Den of Mercenaries Page 3

  When he had entered that smoky basement, ready to accept the marks of the Bratva, he was not as eager as some would have been in his position. After all, these stars were like a birthright to him. No, by this point, especially with what he had needed to do to earn them, he had begun to resent the life he had been given, even if it had found a way to dig itself under his skin.

  Since that night, he had acquired a small fortune and actually begun to manage his own crew of sorts, even at his young age. Some thought he would not be a good leader. He didn’t have their level of experience—namely the number of anonymous bodies left in morgues without fingers or toes or teeth—but they couldn’t help but respect him.

  If there was nothing else he required of them, it was their respect.

  In his lower Manhattan apartment, Mishca lay on his back in the king-sized bed, completely naked, a woman with shoulder-length blond hair on her knees at the foot of the bed, expertly taking his cock into her mouth. His scarred fingers were entangled in her hair, helping her along, though with her talents, she didn’t need it. Perhaps it was because he’d been drinking a bottle of vodka over the last hour that this was doing nothing for him.

  Naomi knew this, but she often liked to use sex to bend him to her will. He could admit that after their first encounter in the Manhattan Public Library, back when he was still in school, her charms had worked on him and he had soon found himself under her spell, but Mishca hadn’t been raised a fool. Soon he realized just what she was trying to get from him. He knew at some point he would have to be rid of her, but until that day came, he would enjoy her.

  His Blackberry chimed incessantly where it lay on the nightstand. Though Naomi made to protest, pouting up at him, he ignored the look and grabbed his phone, answering as it was starting on its third ring.

  “Yeah?” He spoke in Russian, never wanting to talk business when Naomi was in the room.

  “We need a meeting … now. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Without saying anything more, Mishca’s driver and bodyguard, Vlad, hung up. For as long as Mishca could remember, Vlad had been in his life, acting not just as an employee, but as a confidante as well. And more recently, his second hand. If he was calling a meeting, it had to be important.

  Pushing Naomi off him, he headed into the closet, only stumbling once, dressing as quickly as he could. After punching in the combination to the safe, pulling out his gun, and closing it back, he re-entered his bedroom.

  Watching him from her new position on the bed, eyes glittering with awareness, Naomi was quickly over her sulking. Sometimes Mishca forgot she got off on that shit.

  “I’ll call you after.”

  That was all she ever got nowadays. The “I love yous” had stopped a long time ago.

  He took the elevator down to the lobby, not surprised to see Vlad already waiting for him next to Mishca’s pride and joy, a black S-Class Mercedes. The man was nearly as tall as Mishca, but with broader shoulders and graying hair. Vlad was at least two decades his senior, and yet, he still hadn’t made it any higher in the organization.

  In this, Mishca understood his privilege.

  “What’s the problem?” Mishca asked as he slipped into the back seat, Vlad entering the front.

  “I got a call—not sure from who. He only said to tell my boss, ‘his brother is dead,’ then gave me an address—hung up after. But when I had someone trace it, it had come from a payphone, so not a lot of luck there.”

  “What the fuck?” That hadn’t been what Mishca was expecting at all. “Have you called Mikhail?”

  Vlad’s eyes cut to his in the rearview mirror. “Came to you first.”

  While he might have been recruited by Mikhail, Mishca’s father and the Pakhan, he was loyal to Mishca alone.

  “Let’s take a look, and then we can decide what to do from there.”

  As they pulled off, Mishca contemplated the mysterious phone call, trying to figure out what the hell the person meant. By “boss,” the caller could have meant either Mikhail or Mishca, but considering he hadn’t received a phone call himself, he doubted that Mikhail’s brother, Viktor, was who the caller meant.

  But … who else was there?

  Mishca didn’t have a brother, only a sister.

  The ride to the place they sought took longer than Mishca would have liked, but the alcohol swimming in his veins was making him antsy. He wasn’t drunk, he rarely drank enough for that, but there was enough that he was feeling the effects.

  There were two cars outside the building when they arrived. And if Mishca’s eyes didn’t deceive him, there was also a dead body with a pool of blood around it as well.

  “The others should be arriving soon,” Vlad said as he killed the engine and they both climbed out of the car.

  Mishca had yet to learn the art of patience, and instead of waiting for their backup, he boldly went inside, gun in hand. Angry voices carried from the upper level of the building, and while he wanted to focus only on them, the crumpled bodies on the floor didn’t go unnoticed.

  Mishca wasn’t sure what he had walked into, but he intended to find out.

  Vlad headed up the flight of stairs first, his gun aimed out in front of him, ready to shoot anyone that stood in their way. He paused at the top, waiting until Mishca cleared the stairs as well before they rounded the corner. Mishca made the mistake of stepping on a loose floorboard, the wood creaking beneath his shoe, causing the voices to silence. When he heard the unmistakable sound of guns being drawn, he didn’t think.

  Taking a breath as he turned, he fired off shots that hit two in the chest, sending another fleeing in the opposite direction. The two he had hit had managed to fire off a few rounds, but their aim was off. The sound of tires squealing calmed Mishca because he knew that the one that had escaped out a back entrance was being dealt with.

  As he cleared the entryway, Mishca raised his gun once more, killing one of the two that was still moaning on the floor. The other raised his hands, like the action could ward off a bullet, but instead of killing him right away, Mishca turned to the man tied to the chair. This had to be the one the caller was referring to because the burned body across from him—a sight that even had Mishca turning away in disgust—was too small to be that of a man’s.

  But his confusion grew as he stepped closer and saw the boy’s naked skin. Not a single tattoo adorned his skin. Whether it was professionally done or some scratcher work done in the basement of a house, every single man that worked under Mishca had a tattoo.

  Reaching for the bag that covered the man’s head, he didn’t know what to expect when he pulled it free, maybe some idiot that had been stupid enough to get caught by their enemies and chose to align himself to Mishca on the chance that it would get him free.

  Except, once he pulled that hood free, the fabric still clutched in his hand, he didn’t expect to be staring at himself.

  A thousand thoughts ran through his head at that moment, but none of them were able to provide an answer to what he was seeing.

  It took a heartbeat, but the boy—he was more boy than man it seemed—forced his head up, his eyes locking on Mishca, and the moment they did, a variety of emotions lit up his face, from shock to confusion, and finally rage.

  “You!”

  This boy couldn’t have known who he was before this moment. Mishca had thought he’d known everything there was to know about his mother. She rarely, if ever, kept secrets from him … obviously except this one.

  A twin?

  How could she have possibly hidden this from Mikhail? And more importantly, why hadn’t she told Mishca? He’d kept her confidence, even as a child, why hadn’t she told him?

  “It was you they wanted! Who the fuck are you? Huh! What the fuck did you take from them?”

  He was irate, jerking in the chair, his arms bloody from his struggles. Just seeing his face, Mishca was afraid to know what they had done to the rest of him.

  God, what all had they done to him?

 
While he didn’t know what the boy—his brother?—was screaming about, he didn’t have time for hysterics. With the amount of bodies in this place, not to mention that someone had probably called Mikhail at this point, they needed to get out of there.

  But, he didn’t want anyone to see the boy, for reasons he wasn’t ready to contemplate. He shoved the bag back over his head, but that did nothing to silence his cries, cries that had turned from anger to sobs.

  Cursing beneath his breath, Mishca circled him and wrapped an arm around the boy’s throat, applying pressure, hardening himself against the sounds of him gasping for breath. When he finally went limp, Mishca released his hold.

  Shoving a hand through his hair, a habit he had grown accustomed to when he was stressed, he gestured to the boy and said, “Get him out of here, and make sure no one sees his face. Tell no one of him.”

  Vlad studied him a moment before nodding, never one to question an order.

  Mishca had grown used to the careful life he lived, one where surprises were foreign, but as his phone chimed once again, his father’s name flashing across the screen, he knew that there would be far more surprises uncovered in the upcoming days.

  Chapter 5

  Niklaus was in and out of consciousness for two days thanks to whatever drugs he had been drowning in. During the first, he had woken up in a strange room with bright lights, lying on his stomach on a slab of cold steel as a man wearing a white lab coat sutured the wounds on his back. Luckily, whatever he’d been injected with—he could still remember the bite of the needle and the vague image of the murky liquid—had caused him to pass right back out. During this time, he didn’t remember any pain, could hardly remember his own name as he floated in a place that didn’t really exist.

  He only knew another day had passed when he’d roused once again and heard the conversation on the other side of the new room he was in.

  “What are you going to do about him?” a muffled voice asked.

  The other, and this one’s accent he remembered from the time he’d seen his own face staring back at him, was quick to respond. “Nothing for now. Until I know more, I’m not going to tip my hand. For all I know, someone is fucking with me.”

  “But …”

  He sighed, the words seeming forced from him. “But I also knew my mother.”

  Before he could even contemplate what this meant, Niklaus was under again.

  He might have woken up disoriented, but Niklaus knew he was no longer held prisoner in the abandoned warehouse. He was lying on the softest bed he had ever felt, and while he still ached considerably, it was a lot better than what he had felt just a short while ago.

  He didn’t move, trying to let his body adjust to the comfort, wanting to hold onto the feeling for just a little while longer, his eyes focused on the ceiling.

  Though it was all still a blur, pieces of memories came back, and one stuck out more than the others.

  He had a brother.

  One that, apparently, some people really wanted to kill.

  He remembered staring into identical blue eyes, seeing his own surprise reflected in their depths. It was clear that neither had known about the other, but what was clear was how his twin was accustomed to the situation Niklaus had been in. The only shock he had been able to see was the fact that he had been looking at Niklaus, not at the room itself. When that look of shock had vanished, replaced with a look Niklaus hadn’t been able to read, his own surprise had shifted to anger as he realized that it was because of him that they had been taken.

  Sarah …

  Just the thought of her name, the memory of her smile, brought a pang to his chest that was far worse than any abuse his body had taken. For just a moment, the clean scent of the bedroom he was in vanished, replaced with the stench of burning flames.

  Niklaus shook his head hard, trying to dispel the memory though he knew there was nothing he could do to escape it.

  He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, lost in his thoughts when he heard the voices carrying from outside the bedroom. Forcing himself up, he dragged his broken body from the bed, wincing with every limping step he took toward the door. The closer he got, the easier it was for him to hear what was being said.

  Mishca stood outside the closed door, not knowing what to feel, how to act, or even what to do. On the other side was his twin, one that he hadn’t known existed. In that short span of time, everything he had thought he knew about his mother felt like a lie … but in a way, it also made sense.

  When she was alive, and during those times when she thought he wasn’t listening, he often remembered hearing her talking to herself about the sacrifices she had made, but he never had for a second thought that a baby had been that sacrifice.

  And Mishca didn’t even know his name.

  Jetmir Besnik was standing before him, discussing business with Mikhail as though he hadn’t just spent days torturing someone he had assumed to be a Captain in the Volkov Bratva. It sure as hell didn’t sit well with Mishca, and if he were in charge, Mishca would have happily killed them all for the discretion. It was for that reason Mikhail headed this impromptu meeting. He was nothing if not a businessman. He didn’t think about the fact that their plan was to torture Mishca, only what he would gain from it.

  “Are we in accord?” Mishca heard as he tuned 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 thought 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.

&nbs
p; “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 6

  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.