Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(38)

Sitting at the conference table that was nearly as wide as it was long and split the room in half was Celt. His booted feet were kicked up, a keyboard resting on his thighs as he lazily surfed the web, barely sparing Niklaus a glance as he entered, but when he did, his answering smile illuminated his bearded face.

Niklaus could still remember the day he and Celt crossed paths.

It was after he had agreed to go with Z. After a plane and car ride that he only vaguely remembered. Perhaps a day’s time after Z had left him in that windowless room, his ominous words lingering in the silence of the room.

The longer he had remained in that room, the more time his mind had to focus, not on the mysterious place had then resided at—though he’d had plenty of time to think on that considering how long he had been left alone. No, after his thoughts had drifted from the present, they went back to the one place he wished they hadn’t.

Sarah…

But the thought of her hadn’t overwhelmed him as he had thought it would. Instead, he had grown used to the silence, or he had falsely believed he hadn’t gone mad yet, at least until a piercing noise began emitting from the walls, forcing him to cringe away from the noise though there was nowhere to go.

Soon, he had thought he heard tiny voices talking to him, making him laugh at his own insanity.

He had been so sure he was losing it.

Finally, after he’d been sure he couldn’t take anymore, everything shutoff once more as darkness reigned once more. A long time—or it had felt like that at the time—the door to his room had opened, making Niklaus jolt, his eyes swinging to the man that had been entering.

He hadn’t been much older than Niklaus had at the time, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five—he still wasn’t sure of Celt’s age to this day—but he had the eyes of a man that had seen many things.

Unlike when Niklaus had first been brought in, Celt hadn’t been wearing a mask, and the only reason Niklaus recognized him was because of the two black bands that were tattooed on his left forearm.

He’d brought in a glass of water, a lifeline if Niklaus had ever seen one.

Right as he was about to leave, Celt had said something that had stuck with him since the last word was uttered.

“Do not fear death. Embrace it. Pain is inevitable, learn to love it.”

Niklaus didn’t want to think where he would be without Celt.

“What can I do you for?” Celt asked sitting back, folding his hands behind his head.

“Man named Donovan McCarthy. A year ago, he brokered a deal between Mikhail Volkov—” Celt arched a brow at the name. “—and the man I’m trying to find. Volkov handed over the merchandise a week ago, but the final transaction doesn’t go down for another sixteen days.”

“Why so long?” Celt asked sitting forward. “If they made the transaction a year ago, why is it just now ending?”

Niklaus had been wondering the same thing since his meeting with the Kingmaker. No matter how he ran the possibilities, it didn’t make sense. He doubted Mikhail hadn’t been able to supply the weapons long before now—that was what the Volkovs specialized in—so that begged the question, what the hell were they dealing with? It was obvious this was no ordinary transaction, especially if a man like the Kingmaker was involved in this.

“I don’t know, but I need to find out. What can you tell me about McCarthy?”

“His main operation is out of Dublin, but he recently transplanted here with his sons to branch out—take over territory. You’ve heard of Declan Flanagan?”

Only because of his connection to Mikhail and Mishca. Back when he had first started looking into the Volkov Bratva, he didn’t just stop at the men that made up that particular organization, but anyone they had come into contact with as well. The list was a mile long, filled with politicians, other syndicates, and at least a dozen men in different precincts around the state.

But whereas most of those had been allies, the Flanagan family hated the Volkovs—particularly Declan Flanagan. While Niklaus might not have been able to find why the pair were at odds, he knew, if only because Declan never failed to do something to get under Mishca’s skin—like the time he sent two brothers to try and kill him, though he had to have known they would fail. Niklaus might not have known the man personally, but he liked him.

Enemy of his enemy, and all that.

“Yeah. What of him?”

“His da died a year and a half ago, complications from an old gunshot wound. They say Declan couldn’t handle it, went off on a binger for the better part of a year. That was when the McCarthys moved in, started taking over his territory. By the time he got his shite together, they had already planted roots. They’ve been at war ever since.”

“We could use that,” Niklaus said, more to himself than to Celt.

“Tell me this. How exactly are you going to get a name from the McCarthys. It was different with Volkov, no? You had leverage over him. This lot…you’re going in blind.”

“I’ll find it.” He always did. “Where can I find them?”

“They have a warehouse near the docks, but I’ve heard their youngest hangs around a pub. Parting Glass Tavern. Some say he’s sweet on the owner.”

Getting to his feet, Niklaus memorized the faces staring back at him from the projector.

“Right, I’ll give it a look.”