Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(14)

He was careful not to move his head too much, not wanting to make the pain any worse, but he made it his mission to look at them all.

From the very beginning, Niklaus had never seen Celt crack, never a smile, or any expression besides the blank, emotionless mask he always wore, but now for the first time, a hint of a smile curled his lips as he nodded at Niklaus.

“Welcome to the Den, Red.”





Chapter Nine





2012



Shouldering his duffel bag, Niklaus kept his gaze at his feet, even with the opaque sunglasses concealing his gaze. It only took a single person, or the right angle of a security camera, to catch his face, and blow up his carefully crafted identity. Thankfully, most people by nature were unobservant, too lost in their own lives to remember someone that excelled at remaining forgettable.

Usually the jobs he took were sanctioned, preplanned ops that only required him to show up, pull the trigger, and disappear with the help of an entire organization.

But today’s job? This one was his alone. Though it was the middle of the day when most people were roaming the streets, Niklaus couldn’t put it off any longer—not if he wanted to end the man’s life on this side of the Pacific.

Careful not to brush anybody as he moved, Niklaus slipped like a ghost through the crowded streets, heading for the five-story building a block away. Before turning the corner, entering the alley that had the sharp scent of rot and garbage clinging to it, he checked the time on his watch, making sure he was on schedule. Even a few seconds could mean the difference in success and failure.

Fingering the key in his pocket, Klaus pulled it free, slipping it into the lock, twisting until the door popped open. Heading up the back stairwell, he made it to the roof. Dumping his bag, he moved to the edge, just close enough so he could see over. At least a hundred feet down, stuck on one of the street signs that stood there was an orange flag taped to one side, one he had placed there weeks ago. He waited, watching as it barely fluttered in the brief winds that blew. For now, conditions were perfect.

Stowing his glasses away, Niklaus crouched, unzipping the duffel, carefully removing the piece of rifle inside. A year and a half of brutal training, another six months of shadowing his mentor, Celt, and finally a year of working on his own had prepared him for this very day—the day he would take the life of a man for no other reason than because he wanted it ended.

Artem was no innocent, not like some Niklaus had needed to hunt down in the past. He was knee deep in human trafficking, sold guns to anyone that was willing to buy, and had a plethora of men that were willing to kill for him at a snap of his fingers. But it wasn’t for these crimes that Niklaus had decided to put a bullet in his head.

No, it was because two years ago, before Niklaus had become the well-trained soldier he was, Artem had helped take something from him. Someone that had meant more to Niklaus than words could do justice.

For Sarah, Artem would die.

No, Artem hadn’t been there that day, but he had been part of the long line of men that had made that day possible, which meant he shared just as much responsibility as the others.

For all intents and purposes, the man was getting off easy compared to the hell Niklaus had rained down on others, and for what he had planned for the main three that had been in the room with him.

Jetmir, Valon, and Fatos.

After he had learned their names, he never forgot them.

The first would die slowly, painfully, and in every way that he didn’t know he feared until Niklaus was too spent to do anything more. For him, he would take his time and savor every minute. The second, he would be tortured as Niklaus had been, then he would die too. The last? A combination of the two.

But those three were for another day.

If not for the lot of them, Niklaus didn’t think he would be on the rooftop, ready to take Artem’s life. Perhaps Artem only had himself to thank for his own death.

Assembling his rifle, Niklaus checked the scope before moving to the edge of the roof once more, his back to the brick fixture on his left.

Staring across to the restaurant, Niklaus clocked every man milling about the place, oblivious to the danger they were all in. He, especially, paid close attention to Artem, who looked to have gained a hundred pounds since the last time Niklaus had seen him. He held a glass of brown liquor in his meaty fist, the fat around his neck jiggling as he laughed boisterously at whatever one of his men was saying to him.

Seeing him so happy when Niklaus was plagued with guilt made anger simmer to life inside him, but there was no place for that. Not anymore. Exhaling, Niklaus centered his thoughts, concentrating on the present, letting his training take over.

For men that prided themselves on being untouchable, a large number of them stuck to the same routine every day, making it far too easy to learn their schedule and track them down. Niklaus had only just decided to go after one of them when he was sent to New York on an assignment and saw Artem walking the streets with his security detail. As soon as the job had ended, Niklaus had reached out to a few contacts he’d garnered over the last year, trying to get as much information as possible. Two weeks later, he knew every move Artem made and would make.

It was almost laughable how easy it had all been.

Snapping to attention, Niklaus’ gloved finger slipped around the trigger as he watched and waited.

The security rose first, keeping a uniformed line as they headed out the door first, checking for any threat on the street before their boss was to exit. Niklaus didn’t withhold his smile. The idiots never bothered to look up.