Synek was far more observant than she’d given him credit for, but then again, she didn’t really know him and only based her assumptions off what little was in the file and their few interactions.
Though he was starting to seem like a burgeoning alcoholic—he had come in here with a bottle of his own—he was far more intuitive than she’d originally thought.
He saw easily what she kept hidden from everyone else.
She didn’t owe him an explanation for who she was or the things she was doing, but he was going out of his way to do something for her.
The least she could do was entertain his questions, even if they reopened old wounds.
“Then that should have given you your answer, right?”
It sounded unbelievably sad when she put it that way.
“Not necessarily. I have brothers out there, somewhere. Can’t imagine they’d ever want to get into contact with me, though.”
His answer surprised her This had to be the only thing he’d ever told her about himself freely. “Why not?”
“On account of my mum.”
Iris had never gotten close to any of the Wraiths, or anyone, for that matter. She didn’t know the protocol for this—for something serious. His entire demeanor had changed, though she wasn’t sure if he’d realized it or not.
He rubbed his eyes, seeming to grapple with a decision. “She thought of me as the devil.”
Her smile was quick, thinking he was joking, but when his expression didn’t change, the brief tilt of her lips flattened again.
“She thought the best way to heal me was to beat the sin out of me, as she liked to call it.”
Iris tried to imagine him as a boy, back before he was hardened by life and not drinking his nights away. She could almost see chubby cheeks, floppy hair, and a sort of presence you couldn’t help but notice.
Then she tried to picture anyone who thought to hurt him.
“It became a game then,” Synek said bitterly, lost in the past. “To see who could break me. Between my brothers and her, it was a toss-up who came up the winner of the night.”
“Jesus, Syn.”
She hated that ghost of a smile, even as she realized what she had said given their conversation.
“Did anyone ever step in?” She didn’t know much about child protection agencies in other parts of the world, but she was sure Britain had one.
“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if they could. I took off.”
“And joined the Wraiths?” she asked, remembering bits of a story Rosalie had told her once.
“I lived on the street for a bit after, but yeah, the Wraiths came after.” A humorless laugh left his lips, and only after he took a deep swallow of his liquor did he say, “They didn’t have much to work with.”
Though he said this as if he believed it, Iris didn’t.
He could have been someone else. Had he been loved and nurtured. Even if he had been broken, and she didn’t doubt he had, the Wraiths had twisted him up.
They’d created Syn.
Once he fell silent, she thought of leaving it there, but despite her initial desire not to share anything with him, she found herself saying, “My father is in prison.”
For the first time since he’d mentioned his mother, he met her gaze. No judgment. No questions. He merely passed her the bottle of vodka.
There was an out there if she wanted it, but she didn’t take it. “He was convicted of a murder he didn’t commit.”
“No shit?”
She thought back to that last day in the courtroom—how it felt as if her throat was closing up when the guilty verdict came back. That, by far, had been the worst day of her life.
“And your mum?” he asked next.
“She took off practically the second I was born.” Iris shrugged, remembering the stories and distant memories of the woman who’d loved her in her own way—at least, that was how her father described it. “It wasn’t her fault. She was never ready to be a mother when she ended up pregnant with me. Couple that with grandparents who apparently thought it would have been better for her to have an abortion than keep me, and I guess I’m lucky to be here at all.”
She waited for the pity to light up his eyes—for him to feel sorry for her—which would immediately make her regret sharing anything with him. But he didn’t look at her as if she were broken—he looked at her like he understood that pain all too well.
He’d told her not to pity him when she’d first seen his scars, and now, he was giving her the same in return.
“What’d you do … after, I mean? Can’t imagine if someone banged up your dad, they wouldn’t come after you next.”
Iris crossed her legs, far closer to him than she realized. The bed couldn’t have been smaller than a king, yet they were mere inches apart. “He was a detective with the NYPD for twenty years.”
Even now, she remembered the way he always smiled when he came home, proudly pulling that gold shield off his belt and setting it up on the highest shelf along with his service gun.
“It was the summer of 2012 when he lost everything. I don’t know what happened … not all of it. I haven’t been able to find any answers for that, but once he was fired and became a bounty hunter, that’s when everything changed.” She sighed, running her fingers through her hair as she brushed the strands off her face. “That was when he started talking about the possibility of something happening to him. There was never any shortage of people pissed he found them and brought them in because they skipped bail, but I don’t know. I guess I never thought I would actually have to go through with what he wanted me to do.”
To run.
To hide.
To stay invisible so that whoever had come after him wouldn’t come after her.
“Anyway … you didn’t ask me any of that.” She’d been rambling. “After he was sentenced, I lived on my own.”
“Since you were … fourteen?”
Thirteen, but he was close enough. “It wasn’t easy, but I managed it.”
His expression softened. “No, it’s never easy, is it?”
He understood, probably better than anyone else. He might have been younger when he had to try to make it on his own, but their struggle was the same.
As she fell silent again, Iris couldn’t help but feel lighter after telling her story. The truth was, though only parts of it were no longer just on her shoulders—she was no longer the only one who knew.
She was thankful he’d listened, and despite it all, it was enough for her to relax more with him.
“The scars,” she said, her gaze falling back to them. “They’re not from the Wraiths, are they?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant. “I was fucked up long before they ever got their hands on me.”
Because of his own mother.
She’d thought hers was bad.
Iris reached for him without thinking, quickly noting the way he flinched but tried to hide it. Drawing her hand back, she readied to apologize—she shouldn’t have been touching him anyway—but he caught her wrist before she could get far.
Silent permission for her to do what she wanted.
Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was a little more, but very carefully, she brushed her fingertips across the scar that curved around his shoulder.
“Six-inch blade,” he said without opening his eyes.
When she touched another, this one a little lower on his chest, right over his ribs, he said, “Serrated steel.”
“And this one?” she asked as she found another—a gunshot wound, she thought.
This one managed to get a small smile out of him. “It was the Berlin job.”
He didn’t offer any more explanation than that, but whatever he meant, it was obviously a fond memory.
As she moved onto another, he offered another explanation. At first, she wasn’t sure if he was joking, but there was no indication at all that he was lying, which could only mean that he did remember how he’
d gotten all his scars.
No matter where she touched, he had a ready reply, even when he rolled over without her prompting, and she found the rest.
Thirty-seven scars and he had a story for all of them.
“What’s that look for?”
She blinked, looking from his chest back up to his face. “What look?”
He gestured without actually touching her. “The anger. What’s the anger for?”
“I’m not angry,” she answered with a quick shake of her head. Not because she wasn’t, but because he couldn’t possibly know that she was.
“Micro expressions, remember? You get a tic, right there,” he said, and this time, he did touch her. Just the barest sweep of his thumb beneath her eye.
She couldn’t be sure, but his touch seemed to linger a fraction longer than what was innocent curiosity.
“If you’re so good at reading people, why …?”
She thought better of the question before it fully left her mouth, but Synek knew what she was about to ask regardless.
“Why did I still fall for your ploy? The truth ain’t always what you want it to be, dove. Would’ve been awkward if I’m trying to get my hand in your jeans and you’re faking.”
Then he’d let himself be fooled.
She was glad his gaze had trained on a spot on the wall rather than looking at her. She didn’t want him to see that she hadn’t minded being in that alley with him—that that hadn’t actually been a part of the job.
For a second there, she had wanted him as much as he’d wanted her.
“I don’t know if I’m making good company.”
“Nah,” he answered. “You’re doing your bit.”
“Telling you about my shitty life?”
“Keeping me out of my head.”
That made her hurt for him. “We’re just talking.”
He shrugged. “I don’t talk to anyone.”
“Not even Winter?”
She’d waited until the bottle was mostly gone before venturing into “Winter” territory.
“We were … close,” he hedged. “Not anymore.”
“You’re not?”
“You missed that giant fucking Romanian who’s always a step behind her just waiting for someone to piss him off. That’s why.”
She might have laughed had he not look so disgruntled. “So it’s because of him?”
“Not really. She wanted what I couldn’t give her, so she found it in him.”
“Oh.” Iris might not have been in many relationships, but she knew what that meant. “Why?”
“She’s just a kid.”
Iris doubted she was much older than her—five years, at the most—but then she remembered the story of how he and Winter had met. Even as she’d grown older, maybe he always saw her as that little girl.
Synek sighed, long and hard, before he got to his feet. He’d lost a bit of that grim edge he’d had when he first entered the room. Now he just looked tired, but not necessarily in a bad way.
“Early morning,” he explained.
She didn’t know why—she could have just let him leave the room without saying a word—but she stood all the same and trailed behind him to the door.
To close and lock it behind him, she told herself.
As he readied to disappear out the door, he turned back at the last second, making her stumble into him. An apology was on the tip of her tongue, but she forgot all about it when he turned and cupped her face with his free hand, dragging her forward until he could mesh his lips with hers.
It was unexpected and desperate and everything she could ever want.
He stole her breath without trying, and obliterated any defenses she might have had against him. Just like before, she didn’t think of anything else at that moment other than the way his hand felt on her neck and his lips felt against hers.
Moments later, too soon, he released her and took a breath. When she met his gaze, she was mesmerized by his dilated pupils.
“Right.”
“What?”
She wasn’t sure what to make of the look on his face—like he was suffering, but enjoyed it all the same.
“You’re a beautiful poison.”
Synek disappeared out the door, leaving her staring after him, not sure what to think.
Chapter 17
He was obviously still suffering the effects of his torture, or maybe he’d become weak in the past three weeks because for whatever reason, Synek had sought her out and spilled his fucking guts like a wanker.
He tried not to think about it—or her—too much as he sat on the rooftop opposite the Wraiths’ new compound, a pair of binoculars in his hand as he watched the movement inside from his vantage point. As with all the marks he was tasked with hunting, they were oblivious to his presence.
“Should I even ask what we’re doing up here?” said a voice from behind him, tinged with curiosity and annoyance.
But that was the usual state of the man walking toward him, his dark hair just dusting his shoulders as he carried a rifle bag across his back.
Of all the mercenaries in the Den, Synek had always been able to relate to Red. Perpetually angry with a massive chip on his shoulder and prone to violence when the mood struck him, they were practically cut from the same cloth.
But Red had settled down over the past couple of years—met a girl, had a set of twins, and was now taking on less work with the Den.
Though Winter had wanted him to call the Russian from the very beginning, Synek had already decided against it, figuring the man had better shit to do, but last night in the midst of his drunken confessions, he’d thought it better to call in the favor.
Plus, he needed to clear his damn head.
“You’re the best sniper I know,” Synek answered, dropping the binoculars as he turned.
Red had been in Los Angeles briefly more than a month ago, but their paths hadn’t crossed in years—ever since a raid they’d conducted in Albania. Since then, he looked healthier and happier, even with his surly tone. And when he dropped the bag he carried, his shirt gaped a bit at the collar, revealing the dark ink of the stars tattooed beneath his collarbone.
Russian Bratva royalty.
“I am,” he answered, no shame at his arrogance. It was just a fact. “But who has you so pissed off it warranted my presence?”
Synek had gone years without revealing who he had been before he stepped foot into the Den. No one asked questions—that was just the way it was—and he could have gone years more without ever mentioning the Wraiths to any of them.
But it was time to make peace with his past, and if he was going to take down an entire organization in a matter of days, he couldn’t do it on his own.
“You’ve ever heard of the Wraiths?”
Red frowned as he crouched, unzipping the bag and carefully removing each piece of his rifle before assembling it. “Was originally some sort of motorcycle club, wasn’t it? Till they branched out and into other shit.”
“Something like that.”
Synek only knew bits about the origins of the Wraiths—he’d come in long after the Harleys had turned to decorations and the organization had turned down a different path of organized crime.
Red seemed to study him now—from the rings on his fingers to the scuffed boots on his feet. “That explains a lot.”
“Not the point.”
“Fair enough.” He had never been one to pry. “Who’s the mark?”
“You won’t miss him. He’ll be the first through the door. Ugly mug, shaved head. Tattoo of a bird across his throat.”
“How much time do we have?”
“However much you need. They won’t be coming out until I’m ready for them.”
In the wee hours of the morning, after he’d left the safe house, he’d sorted through the list Bear had sent him and at the very top was this address. Of all the properties listed, he was most familiar with this one—and the men who ran it.
He’d thought, of all the
places in the Wraiths’ possession, this one would be the last place they’d continue to return to, considering this was where he did most of his business back in those days.
But it didn’t matter one way or the other. By the time he finished here, there’d be nothing left to return to.
“What is it with you Brits and bombs?” Red asked as he laid flat on the rooftop, positioning his rifle with ease. “You have an entire holiday celebrating the man who tried to blow up Parliament, no?”
“You’re Russian,” Synek replied. “You’ve no room to talk.”
Red paused, considering that. “Fair enough. I’m not shooting to maim, right? You want them dead?”
More than anything else in the world. “Headshots if you can. I’m poetic that way.”
“If I can,” Red mumbled, as if the mere question was ludicrous. “On your mark.”
Pulling the remote detonator from his pocket, Synek thumbed the control switch, feeling a sense of euphoria for what was about to occur. This wasn’t the first time he’d ever pressed the button, but it was the first time that one of his devices wasn’t used to kill outright.
No, today, he wanted to see them die up close.
With a press of his thumb, the windows blew out of the building, sending shards of glass spraying out, smoke billowing, and sounding a piercing alarm. In seconds, the doors flung open and members of the Wraiths poured out two at a time. And right at the front of the line was exactly who Synek had expected.
He’d always cared more about saving his own arse than anyone else.
He barely made it a foot before Red was pulling the trigger, the bullet flying at impossible speeds. He was dead before he ever hit the ground.
Guns were drawn, panic spreading as they tried to locate where the shot had come from. “Blue shirt.”
Tony Recanta had been one of the few who’d gladly walked in that room with a smile on his face before he’d used every tool in his limited arsenal to inflict as much pain as he possibly could.
Synek might not have held it against him—orders were orders, after all—but there was once a time when Tony had made a stupid mistake.
Syn. (Den of Mercenaries Book 6) Page 17