The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(48)

No, Klaus was wrong. There was one rule in Valhalla: no man could leave the floor until their opponent was either knocked out or dead. Sometimes, fights went on for hours until both sides were too exhausted to move. Only then could they leave, except both would lose whatever money they bet, and then they were beaten within an inch of their lives until they swore never to return.

It was the price of doing business down here.

Off to the side, sitting on top of an old rusted refrigerator overlooking the fight was a guy Klaus knew from his contract days. The closest thing someone like him had to a friend. He was one of the few people Klaus worked with that had actually seen him without his mask.

Klaus dodged wild spectators as he drew closer to the man, dropping his hood along the way. Mercenaries were a notoriously paranoid group, their jobs placing targets on their backs. Neither Klaus nor the man he approached had any reason to fear retaliation however, not with the way they meticulously covered their tracks, but one could never be too careful in their line of work.

The mercenary might have had a beer in one hand, cheering as loudly as the others, but Klaus didn’t doubt for a moment he had already been spotted as soon as he stepped out of the elevator.

When he was almost upon him, the mercenary jumped down from his perch, brushing off his jeans as he gave Klaus a wide grin.

“Been a while, Red.”

When Klaus was brought in, his identity was scrubbed, essentially wiping his entire existence off the face of the earth. Afterwards, his handler gave him a new name—as he’d done all the others he brought in.

Klaus was Red after the Roman god of war, apropos after seeing his work. The man in front of him was called Celt, for reasons Klaus could only guess at. Personal questions weren’t approved of in their world.

What little Klaus knew about him was what he could discern from his time in Celt’s company.

Celt was from Ireland, and had been a mercenary for at least two years before Klaus joined their particular organization. In fact, Celt had been there the day Klaus handed his life over… Unlike Klaus, whose scars stayed hidden, Celt had no choice but to wear his for everyone to see. He had what was known as the ‘Glasgow Smile,’ brutal scars that made him look like he was always smiling, a fact not nearly as pleasant as it sounded.

He was as tall as Klaus, same lean muscle tone, with dark brown hair he kept cut low on the sides. Unlike Klaus, Celt wore a full beard, a deep auburn color that contrasted with his darker hair. He didn’t doubt that it was because he was trying to hide the marks.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods?” Despite their training, Celt refused to give up his accent.

Klaus had often wondered if they had beat the shit out of him for that.

“I need a favor.”

Celt’s eyebrows rose as he regarded him. Never in the five years they’d known each other had Klaus ever asked him for anything. He didn’t like the idea of owing someone, no matter who it was, but at the moment, his search would go by a lot faster if he had help.

“Name it.”

“Spread the word that Mishca Volkov is alive. See who bites.”

His eyes narrowed briefly, like he was trying to place the name. “Anything else?”

That was what Klaus liked most about him. Celt didn’t ask questions. The fact that Klaus would owe him one in return was left unspoken.

Saluting him, Celt climbed back onto the fridge. “Will do. Wanna go a round in the ring?” He asked with a shameless grin. “I could use the cash.”

Klaus looked around at the competition in the room, weighing the odds in his head. With a shrug, he pulled off his hoodie, Celt’s excited laughter echoing in his ears.





Donna’s Bakery. 1 pm. Leave the Russian.

She knew it was from Klaus—only he called Mishca ‘the Russian’—but she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to meet with him, not with the way he had responded to her request at the hospital. He had made his thoughts on the subject clear, so why he was contacting her now made her wonder what he had found out.

Her curiosity alone made her want to go see what he knew, but how would she get past Mishca, especially when he had Luka still following her around everywhere?

Deciding the element of surprise was on her side, Lauren quickly got dressed, grabbing the keys to her own car—Mishca’s were rigged with GPS devices and she didn’t want to chance it—she was heading out the door when she caught sight of Mishca in the living room, talking away on his phone.

Luckily, however, she didn’t see Luka anywhere.

Mishca looked up at her, his brow furrowing, probably wondering what she was doing. Promising that she wasn’t going to be gone for longer than an hour, she kissed his cheek, hoping to leave it at that, but he caught her before she had a chance to back away.

He placed the phone to his shoulder to muffle their conversation. “Take Luka.”

She sighed. “But I don’t need him for what I’m doing.”

Lauren didn’t know how else to convince him to let her go alone…unless she did the one thing she swore never to do.

She had to lie.

“Luka would make a scene in the pharmacy while I’m trying to make a purchase. And don’t try to deny it, you know how he is.”

He grimaced, clearly understanding Lauren’s point, but he wasn’t ready to concede. “Then he’ll tail you.”