The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)

The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)

London Miller



To Mrs. Gardner,

The greatest AP Literature teacher anyone could ask for.





The course of true love never did run smooth

-William Shakespeare





She nodded, but before he could call Luka and Vlad to him, loud footsteps on the stairwell stopped him.

They were deliberate, meant to call attention to whoever was arriving, and as Mishca looked from the window, to the corpse, and back to the hallway, he stiffened.

He knew who was coming.

Twelve more steps brought the stranger to the entryway.

He was distinctly male, with a sniper rifle across his back, throwing knives strapped to his thighs, and was decked out in full tactical gear that was as dark as the man’s soul. His face was concealed by a black mask, the design rather plain with only the eyes cut out and a space for the nose and mouth.

He wasn’t just a man with a gun, Mishca knew, but a brutal mercenary, one that lived and breathed his occupation, all to feed his vendetta. He was just as much a mystery as he was a legend.

For the last few years, after using multiple contacts he had around the world, and abusing every resource he possessed, Mishca had tracked this particular individual, one that he knew had become a lethal weapon.

Especially known for shots like the one that had taken the life of the dead Albanian on the floor.

The mercenary stopped, his head cocked to the side as he surveyed them with casual disinterest, unconcerned with the guns trained on him.

Not that he needed to be. Undoubtedly, he was the best shot there, even outnumbered.

Knowing the man’s skills and the lack of exits, Mishca chose instead to push Lauren behind him, making sure every part of her was shielded by him.

She was trying to see past him, but he wouldn’t allow it, because at the moment, there was no explanation he could give her that would help her understand the delicate situation they were in now. Not one short enough, at least.

Sensing Mishca’s dilemma, the mercenary canted his head in the other direction, sighing heavily behind his mask.

Mishca couldn’t see the expression the mercenary wore behind his mask, but he could guess that he was amused.

Finding his voice, Mishca asked, “Where are my men?”

“Alive.”

Already, despite the danger he posed, Mishca felt his temper flaring, in a way that only this man could cause. “Why are you here?”

“I made a promise to you,” the mercenary said in a flat tone, his words distorted. “When you die, it’ll be by my hand.”

Luka, having a particular disdain for mercenaries and authority, didn’t appreciate the mercenary’s words, but Mishca couldn’t allow him to draw his weapon, not against the man in front of them.

“Ostavit’ yego—Leave it,” he said harshly. “He’s not here to kill me.”

Lauren’s hands tightened on the back of his shirt, her fear for him making this that much harder.

“No?” The mercenary asked looking around, drawing a pistol from the back of his pants. “It kind of feels that way.”

“You don’t play with your targets,” Mishca responded evenly, though he had never been sure of that fact.

He had always assumed—because of the precision in which all of the marks were hit without any evidence left behind—that when the mercenary got a job, he completed it quickly and efficiently.

“Don’t be so sure about that, Russian,” the mercenary said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mishca stared at him, trying to see through the black mesh that shielded the man’s eyes though it was impossible from that difference. He knew all too well what eyes hid behind it.

“Not while she’s here to watch,” Mishca reiterated, gesturing to Lauren. “Especially not in this place.”

That seemed to break the mercenary’s resolve. No longer did he appear casual. His body grew taut with tension, his fingers tightening around the gun he held.

Mishca had never been back here since that day, but he could still remember it like it had happened just hours before.

Where there was a hole in the floor was where he, himself, had found the mercenary broken and bloody.

A time he hated to think about.

It seemed years worth of anger broke out of the mercenary, his attention now focused solely on Mishca. Not waiting for a command from Mishca—though one was not coming—Luka swung at him, but effortlessly, the mercenary spun out of the way, the heel of his palm swinging out at the same time, landing a well placed hit to his jugular, sending Luka to the floor wheezing for air.

Vlad, wisely, stood where he was. After all, he knew the man behind the mask.

Mishca reached behind him, trying to pull Lauren forward and away from him, not wanting her to get accidentally hurt if anything happened, but she clung to him, refusing to let go.

She didn’t realize they were now facing the one person that hated Mishca the most in the world.

Up close, the mercenary was only an inch taller, if that, but his presence made him seem bigger, though at times he could appear smaller as well, a good trait to have in his line of work.

“Careful,” he said with barely restrained fury. He didn’t bother pointing the gun at him because he knew twenty-three ways to kill Mishca without it, and those were just the few that wouldn’t get blood on him.