Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(34)

Thousands of miles away, one of his associates, Winter—who was more of an outside contractor since she wasn’t officially part of the Den—sat behind a laptop, having already hacked into the mainframe of the security system for this this particular estate, waiting for her next instructions.

While Niklaus didn’t usually like hackers—they could wield far too much power with only a keyboard—he needed Winter for this assignment, especially if he wanted to get them out of Russia alive within the hour.

Mikhail Volkov might have been the former head of a vast criminal organization, but he still possessed a lot of power and influence, and there was also the number of corrupt politicians in his pocket. With a single phone call, he could have the property surrounded in minutes—and the last thing Niklaus wanted was to spend the next thirty years locked in a gulag fighting for his life against prisoners and guards alike.

They already had one former member trapped in one with no way to get him out…yet.

“You have twenty minutes to get in and out, Red,” Winter said over the ear-piece they all wore. “Your plane leaves in forty-five minutes. If you’re not there when it takes off, you’re in deep shit.”

Red.

For the last seven years, that had been his new name, the one he had earned through bloodshed and relentless work. Nowadays, outside a select number of people in New York City, that was the only name he answered to.

It wasn’t just a title. It was an embodiment of everything he had become.

Whenever he heard it, he could feel the almost phantom burn of the branding iron that had been used on him, a reminder of the life he had given up for everything he had gained—a reminder that he was no longer a scared boy.

They all bore the brand somewhere, but only Niklaus wore his on his neck for all to see.

Palming his glock, he headed for the monstrosity of a house that loomed just ahead, Celt at his heels.

Dressed all in black—as was his custom—with a beanie covering his hair, and a mask concealing his face, he blended into the night, remaining unnoticed even as he came upon the first few guards.

There were three that patrolled the front, all carrying assault rifles, and all of which were trigger happy and more than willing to shoot first rather than ask who they were. With the slightest of gestures from Niklaus, Celt moved around the house, going for the last two that were waiting on the other side.

Making sure Celt was clear first, Niklaus took a moment to screw on the silencer, waiting until Celt was out of sight before he aimed at the first guard. The man had paused in his check of the grounds to reach for his phone. Before he had the chance to answer, however, Niklaus pulled the trigger, exhaling after the bullet exploded through the chamber and imbedded itself in the man’s forehead.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Silently, Niklaus jogged over to the man, relieving him of the walkie-talkie that was clipped to his belt, then dragged his body towards the bushes, keeping him out of sight.

Thirty seconds later, the other two were dead as well.

For months, Niklaus had studied the security and their protocol, making sure that when this day came, his task would go off seamlessly. Of course, all the training in the world couldn’t account for human error. That was why Niklaus usually preferred jobs where he was on the other end of a sniper’s rifle, and could handle things from a distance.

Up close and personal? He saved that for people that had crossed him.

But when it came to this particular job, he hadn’t had a choice. And, whether he wanted to admit it or not, this one was personal as well.

The guards outside were the easiest, they were too spaced out for there to have been much of a problem, but inside, there were at least seven more on the ground floor alone, and another four guarding the floor where Mikhail’s office was. He could just see movement out the corner of his eye, but then there was a flash, and nothing more.

“I’ve got it covered,” Celt said, his voice scratchy and slightly out of breath.

Nodding, though he couldn’t be seen, Niklaus went on to the stairs, slowly moving up as he kept his gun at the ready. The first man to appear took two shots to the chest. The sound of his body hitting the ground brought the other two running, but before either could register what happened, they were down as well.

The threat neutralized, Niklaus holstered his weapon and headed for the office, stepping over the bodies that blocked his way. Once he was inside with the door closed behind him, he took a breath.

Obviously surprising the man seated behind the sturdy looking desk, he touched a finger to his ear. “Cut the power.”

Not even a minute later, it was done.

Mikhail Volkov hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to hit the panic button that was on the underside of his desk.

While he was nearing seventy, Mikhail didn’t look his age. If anything, he looked closer to his mid-forties thanks to his size and dark hair that was liberally sprinkled with gray, a little more since the last time Niklaus had seen him. There was no trace of fear in his eyes as he glared at Niklaus, his hands twitching with the need to reach for the gun Niklaus knew was sitting in the top right hand drawer.

But even he had to know that Niklaus would get a shot off before he could even touch the wood.

“Who sent you?”

Niklaus didn’t answer, not right away. The plan was to get in, get the information, and get out but now…Niklaus had other plans.