Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(9)

“Are we in accord?” Mishca heard as he turned back into the conversation.

Whatever the Albanians had offered him, it would never be enough for Mishca.

Jetmir stuck out his hand. Mikhail shook it, as well as the hands of a few others who Jetmir had brought with him.

“Mishca?”

He kept his face blank, but Mishca was burning with anger on the inside when Mikhail called his name. Mishca knew what the look Mikhail was giving him meant. As was their way, Mishca was required to shake with them as well, no matter how much it grated on him.

But he wasn’t in any position to argue.

Grudgingly, Mishca accepted Jetmir’s hand, meeting the man’s eyes. Whether Mikhail saw it, or just plain ignored it, Mishca could easily read Jetmir’s expression. He thought he had won this, and in a way, he had.



* * *



Niklaus could hardly breathe as he listened to the deal being struck. It didn’t matter that they were blood-related—that was abundantly clear with one look at the pair of them—this Mishca only seemed to care about how best to profit from this. He no longer felt the pain of his injuries. Snatching the door open, clearly catching the Russian off guard, Niklaus stormed out of the room. Jetmir, and the other man that had been speaking, were already gone.

He tried to walk upright, God how he tried, but his body soon betrayed him, and he was forced to limp, reaching a hand out to the wall to keep his balance. Niklaus thought he might have seen a hint of compassion in the Russian’s eyes, but that was gone before he could truly see it.

“You’re just going to let them leave?” he asked, the words sounding foreign and strange since his face was still swollen and he hadn’t spoken in days.

If his former tormentors though they had that look of indifference down, it was nothing compared to him. Mishca looked every bit the monster that he had saved Niklaus from.

“It is none of your concern,” he returned without a hint of emotion in his voice.

It was odd, hearing an accent that had once been soothing to hear. Back home with Malvina, he had loved to listen to her tales from her motherland, teaching him the language she had grown up with. But now? It grated on his ears.

Niklaus was shaking his head reflexively, refusing to believe what he was being told. “But they tortured me…and Sarah.” He’d nearly choked saying her name, but managed to get it out.

He tried to swallow down the emotion threatening to overtake him, felt treacherous tears stinging his eyes, and knew the exact moment when the Russian saw them. At first, he hadn’t known why he didn’t want him to see his pain, but now, he understood. If anything, his impassive face grew angry at the sight of Niklaus’ anguish, as though he was failing him in some way.

“Why did you come here?” the Russian spat at him. “What was your purpose?”

Niklaus was surprised by his anger, especially now that it was targeted at him as though he had asked for this instead of being victim to a crime that hadn’t even been meant for him.

When he made to answer, the Russian cut him off.

“Never mind. Go back to that room. There’s nothing more for us to discuss at this time. When I need you, I’ll send for you.”

The Russian turned his back, dismissing him as though he were a child, as though Niklaus was beneath him.

“What if he had killed someone you loved?” Niklaus called after him, in some desperate attempt to get him to understand, hoping Mishca could at least sympathize.

But he seemed to not feel such things. “I wouldn’t have let her die. Don’t blame your weakness on me.”

And that only made another piece of Niklaus break away. Turning around, he headed back into the room he’d woken up in, slamming the door shut behind him, turning the lock. In a fit of rage, he put his fist through the wall, feeling the immediate pain radiate up his arm.

While he was no longer a prisoner of the men that had taken him, in this place, he wasn’t free either.





Chapter Six





Escape was his only option.

No one had bothered him in the room he’d been given. He wasn’t even sure if there was still someone in the apartment with him, except three times a day someone knocked and left food outside the door for him. It would be best if he got out of there before anyone returned. As he had sat alone, he thought back over the conversation he had overheard.

Neither of the Russians had seemed to care anything about him. That much was obvious since they were so willing to barter with the men that had wanted Mishca in the first place. Who was to say that if those men made the Russians an offer, they wouldn’t be more than willing to turn him over, or worse, kill him because of all that he had witnessed.

He couldn’t go to the police, especially since he didn’t know where he had been kept, and with the way these men acted, he doubted the police could help him.

Niklaus didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew that staying put in another strange room with people he didn’t know or trust was not the best option.

Since there was nothing of his in the room, leaving this place was easier, though his heart did skip a beat when he exited the room and turned the corner, finding a man seated with a newspaper in hand. From the bulge at his hip, it was clear he was carrying a weapon, and with his proximity to the front door, there was no way Niklaus could get past him.