Skorpion. (Den of Mercenaries Book 5)

by London Miller

  Syn swept around him and entered the room, disappearing around the corner, silent as a ghost.

  There was no need for him to move as fast—not when Fitzpatrick had the misfortune of having Syn be the first to enter.

  A heartbeat passed, another, then a third, until a man’s audible curse sounded then a petrified scream that echoed off the walls before the sound was muffled.

  The beauty of upscale hotels like this? The rooms were practically soundproof.

  Fitzpatrick’s eyes were round and terrified as Skorpion rounded the corner, growing impossibly wider at the sight of him, but all too quickly his gaze was drawn back to the man holding the knife to his throat, not caring in the slightest that he was drawing blood in the process.

  “What’s this about?” Fitzpatrick asked, his hands trembling.

  “Ada Edgar.”

  His eyes darted to the left and Keanu could practically see his brain working in the second it took for him to look back at him.

  “Has she stolen money from you? I don’t know where she is, but I can find out and …”

  He cut off abruptly as Keanu moved closer to him, drawing out his own gun as he did. Fitzpatrick swallowed thickly, mumbling out words he didn’t bother to try to interpret before he was aiming and firing a bullet into the man’s knee.

  “Jesus fucking—”

  “Oh, what’s this, eh?” Syn complained with a frown. “All violence tonight was meant to be mine.”

  “You won’t die tonight,” Keanu said to Fitzpatrick, ignoring the disgruntled muttering from Syn. “No matter what happens, the order is to bring you in alive. Continue to piss me off, I’ll gladly let Syn here take over your interrogation because I don’t have the patience for torture. Believe me when I say he does.”

  “Just please,” he said between panting breaths. “Just tell me what you want to know!”

  “You targeted her, why?”

  His first instinct was to deny the accusation, but instead, a look of defeat crossed his face as he answered. “She was taking money from my clients. Once they found out, they wanted retribution. I couldn’t very well stop them from placing a target on her back.”

  He obviously wanted to make this difficult for himself. “Unless you don’t want to walk again,”—he’d already have a limp considering the damage to his other knee—“I suggest you not lie to me again.”

  “She stole money from the wrong person!” he finally spat out, eyeing the gun with disdain. “I could excuse the other accounts—we’ve all skimmed a bit off the top every now and then—but she … she stole from the wrong person.”

  “Who?” Keanu asked, though he was entirely sure he already knew the answer.

  “Michael Spader,” Fitzpatrick confirmed. “He wanted a way to cover up what he’s done and punishment because she’d stolen from him in the first place. It was either her or me.”

  And he’d picked himself.

  “So your answer was to give her name to the sixteen account holders hoping one of them would take care of it?”

  He didn’t bother answering that, merely ducked his head.

  “Unfortunately for you, she found me. So the first thing you’re going to do is contact anyone on that list and get her marker removed. Understood?”

  Fitzpatrick nodded eagerly, hoping that his complying will mean no more pain comes to him.

  “And you’ll wire two million dollars to an account of my choice.”

  No hesitation as he nodded again.

  Watching him, he didn’t blink as the man pulled a phone from his pocket and began to painstakingly make a call to each name Keanu rattled off. A mistake, he informed them. He’d been wrong, he said. He would wire them the money himself, he promised.

  By the end of it, there was no one left that hadn’t agreed to his terms. Between the promises he’d made to the others and the ones Fitzpatrick had just called off, Ada was finally in the clear.

  Just to be sure, Keanu searched his phone, making sure there was no trace of her name or likeness on the dark web.

  One problem solved with relative ease.

  “Now, the money.” It only took a few minutes more before it was sitting neatly inside the account. “We’re good.”

  “Then … you’ll let me live?” he asked, hopeful.

  “The Kingmaker wants a word with you,” Keanu said, sheathing his gun at his back. “What happens to you is entirely up to him.”

  At the mention of that name, all the blood drained from his face.

  “But before you go, you owe Ada an apology.”

  “Anything.”

  “You misunderstand. Words might appease her, but they don’t appease me. You threatened her family and nearly killed her to cover your own ass. The only way you can repay that is in blood.”

  Fitzpatrick stumbled out another apology, begging to be spared, for mercy that Keanu wasn’t capable of.

  “He needs him alive,” Keanu said to Syn though he never took his eyes off Fitzpatrick. “Believe me when I say, you’re about to learn what pain really means.”

  Fitzpatrick blubbered as he was dragged from the room, tears falling even as Syn whistled.

  Keanu sat back with a sigh, only letting the tension inside him ease once the screams started.

  “Excellent work, both of you.”

  Fitzpatrick might have been unconscious and black and blue all over, but Uilleam didn’t seem to care as he peeked in at the man’s face where he lay in the trunk before turning away. As long as he was alive and able to provide the answers needed, he didn’t particularly care what he looked like.

  Syn looked infinitely more relaxed, his bloody hands now tucking an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

  “Then it looks like we’re done here,” Keanu said.

  “I’m surprised you don’t want to see how this ends,” Uilleam said conversationally.

  He spoke as if he hadn’t just threatened him a mere day ago. As if they were old friends sharing a moment.

  Maybe he would have if not for the words whispering away in his head. He’d never trusted Uilleam, not completely, but even what little trust he had managed for the man had dwindled to nothing now that he knew, or rather didn’t, about just how he and the people he called his brothers-in-arms had come to the Den.

  Not today, or maybe not even tomorrow, but he would find out what Uilleam had done, and he’d make him answer for it however he could.

  “Ada’s family—”

  “Will remain under my protection,” Uilleam interrupted. “I assume she’s with you, isn’t she?”

  The latter, he didn’t answer. If he’d had a choice, he would have much rather had her family stay where he could keep an eye on them, but until he talked to Ada, he couldn’t do anything about it at the moment.

  And no matter how much the thought annoyed him, if they were under Uilleam’s protection, nothing would be able to touch them.

  “And her money.”

  “Already transferred as of,”—Uilleam glanced down at his watch—“twenty minutes ago.”

  “Then we’re done here.”

  He looked as if he wanted to argue that point with him, but instead, he simply nodded and turned back for the compound. “Bring him along then, Syn. Skorpion has other plans.”

  Without a word, Syn lugged the man from the trunk none too gently and dropped him on the ground before closing the trunk and looking back at Keanu. “Let’s do this again soon, yeah?”

  He hoped there wouldn’t be any need.

  It was an hour’s drive back to his place. An hour he spent figuring out what he wanted to say and how.

  This was the first time in a long time that he’d ever ventured into this sort of territory and while he was pretty sure he knew where her head was at, she could have just as well changed her mind in the length of time he’d been gone. Soleil liked her, and he wasn’t afraid to use that against her if he needed to.

  He wanted her to stay.

  With him—with them.

  She only
had to say yes.

  As he parked outside his house, he could see the light still on in his bedroom window. She’d waited up for him.

  Now or never.

  Exiting his car, he headed inside, locking up the house before walking into his bedroom, smiling softly at the look of relief that crossed her face.

  “You were worried,” he said knowingly.

  “Probably always will be. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you going out and doing what you do.”

  “But you’ll be here,” he said, repeating what he’d asked earlier.

  She tucked dark hair behind her ear. “There’s no place else I’d rather be.”

  “Then stay,” he said. “Soleil wouldn’t forgive me if I let you walk away.”

  Her laughter made him pull her into his arms. “I’d never want to disappoint Soleil, but what about you?”

  “I want you right where you are.”

  Here.

  In his home.

  In his arms.

  She looked as if she was ready to agree until she lost her smile. “My family—”

  “Still under protection and the money he promised has been delivered, plus a little something from Fitzpatrick.”

  “Sorry?”

  “He sent his apologies after getting the contracts on your life pulled, and a severance package.”

  Her brows shot up in surprise, but then they lowered as she looked at him suspiciously. “That’s awfully generous.”

  “It was the least he could do.”

  “Thank you,” she said after a moment, her smile returning. “For this. For everything. I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

  He shrugged, cupping her neck. “You can unpack your suitcase and get comfortable.”

  “Because you want me to stay,” she said in a way that told him this was exactly what she’d hoped to hear from him.

  “Because I love you.”

  Her smile lit up her face. “I love you too, Keanu. Much more than I ever thought possible.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  She kissed him then, breathless and still smiling. “When is Soleil coming home?”

  “Tomorrow, probably.”

  “Then I have you to myself for the night.”

  Her hands inched down to the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath. “Always.”

  19

  Syn.

  Blood had spilled and his knuckles ached from repeated use, yet the desire to do violence still rode Syn hard. He couldn’t pinpoint the reason why, not right away. Not until he walked back into the compound and spotted Tăcut standing off to the side, oblivious to his presence.

  Just that quickly, his fingers were twitching and the slight weight of the knife in his pocket felt even heavier.

  He needed to get the fuck out of Los Angeles.

  He needed to let her go. Let her live her life without being a little cunt because he no longer had her where he wanted her.

  Decision made.

  He didn’t bother with goodbyes or explanations—never had during the few visits he took to the States though he’d done better because she’d asked it of him. Not today. Instead, he packed away what little he’d brought along with him and left the compound without looking back.

  What was worth staying for? She didn’t need him anymore.

  Even if he still needed her.

  Fucking pathetic.

  He needed to quit her.

  London was calling his name, tempting him back to its cool embrace where he could grab a proper pint and lose himself in work for a while longer until he couldn’t remember his own name. But, as he walked through the airport, ignoring the curious glances and frantic expressions as people jumped out of his way, he didn’t buy an international ticket.

  He felt reckless and impulsive and wanted to act on it.

  Five hours later, he found himself in the backseat of a cab heading toward his favorite haunt over in Brooklyn.

  The Hall wasn’t a place known for its atmosphere. Once the cover fee was handed over and you stepped foot inside the old dilapidated building, it was the alcohol, easy women, and promise of something filthy that made you stay.

  The bass of thumping music grew louder as Syn walked to the bar and slipped behind it, hunting the shelves for the particular brand of vodka which never failed to loosen him up. Not everyone was allowed the privilege of doing whatever the fuck they wanted in here, but he was one of them.

  He and Dismas, the owner of the place, went back a ways—since the days when he ran with the Wraiths and the Hall had been less of a sanctuary—and despite his rule for no violence inside the Hall’s four walls, Syn broke that particular one repeatedly.

  Even now, Dismas stood off to the side, a ledger opened in front of him even as he cut his eyes to Syn. “Haven’t come to destroy anything tonight, have you?”

  Like the last time he was here and he’d tried to take Tăcut’s face off just because it would make him feel better …

  Good times.

  Syn held up the bottle in his right fist, giving it a little shake. “You already know the answer to that.”

  His choice in liquor was always telling.

  Scotch when he was ready to burn shit to the ground.

  Vodka when he wanted to mellow himself out.

  But, even as he started with this bottle, there was no telling where this night would end by the time he was finished.

  Dismas’ gaze flickered back to the door. “No Winter?”

  Syn twisted the cap off his bottle. “Not this time.”

  Maybe not ever again.

  Turning away, he tipped the bottle to his lips as he went in search of a table near the dart boards, drinking the liquor down until the burn became too much and he had to take a breath.

  It burned like fire on the way down, coating his stomach, and warming him from the inside out until he could practically feel it swimming in his veins.

  Soon, the unease he felt slipped away, all but forgotten.

  He’d missed this.

  Too much time had been spent sober, actually feeling shit when he’d have rather numbed it all away.

  Escape called for him now, like a lulling prayer whispering in his ears. By the time he was on his third pull of vodka, he couldn’t feel anything anymore.

  Between one breath and the next, he set the bottle on the table, digging into his pocket for the switchblade he kept on him.

  He turned it over in his hands, watching the metal glint in the dim lighting of the bar, contemplating the many things he’d done with this very knife.

  He could almost see the blood still slick against it, red marring silver. Like every time he held a knife in his hands, the undeniable urge to hurt something swept through him.

  “Five hundred pounds says you miss,” came a gruff voice from his right. “Center target.”

  Syn blinked, coming back to himself as he glanced over at Davie who sat a couple of tables down, arms folded across a barrel of a chest as he regarded Syn with his one good eye.

  He’d been a regular here since before Syn had known this place even existed, picking up wet work whenever it was available. It wasn’t often British hitters came ‘round to this side and made a name for themselves, but he’d been one of the great ones.

  Until he’d developed a shit gambling habit.

  “S’not a bet, mate,” Syn warned him. “I never miss unless I’m trying to.”

  Which was the only reason that fucking Romanian was still breathing. He’d made a choice that day to not shoot him right between the eyes.

  In the months since it happened, Syn still wondered if he’d made the right choice.

  Davie rubbed a hand over his salt and pepper beard, looking from the target then back to Syn. “Give it fifteen meters.”

  Syn gauged the distance from the board to the end of the bar, just about the distance he was betting on—he could do it in his sleep.

  “Your money,” he grumbled before thumping his bottle
down on the table and standing.

  As he made his way to the bar, he pocketed the switchblade and carefully removed one of his throwing knives, containing his smile when he heard the sound of chairs skirting across the floor as people wisely moved the hell out of the way.

  It was always better to steer clear when Syn had his knives in his hand.

  “Right then,” Davie called, slapping his hand down hard on the table. “Get on with it.”

  Syn spun the knife, eyeing the board, calculating exactly how hard he needed to throw the knife and at what angle.

  He hadn’t learned about wielding knives in the traditional sense, and by the time he arrived at the Den, he was already more than proficient. He was deadly.

  But being used as target practice could do that.

  When he threw a knife, he didn’t imagine a five inch thick board set across the room, or even a target he was meant to take out, he saw a person—one that had managed to fuck him up so badly, this was the life he’d sought once he’d escaped. Nothing ordinary or something that could be seen as remotely respectable—he was a hired killer, and one that enjoyed what he did a little too much.

  A moment of careful consideration passed before the knife slipped past his fingers and launched across the room, spinning end over end until finally embedding itself into the board. Directly in the center.

  Davie groaned, others clapped, and Syn shrugged. “I prefer small bills, mate.”

  “Fucking hell,” Davie muttered to himself before slapping the money down onto the table, grumbling about needing another drink once he did.

  Syn wouldn’t have made him pay—he had enough duffel bags filled with cash buried in his flat back in London to go years without taking on another job—but Davie was a man that always paid his debts.

  He was seconds from grabbing a celebratory drink when something whistled next to his ear, and in the next blink of an eye, he watched as another knife hammered into the board next to his.

  Except, this one hadn’t come from his hand.

  Liquor dulled his senses, relaxed his muscles, but not enough that he wasn’t aware of his surroundings, or so he’d thought. As he turned to see just who’d managed to sink in a knife less than an inch from his, he realized he hadn’t been paying attention at all.