Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(74)

“Sending him to do this shit,” Niklaus said with a nod of his head towards the heavy metal doors they were walking towards and the scene he knew would be waiting for them on the other side. “The Albanians really f*cked him up.”

A little over a year-and-a-half ago, the truth had come out about Luka, and the role he’d played in Niklaus’ abduction and torture, and his role in the Organization—the Albanian Mob. Five years prior, he had walked away from it, and everything else, reinventing himself—even going as far as changing his name from Valon to Luka—though not entirely since he used the knowledge learned from a life with the Albanians to do his job.

But in a bid to save his sister and Luka’s new wife, Alex, Mishca had sent Luka back to his homeland, only so that he could get the Albanians—at least those he cared about—in the same place at one time.

Then the Kingmaker had come into play and fixed the problem, something he did best.

By the time Niklaus and his team had been handed the task, the Albanians had done work on Luka, hurting him in ways that would have broken a lesser man. And sometimes, when he thought back to that fateful day, when he’d walked into the room and found Luka on the floor, a piece of jagged glass clutched in his bleeding palm as he held it to his wrists…Niklaus wondered if Luka had been broken after all.

“Even if I told him no…well, you know better than anyone that he’s going to do what he wants. And this,” Mishca said, his words punctuated by another howl of pain, “is what he wants.”

Yeah, but to what end? Sometimes the things people wanted weren’t good for them.

But there was no use in arguing that with the Russian because he had a point—Luka was going to do whatever he wanted, even if it was to the detriment of himself.

Grabbing the door handle, Niklaus shoved it to the side, walking into the freezer, feeling the temperature drop dramatically, and as he’d expected Luka was standing there with blood on his hands, and his instruments of persuasion in a bloody mess on the floor.

Niklaus only used torture as a means to an end, and if he could help it, he avoided it entirely, but the same couldn’t be said of the Albanian across the room, his frenzied gaze on the man tied to the chair, completely naked.

If one had the misfortune of ending up beneath the hands of Luka Sergeyev, they would quickly wish that it was as easy as a bullet to the head.

“Come now,” Luka said with a light slap to the man’s face. “Tell them what you told me.”

He was shaking so badly that Niklaus didn’t think the man would be able to actually give an answer, not with the way he was staring at Luka, as though he was witnessing hell in human form—he wasn’t far off.

And if from the way he kept his back off the seat, as though leaning against it hurt more, Niklaus had a pretty good idea as to why. He knew firsthand what Luka was capable of, and knew that when he began his torture, his art of extracting information from his victims, that it would follow a routine.

Just as he was doing to the man in front of him, Luka had done to Niklaus all those years ago—but just as he’d done to Niklaus, the same had been done to him. It was almost terrifying to consider that that scene had imprinted itself on him, replaying itself over and over again.

Sometimes Niklaus wondered whether his friend was torturing people, or in his head, torturing himself.

“Liam,” the man finally managed to get out, looking from them to Luka, as though trying to make sure he was saying what Luka was looking for.

He would have said anything to end the agony he had suffered. Niklaus knew the feeling well.

“Right, right. What about Liam?”

“He and Rourke, they wanted them handled.”

“Who is they?” Luka prompted.

“Him,” the man said looking to Niklaus, then blinked in confusion as he looked to Mishca. “Or, him.”

“Yes, twins.” Luka rolled his eyes, slapping the man on the back of his head. “We got it. Who was the other?”

“Declan Flanagan.”

Luka, appearing satisfied for the moment, looked to Niklaus and Mishca, folding his arms across his chest. “That name, I know. The other two?”

“Sons of Donovan McCarthy, Irish Mob. They’re here for a transaction with someone the Kingmaker is after.” And Liam had a thing with Reagan, but Niklaus didn’t bother to mention that. “Why’d he send you and your little friends after us?”

“Donovan made it clear that his deal with the buyer had to go down without a hitch.”

Intrigued, Niklaus stepped forward. “That buyer, what’s his name?” While he still would have to make sure the transaction wasn’t successful, it would make his life a lot easier if he knew who, exactly, he would be seeing through the other end of his scope.

“No one knows. The boss keeps it close to the vest, says the buyer demands it.”

Sounded like the Kingmaker. “What does he look like?”

“Your height, dark hair, dark eyes. British accent. I’ve only seen him once, and it was just for a second.”

Niklaus wasn’t going to be able to get more from the man, but the description would serve his purpose when he went to the meeting—at least he would have an idea as to who he was looking for.

“Good enough. So what was your assignment?”

The man just stared at him, as though his answer would make Niklaus snap.