Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(75)

“It’s fine. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

Gauging the truth of his words, the man finally answered. “Make sure neither you nor Declan continue to be a problem.”

Kill them if necessary.

“Hmm. We’re going to need a meeting with Declan and the Irish.”

Mishca nodded, already on his phone. “I’ll set it up.”

When he walked off to the side, Niklaus faced Luka. “Are you done with him now?”

Hope…it was a dangerous thing, and Niklaus hadn’t meant to put that in the man’s eyes. He had only meant whether Luka was satisfied with what information the man had given them.

Luka made to protest, but Niklaus cut him off. “You're done here.”

A light died in Luka’s eyes as his smile drifted away, a rather somber look crossing his features. Sometimes, it was like looking at an entirely different person.

“Am I?”

“Leave him be—your work is finished.”

There was a moment where Niklaus wondered if Luka would disregard his words, continue on sinking himself deeper into the abyss that sat at the back of his mind. Sinking into it once was one thing, but a second time? There was no guarantee he would be able to get out again.

But he didn’t…pushing the madness back for a little while longer.

Pulling out his gun, Luka aimed and fired, putting the poor bastard out of his misery. “There,” he said, having never taken his eyes off Niklaus. “I’m done with him.”



* * *



“Fucking hell, I thought I’d imagined that.”

Niklaus was in no mood for the Irishman’s banter, seeing as how it was his fault they were in this shit in the first place.

It hadn’t taken long for Mishca to get word to Declan, especially since the man was around considering what the Russian had told him. So far, though, there had yet to be an attempt on his life.

Declan had agreed to a meet under the condition that neither Niklaus nor Mishca came armed, and that it just be the pair of them—they had heard of Luka and his capabilities.

“Yeah, we’ve never gotten that,” Mishca said casually as he sidestepped the man.

Though they might have thought Mishca was being humorous, Niklaus knew otherwise. People didn’t know that Niklaus and the Russian didn’t have much of a relationship, even as they stood together as though they always had.

“Let’s not f*ck about with pleasantries, lads. What d’you want?” Declan asked.

“In less than an hour, I presume, there’s going to be an attempt on your life,” Mishca said, as easily as one would tell a man that the sky was blue.

“How’d you figure that?”

“Because about three hours ago, there was an attempt on mine, but they got Klaus instead.”

“The McCarthy boys,” Niklaus spoke up. “Right now, you and I were interfering with a deal of theirs. Considering the timing, they probably thought you were with Mishca when I came to see you in that barbershop.”

One of the men in the back mumbled, “Can see the reason for that.”

“Probably thinking I’m siding with Russians.” The way he said it spoke of his hatred for Mishca and the Bratva. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re here? I didn’t think us mates, Russia.”

“We need you to play dead for the next forty-eight hours.”

Declan frowned. “I’d start losing money sixteen-hours in. Why the f*ck would I do that?”

“Because Reagan’s life hangs in the balance.”

Declan regarded Niklaus, sizing him up. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought the Irishman was deciding whether he was good enough for a girl he used to think of as a sister.

“Fine. You get forty-eight hours. If you don’t finish it within that time, I’ll make sure I send the final message.”

The man beside Declan, the one he had seen in that exact same spot next to his boss back at the barbershop, shifted on his feet, just enough of a tell to let Niklaus know whatever final message Declan wanted to send, this man was it. Unlike the last time however, Niklaus didn’t simply dismiss him, instead taking in details he hadn’t.

Like the tattoo that spanned the length of his forearm. It was of an owl, one clutching a knife in its bloody claws, along the steel was the phrase Sinn Fien—Irish for ‘ourselves alone.’

Commonly known as the slogan for the IRA—the Irish Republican Army.

Apparently, Mishca wasn’t the only one with a secret weapon.



* * *



It was time.

After two nights of avoiding the McCarthy brothers, just long enough for them to believe that they had successfully taken Declan and Niklaus out, it was time for the meeting that Niklaus had been waiting for.

As Niklaus geared up, feeling Reagan’s eyes on him as he did. He thought of strategy and ran through every possible scenario of how the night’s events would go down. With each assignment he went on, he faced targets he had at least studied for days, if not months.

But today? The only person he knew with any certainty was Donovan McCarthy, but he wasn’t the actual target. While the Kingmaker wanted a name, he hadn’t said whether he wanted a body to go along with it. Niklaus only killed when given a reason.