The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(85)

“Don’t mention it, Russian. Really, don’t.”

“Bagged and tagged,” Celt called as he appeared back in the doorway.

Back downstairs, sure enough, Jetmir was on his stomach on the floor, hogtied, a black bag over his head. He was squirming, trying to break free, his curses muffled by whatever Celt had stuffed in his mouth.

“Right, so there’s your guy. I’ll take care of things here. Oh and Volkov—” Celt holstered his gun, smiling brightly. “—I’ll send you my bill.”



They hustled him into the freezer, easily overpowering his useless resistance. Shoving him down into the chair Mishca had set up hours ago, they hooked his arms into the restraints, then his legs. In seconds, he couldn’t move at all.

Mishca snatched the bag from his head, watching as Jetmir tried to focus on him, trying to adjust to the dim lighting in the warehouse. Sadly, Mishca hadn’t been able to take him back to that industrial building he’d been so fond of, but seeing as how Jetmir would die before the night’s end, it didn’t bother him as much.

“Hey,” Mishca said smacking him a couple of times in the face. “You’re going to want to focus for this.”

Jetmir glared at him, the scar on his face pulling.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it!” Jetmir snarled as Mishca turned his back on him.

Pausing mid-stride, Mishca faced him once again, canting his head to the side as he saw the shadow behind Jetmir’s head move. Right on time.

“I’m not the one you should fear,” Mishca said easily, nodding once to Klaus as he came out of the darkness, all emotion wiped clean from his face.

Years ago, Mishca had warned Jetmir that if they ever crossed paths again, he wouldn’t walk away from it. He should have heeded his warning.

“Don’t make a mess,” Mishca called back as he left though he knew one thing.

Even if Klaus took Jetmir apart piece by piece, there would be no evidence left of him for anyone to find.



“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” Klaus said as he took his time rolling up his sleeves, rotating his neck on his shoulders.

There wasn’t a day that went by since Jetmir had destroyed his life that Klaus didn’t think of how he would make the Albanians pay. He had sacrificed much more than anyone could ever realize to get his revenge, and more time than that learning how to shut off his emotions.

Sure, he bantered with the Russian, but that was because he enjoyed it, and while he had been furious with the Russian’s interfering with his plans for Brahim, ultimately he was thankful.

He’d tracked the Albanians as soon as they had touched down on American soil. It seemed that fate had been in his favor since his contract had been up, and instead of signing again, he took his leave, wanting to ensure that he would be free to do what he needed.

Once he had realized that it was the Russian they had been after, he had pulled back, just to see what he would do about them. It didn’t take long to realize that the Russian was still the soft idiot he had been when they’d first encountered each other since he hadn’t immediately gotten rid of the French woman of his past, not that it really mattered to him. He had been surprised that he had someone to go home to.

When he had first seen Lauren, Klaus had hated her. She was too nice, too understanding of the life the Russian led, and more than all of that, Klaus hated that the Russian was happy. He didn’t deserve that happiness, and for the longest time, Klaus had wanted to tear that happiness to pieces and watch it turn to dust.

On that fateful day, after setting up his rifle on a neighboring rooftop, staring without blinking through his scope, his target on Brahim’s head, he thought of just waiting until Brahim killed the girl—he’d hoped for it—but through that same scope, he saw that desperate, pleading look in the Russian’s face, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of when he had begged for Sarah’s life.

Before he had even realized it, Klaus had pulled the trigger, taking out Brahim with one shot.

He was elated—as he normally was after killing one of those Albanians—but there was a burning anger in him that had him rushing over there just so he could face off with the Russian.

To this day, Klaus didn’t know what his intention had been by approaching them, stepping out of the shadows of his life for the first time in what felt like ages. A part of him had still wanted to kill the Russian, but as he had so arrogantly spouted, Klaus wouldn’t have killed him in front of Lauren.

Now here he was, practically allies with the very person he had vowed to kill on hundreds of different occasions. That was how it worked in their world.

Enemies one day, allies the next.

Klaus removed his mask, tossing it to the side. When he took Jetmir’s life, he didn’t want him to be confused as to who or why this was happening.

Laughing bitterly, Jetmir said, “The brother? I was sure the Russians would have finished you off.”

Klaus swung without thinking, glad that he had taped his fingers beforehand. That first hit wasn’t enough, not nearly, and he found himself swinging again and again, the blows carefully placed, not doing too much damage though he did draw blood.

By the time he finished, Klaus’ arms felt like lead, but he felt better at the sight of Jetmir’s bloodied face. Though he wished otherwise, Klaus didn’t have time to torture him for days, not when he was needed elsewhere.