Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2)

by London Miller

  “Kyrnon,” she said gently, as though he were the one that had been taken and she were trying to talk him down, “I’m fine.”

  It didn’t matter how many times she told him that, and it had been numerous since he had gotten her in the back of his car, racing away from the bloody scene that they left behind, he wasn’t ready to believe that.

  He had fucked up.

  Because of him, she had been taken, and while there were only a few cuts and slight bruising on her wrists, the sight of them was enough to make his mounting frustration worse.

  He had no one to blame but himself.

  Kyrnon was torn from his thoughts when Amber pulled away from him, forcing him to finally look at her and actually acknowledge what she was saying.

  “You could have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “You were—”

  “Fine,” she stressed. “I was fine, and I’m fine now.”

  Gently picking up her hands, he looked down at her palms. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

  There was a difference between knowing what he did, and becoming a target because of it.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Kyrnon,” she said softly, so soft that he almost didn’t hear her. “And I’m not going to freak out because of what happened.”

  Kyrnon wasn’t so sure about that.

  There were just some things one couldn’t help—and he knew from experience that witnessing the murders they had both been subjected to was not easy to swallow. He had seen a lot of things in his time as a mercenary, and even before it, but this … even he hadn’t fully comprehended what the Kingmaker had done.

  She wasn’t of this life, and this, if he were being honest, wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.

  They were both lucky in that regard.

  “I would understand if you did,” Kyrnon said.

  She looked unsure as she fiddled with her hands in her lap. “The Kingmaker …”

  Kyrnon had wondered when she would bring him up. “He’s my handler, and someone I hope you never have to cross paths with again.”

  “So … this is your boss?”

  And the man that currently held his debt.

  The Kingmaker, for whatever reason, hadn’t hesitated in accepting an unnamed favor in exchange for his interference. Kyrnon may not have hesitated in agreeing to whatever the Kingmaker wanted, thinking back on it now, he didn’t like it.

  There was nothing good about owing a man a debt, especially when one didn’t know what that debt would ultimately be. It could be as simple as running another job, or as complicated as performing a hit on a government official.

  With the Kingmaker, there was no guarantee.

  But that was a worry for another day. And if he were honest, he would agree to do it again.

  “He is.”

  “Some boss.” Amber was quiet a moment before asking, “Are we going back to your loft?”

  He had brought her to another of his safe houses, this one outside of the city and right in the middle of a residential neighborhood where no one was the wiser that there were mercenaries that crashed there.

  “Not right now.”

  And not until he went over his security again.

  He also needed to find out who gave up his safe house. The loft wasn’t listed anywhere. He was always careful to cover his tracks, so someone that knew its location had given it to Elora.

  Kyrnon would find out who soon enough.

  Reaching for him, she wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tight as she buried her face in his chest. “Thank you for saving me.”

  Resting his chin on top of her head, he weaved his fingers in her hair, holding her close. “Don’t thank me for that.”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  He tilted her head up to better see her face. “Maybe so, but I only care whether or not you’ll stay.”

  Amber pecked his lips. “You know I love you, right?”

  “Of course you do. What’s not to love?” He caught her hand as she attempted to hit him, stealing a kiss. “And I love you, Amber.”

  “I guess that means you’re stuck with me.”

  And he would have it no other way.

  * * *

  Six weeks later …

  “In other news, two weeks have passed since the burglary at the Metropolitan Museum of Art where a priceless Vermeer painting was stolen. Said to be worth over four million dollars, the FBI is offering a reward for any information about the theft …”

  Amber hardly paid attention to the news report as she stared at the duffel bags on Kyrnon’s bed. Ever since he suddenly announced to her that they would be taking a vacation, she had been rather giddy at the prospect, glad to be escaping New York for a while.

  It had only taken Kyrnon a day after the incident with Elora to ask her to move in with him. She didn’t even get the chance to agree before he was packing up her place and bringing it all over to his place.

  Not that she had minded.

  His loft had always felt like home.

  And once she had agreed to stay with him, he didn’t hide his work like he’d done before. More than once she had watched as he, and sometimes someone else, disappeared down into the War Room. But no matter what she saw, she never knew the details, and no matter how she asked, he didn’t divulge anything.

  For the last week, whatever he had been working on had taken him away to a nameless country, and when he got back, there was a change in him, and for the first time she saw what his occupation could do to him.

  After a long night spent trying to work out his frustration with her, he had finally announced the next morning that they were taking the trip to Ireland.

  Except, while she had busied packing for it, he had been in and out of the place, but not adding a single piece of clothing to the luggage.

  Finally figuring that it was up to her to do it, she grabbed some clothes for him as well and tossed them in. It was hard packing, especially when she had no clue exactly where in Ireland they were going, but she made it work.

  When she heard a door slam, she yelled, “Were you planning on packing anything, or running around naked?”

  “Come on out,” he called back, ignoring her question entirely.

  “What are—” She cut off when she saw what he was standing beside with the stupidest grin on his face. “You didn’t …”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t like it.”

  She should have known that he would do something like this, especially when she had told him how excited she had been when the Vermeer painting had gone on loan to the gallery.

  “I’m not sure if these things are for me or you,” she said, still in awe as she came closer to the painting.

  Kyrnon wasn’t shy about giving gifts, always having something new for her every time he was gone for any extended period of time. Sometimes, they were things he bought, other times they were items he boosted from underground places that specialized in glittering baubles … those she only brought out on special occasions.

  But this …

  This was bigger than anything he had brought before it.

  And undoubtedly, much harder for him to get his hands on.

  “If you don’t like it,” he went on, “I can take it back.”

  Return the painting that he had taken in the first place? “I’m not saying I don’t like it.”

  “Are you worried it’ll be found?” Kyrnon asked as he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her further into his hold. “Because you shouldn’t. Another will replace it soon enough. All’s grand, lovie.”

  There was no point in arguing it with him. Besides, this was just another way that he said ‘I love you.’

  “I love you, Kyrnon.”

  He smiled slow and steady a moment before he kissed her lips.

  A promise, and and an answer.

  FIN

  CODA

  Seven weeks ago …

  “Sir?”

  Uille
am was buttoning the front of his suit jacket when Dominic appeared behind him. Though it had been on the schedule for days now, and he had a knack for remembering times and dates, he still asked, “Is the jet ready?”

  “The pilot is on standby, awaiting instruction, sir.”

  Passing one last fleeting glance to the delicate box that sat on his desk, a place it would never be moved from if he could help it, Uilleam exited his office.

  One of the luxuries his money afforded him, besides the multiple acres of land, was the private airstrip, one of the few things at the Runehart estate he utilized often. There were days, like today, when he was doing nothing more than walking the grounds, and seeing the ghost of what had been a wondrous place when he was a boy, that he missed coming here.

  Once he was on the plane, he gave short instructions to the man that was getting paid a hefty sum to transport him from Wales to Hollywood, California. Had he still been in New York observing Celt’s assignment from a distance, the flight wouldn’t have taken nearly as long, but he took the spare time anyway to think over his next move.

  How many names had made it both on and off his list in the last year alone?

  Nine?

  Twelve?

  But no matter the number, he found he was closer than he had been to the one he sought.

  Already he had learned the name of Elias, one of the few closest to whoever was waging a war against him. It wouldn’t take him much longer to work his way to the top of the food chain—it was just a matter of time.

  But it was all contingent on him not making a single mistake.

  The people he went after had to be moved in a certain way, carefully orchestrated so as not to draw too much attention to what he was doing. One wrong move and that would send the others into hiding. He couldn’t have that.

  It was all about the game, even the way it was fixed.

  And that, if nothing else, was a talent Uilleam excelled in.

  He was a fixer.

  The fixer—for anyone that was willing to pay his price.

  Sometimes that payment came in the form of an object, maybe a place, even people, though the purpose they held was not what most assumed it to be.

  An army.

  Every man needed an army.

  But as good as he had once been at making others’ problems disappear, he found he was far better at manipulating events so that he was the one both causing and fixing the problem.

  After all, he would hold all the cards.

  Many hours later, a black Rolls Royce awaited him at the end of the runway, its driver standing erect in front of it, waiting for the moment Uilleam was in sight before relaying his directions.

  Uilleam was used to them, having heard the set of rules on a previous occasion, so he tuned the man’s words out, watching the passing city lights through the rear windows.

  By the time they were rolling down the familiar street, the driver was just finishing with, “The Mistress asks that you respect the rules of her home, or suffer her displeasure.”

  There was a certain waver to the man’s voice that spoke of his fear for the woman that signed his paychecks. Perhaps he had once been on the receiving end of Carmen’s sadism.

  “Understood.”

  If there was one thing Carmen Santiago was notorious for, it was her easily peaked temper. She had a tendency to lash out before listening to reason, and while there had been a time when he would have refused her brand of work, his current plan, the endgame, needed her involvement.

  They were all pawns. The mercenaries, and the people he sent them after.

  They just didn’t know it yet.

  The Arian Sea Club Carmen owned came into view. Housed inside a building erected in the 1800s, it still held some of its old world charm, timeless in a city that was becoming far too modern.

  Even the events that took place within its walls were timeless.

  There had always been a need for whores.

  As the car rolled to a stop, the door was opened for Uilleam by an attendant, the man not daring eye contact. Making his way to the door, adjusting his bowtie as he went, he glanced down the vacant street, thinking he’d seen movement, but there was nothing.

  The doorman didn’t ask for a name, instead wrapping knobby fingers around the heavy brass handle and opening the door.

  Warm candlelight flickered in the darkened entryway, glinting off polished marble and gilded features. The decor spoke of old money and elegance, but he was not moved by such simple details.

  Uilleam wasn’t there to share in the opulence of the atmosphere. No, he had come for the woman in the back parlor room, a long thin cigarette in her manicured hand, sweetly smelling tobacco scenting the air.

  Despite the casual air of the space where men and women who had enough influence to have been offered an invitation to one of Carmen’s gatherings, she was dressed formally in a gown of jewel green satin that clung to curves by the best plastic surgeon money could buy. Her hair was in elaborate curls, falling in waves around her shoulders, as dark as an oil spill.

  Alluring and dangerous … like a black widow spider.

  As her gaze slid in his direction, tracking his approach, a smile of satisfaction and amusement grew. “I didn’t expect you to come. What had you told me the last time we crossed paths? That my husband was beneath your notice, and that I was beneath his?”

  No, Cesar Rivera was still very much beneath his notice. Once he had thought him capable, but that was until the man crossed him on a deal. While he was not above trades for flesh at one time or another, he had made a deal like that once before. He had ceased his part in helping the transactions along, making sure that anyone who thought to use his services knew his feelings on the matter.

  It hadn’t taken long before Cesar’s business took a turn, but instead of folding entirely, somehow he had managed to bounce back, far quicker than Uilleam would have thought possible … at least until he learned of their involvement with Elias.

  How easy it was to find secrets with only a name.

  Cesar peddled in flesh, sampling his wares far too often, and Uilleam knew the man couldn’t possibly be in negotiations with Elias. It was too easy for him to make mistakes.

  But Carmen …

  He had underestimated the woman.

  “Cesar is now beneath your notice as well, no?” Uilleam asked as he took a seat opposite her. “Or at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  Carmen’s answering smile was demure, but Uilleam saw it for what it was. In their world, it was what was left unsaid that mattered the most.

  “Why are you really here?” Carmen asked, setting her empty martini glass on the table. “I doubt it was to exchange pleasantries.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  One perfectly arched brow shot up as she leaned in, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

  “Cesar has been running your club for almost a decade now, unrivaled since I took care of that nasty business you had with the Vega Cartel.”

  Carmen’s reaction was carefully controlled, her gaze drifting down to her lap at the mere mention of the organization that tried to kill her.

  That was a consequence of doing business with men like Uilleam. While he was able to solve problems one might not have otherwise been able to resolve, that still left them open to attack because Uilleam then knew their weakness.

  And he was far worse of an enemy to have than any Cartel.

  “I’m sure we have expressed our gratitude in regards to that,” Carmen said coolly.

  “Indeed. But I’ve been curious. Cesar has failed to move his business further since I fixed the problem. One would think he would have progressed farther than he has, and yet here we are.”

  Carmen flipped her hair over her shoulder. “My husband’s business is his own.”

  “Is it?” Uilleam asked with a smirk. “Come now, Carmen. You should know by now that nothing escapes my notice.”

  He made it a point to know as much about anyone he cr
ossed paths with as possible. It was just good business practice.

  She was quite skilled with her deception considering Cesar was no more the wiser of what she was up to, but it would have taken far more than a few hushed conversations to keep Uilleam’s attention away.

  “You’ve been thinking about pushing your husband out of the business,” Uilleam said as he watched the ice dance around his glass. “A daunting task for someone like you, but not impossible for someone like me.”

  “Not impossible, you say? With everything that you’ve done over the last couple of years, I can see why you think so, but how can I be sure you can do what I need?”

  That was the opening he needed. “And what, exactly, is it that you need? I’m sure I can find a solution—for a price, of course.”

  Carmen wasn’t a stupid woman. She hadn’t made her way up to the top by making reckless decisions, so Uilleam knew that she wouldn’t just outright say what they both knew she wanted.

  “Perhaps I do want things my husband doesn’t, but you’re asking me to betray him and—”

  “Am I?” Uilleam asked, canting his head to the side. “I’m merely offering you a service—one I’ve offered many, including Cesar.”

  “You’ve never fixed anything for Cesar,” Carmen said in a rush, her accent growing thicker as she considered his words.

  He almost smiled.

  It didn’t matter whether he had or had not, not when the truth no longer mattered. Doubt was a powerful thing, and those that inspired them in others always believed someone else was out to get them as well.

  Carmen stared at him a moment. “If you fail …”

  “When have I ever?”

  “I’ve heard things,” Carmen said as she sat back, appraising him with a critical eye as she dragged a crimson painted fingernail across the tablecloth. “A woman, sí?”

  In his thirty-two years of living, Uilleam had learned quite well how to hide his reaction to stimuli, especially when it came from those that meant to bait him.

  His father had taught him well in that regard.

  But, he was not perfect by any means, and while his reaction was not one that made her aware of it, he still knew.