the man that was getting paid a hefty sum to transport him from Wales to Hollywood, California. Had he still been in New York observing Celt’s assignment from a distance, the flight wouldn’t have taken nearly as long, but he took the spare time anyway to think over his next move.

How many names had made it both on and off his list in the last year alone?

Nine?

Twelve?

But no matter the number, he found he was closer than he had been to the one he sought.

Already he had learned the name of Elias, one of the few closest to whoever was waging a war against him. It wouldn’t take him much longer to work his way to the top of the food chain—it was just a matter of time.

But it was all contingent on him not making a single mistake.

The people he went after had to be moved in a certain way, carefully orchestrated so as not to draw too much attention to what he was doing. One wrong move and that would send the others into hiding. He couldn’t have that.

It was all about the game, even the way it was fixed.

And that, if nothing else, was a talent Uilleam excelled in.

He was a fixer.

The fixer—for anyone that was willing to pay his price.

Sometimes that payment came in the form of an object, maybe a place, even people, though the purpose they held was not what most assumed it to be.

An army.

Every man needed an army.

But as good as he had once been at making others’ problems disappear, he found he was far better at manipulating events so that he was the one both causing and fixing the problem.

After all, he would hold all the cards.

Many hours later, a black Rolls Royce awaited him at the end of the runway, its driver standing erect in front of it, waiting for the moment Uilleam was in sight before relaying his directions.

Uilleam was used to them, having heard the set of rules on a previous occasion, so he tuned the man’s words out, watching the passing city lights through the rear windows.

By the time they were rolling down the familiar street, the driver was just finishing with, “The Mistress asks that you respect the rules of her home, or suffer her displeasure.”

There was a certain waver to the man’s voice that spoke of his fear for the woman that signed his paychecks. Perhaps he had once been on the receiving end of Carmen’s sadism.

“Understood.”

If there was one thing Carmen Santiago was notorious for, it was her easily peaked temper. She had a tendency to lash out before listening to reason, and while there had been a time when he would have refused her brand of work, his current plan, the endgame, needed her involvement.

They were all pawns. The mercenaries, and the people he sent them after.

They just didn’t know it yet.

The Arian Sea Club Carmen owned came into view. Housed inside a building erected in the 1800s, it still held some of its old world charm, timeless in a city that was becoming far too modern.

Even the events that took place within its walls were timeless.

There had always been a need for whores.

As the car rolled to a stop, the door was opened for Uilleam by an attendant, the man not daring eye contact. Making his way to the door, adjusting his bowtie as he went, he glanced down the vacant street, thinking he’d seen movement, but there was nothing.

The doorman didn’t ask for a name, instead wrapping knobby fingers around the heavy brass handle and opening the door.

Warm candlelight flickered in the darkened entryway, glinting off polished marble and gilded features. The decor spoke of old money and elegance, but he was not moved by such simple details.

Uilleam wasn’t there to share in the opulence of the atmosphere. No, he had come for the woman in the back parlor room, a long thin cigarette in her manicured hand, sweetly smelling tobacco scenting the air.

Despite the casual air of the space where men and women who had enough influence to have been offered an invitation to one of Carmen’s gatherings, she was dressed formally in a gown of jewel green satin that clung to curves by the best plastic surgeon money could buy. Her hair was in elaborate curls, falling in waves around her shoulders, as dark as an oil spill.