Even so, he couldn’t care enough to draw his legs up and out of the rain.
At least he was feeling something.
It wasn’t the cold that bothered him, or the music, or even the winter showers. The only thing he could feel was his usual wretched state—the one he always found himself in after a day of wielding the knife in his hand.
Once, he’d loved this thing and all he could do with it—the knife had grown to be an extension of himself. Now, it was just a reminder of what he’d become over the past few years.
A thing they’d molded and shaped and fucked up until even he couldn’t remember who he’d been before he ever agreed to join the Wraiths.
But that was in the past. Something he should have let go of by now.
Rain dripped from the ends of his bleached blond hair—hair he’d long grown annoyed with seeing every time he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror—further dampening the front of his T-shirt.
Exhaling for patience, Synek slid out of his leather jacket and tossed it aside. Then his knife was back in his hand, his face reflecting off the gleaming metal as he gave it a little twist.
It would easy, too easy, to slide it across his wrists or even drag it down his forearm to stop anyone from trying to save his life. It was the smart thing to do—end his life the way he wished someone had done so long before he’d become a killer.
He deserved to die—no doubt about it.
He just needed to do it. He needed to press the serrated steel against his flesh and jerk it back hard as he’d done to so many others.
A fitting death, he thought.
Flipping the knife around in his hand, Synek didn’t spare the blade another glance before he held it to his arm …
“I took you for many things, Synek Jønsson, but a coward was never one of them.”
For the better part of an hour, Synek had slowly drunk a bottle of bourbon until only the dregs were left and his fear of death had slowly seeped away. He was far too blotto to react to the sound of the voice coming from the mouth of the alley, or the man in the dark suit standing underneath an umbrella who it belonged to.
He was in no mood for this shit at all.
“Fuck off,” he answered in return, not caring who the man was or why he was there. He only wanted solitude to do what he needed without interruption.
His brusque tone should have been enough to send the man on his way—it did for others—but apparently, he had some sort of death wish because instead of leaving, he ventured closer.
Synek listened to every step he took, the man’s leather shoes sounding impossibly loud against the concrete beneath his feet.
The man was bolder than most, coming so close that his umbrella effectively blocked out the rain that had steadily fallen onto Synek’s legs since he had ventured out here.
Now, he was better able to make out the man’s face as he wiped the rain from his eyes.
He’d been expecting one of the newer little shits who thought the Wraiths was an organization worth giving their lives to and didn’t yet understand it was best to leave him be, but he should have known from the accent that wasn’t one of them.
The man in front of him couldn’t have been much older than he was—perhaps even younger, though it was impossible to tell—and though he was the one intruding where he wasn’t welcome, something seethed in the man’s gaze.
But even if Synek couldn’t tell the man’s age, he could easily read the rest of him.
Like how expensive his three-piece suit was, or how his shoes cost about the same. And when he shifted his arm just a bit, the gleaming silver face of his watch flashed in the low light of the alley.
Whoever he was, he obviously came from money.
Which made him curious considering the man seemed intent on bothering the shit out of him. He didn’t know anyone outside of the Wraiths who were well off, and even they all still wore some sort of leather or denim.
But it didn’t matter how much money he had. Synek wasn’t trying to make a spectacle of himself.
“Nothing to see here,” he said with a nod of his head back the way the man had come.
Unfortunately, the man still refused to move. “If you die, that puts a bit of a wrinkle in my plans, you see, so before you decide that all hope is lost, let me make you an offer.”
Synek couldn’t tell if the man was serious or taking the piss, but either way, he was in no mood to deal with riddles and shit. He already had enough to work through in his own head.
“Listen, bruv, it’s me doing you a favor here. You get me? If you think you know me, then you know who I work for, and trust me, they ain’t going to be nearly as nice as I am. Understand?”
Even still, the man remained in place, his expression never changing.
He had the sort of patience Synek wished he possessed, but unfortunately for the man in front of him, he had a hair-trigger, and he’d already pulled too hard.
Most people didn’t want to be in his presence when he was sober and coherent, let alone when he’d been stewing drunk for hours and in a perpetually bad mood.
He was a right sight already when he wasn’t drunk, but he could only imagine what he must look like now—scuffed boots on his feet, a threadbare shirt that was doing fuck all against the rain, and the despondent look on his face.
In his drunken state, Synek almost believed the man was just on some bent to save the desolate, but slowly, as if the words pushed right through the fog in his mind, he thought of what the man had said once he had approached.
The name he used …
A name he shouldn’t have known.
All thoughts of letting the man leave fled, his sluggish brain finally catching up with the rest of him. He might have stumbled a bit as he stood, but he never lost his grip on his knife.
He was too focused on how easy it would be to sever his carotid artery.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man smiled, slow and steady. “A friend, should you want one.”
“I have no use for those,” Synek replied with a shrug. “How d’you know my name?”
Since the moment he’d left his childhood home back in London, Synek never told anyone his full name—he hated the sound of it. If anyone asked, he always gave the shortened form—Syn.
“I know a great many things, but I’ll tell you what you want to know in due time. To answer your other question, they call me the Kingmaker.”
“Right.” The hell kind of name was that? “Why are you here?”
“I told you. I’ve come to make you an offer.”
“Yeah? And what sort of offer is that?”
“Freedom,” he said.
It wasn’t the strangest thing he’d ever heard. “You think you can take me from the Wraiths, do you? At what cost?”
Nothing in this world was free, especially from strangers in expensive suits in the middle of the night.
“Consider it a bonus on my job offer. Should you choose to work for me, I can give you what you want most.”
Synek shook his head, lowering the knife he hadn’t moved since the man, the Kingmaker, started speaking. “You don’t know shit about me, mate. You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you never wanted to suffer at the hands of your mother,” he said, voice unwavering. “I know she’s who haunts you most.”
It was the wrong thing to say, the words conjuring images better left in the past. But once they were there, playing on repeat in his head as he experienced the trauma all over again, Synek snapped.
He wasn’t thinking about consequences or explanations as he flipped the blade around in his hand, fully prepared to shove the tip of it into the man’s chest and give it a brutal twist, but before he could get within an inch of the man, someone else was there, a powerful hand clamping down on his wrist.
He hadn’t even noticed him approach from the shadows of the alley.
This one wore combat gear along with a bulletproof vest strapped to his chest.
&nbs
p; It explained why the Kingmaker could just stand there without fear of what Synek might do to him—he had a bodyguard.
But he’d faced tougher men than this, and he never ran from a fight anymore.
He dropped the knife he held without a second thought, launching his other fist into the man’s side, which effectively loosened his grip on him. Synek had spent years getting his arse kicked by brothers who found it funny that he couldn’t fight back.
The last thing he needed was a reminder of that weakness.
But beyond that first satisfying punch and the answering grunt it caused, he couldn’t land another, no matter how he alternated between fists and feet. Whoever the Kingmaker had with him was quick and blocked every hit effortlessly.
He didn’t even look winded as he dodged another strike. Not even when Synek nearly got his feet from under him. Only then did he add a bit more force behind his moves as he easily swung behind him, kicked the back of his knees, and sent Synek down onto the concrete, the force of it making him grit his teeth at the agony in his bones.
“Let’s not fight, shall we?” the Kingmaker suggested, not looking the least bit rattled that he’d almost been stabbed to death. “I wager you’re upset because I know about your mum? Don’t be. I know a lot of things about a lot of people. What I know won’t be used against you; it’s merely my way of saying I understand who you are.”
And, Synek thought bitterly as he was forced to look up at the man, he knows my weakness.
His heart thumping heavily in his chest, Synek scoffed, wishing he could knock off the hand resting on his shoulder. He hated the feeling of being locked down like a caged animal. “You know fuck all about it.”
The Kingmaker’s expression changed then from arrogance to … something else. “I know far too well what it’s like to live with a woman who despises your very existence … the way it can eat at everything you think you know. She was supposed to love you, wasn’t she? Your mother. But she didn’t give you that. She showed you how cruel this world could be before anyone else could get their claws into you.”
Synek hadn’t known what to think when the man first started speaking, believing he was about to blow smoke up his arse, but by the end, he was listening. And it was clear from just the serious note to his voice that he did, in fact, understand.
But how the hell could he know?
“The Wraiths aren’t any better, I imagine. You’re only as useful to them as your latest victim. I can give you more than that, should you want it.”
Everything he’d said was true, but even if the man was able to give him the one thing he’d longed to have since the moment he realized the mistake he’d made by joining the Wraiths, there was only one problem … “You don’t ever walk away from the Wraiths with your life,” he said, the words pulled from him reluctantly. “That’s not how it’s done.”
“The question is never and will never be what you can do. It’s what I can. If you want to be free of them and have his training,” the Kingmaker said with a nod of his head to the man standing behind Synek. “I can give that to you … for a price.”
What price was he willing to pay to get away from the Wraiths? To no longer have to contemplate ending his life for the deplorable things he did in their name?
“What price?”
“In exchange for your loyalty, I’ll give you the skills only my mercenaries are capable of. For your service, I’ll pay you more than you could ever dream.”
“And my life?” Synek asked, not missing the distinction. “What are you offering for that?”
Brown eyes leveled on him, lacking any of the warmth they’d possessed moments before.
“Vengeance.”
Synek wasn’t sure why he was being made the offer, but as the alcohol burned off with the thrum of adrenaline coursing through him, he also didn’t care.
“Right. And where do I sign for this?”
“That comes after,” the Kingmaker said. “My offer is yours … for a price, as I said. If you want it, you have to do something for me in return.”
“What’s that?” Synek inquired, knowing he wasn’t going to like the man’s answer.
The Kingmaker stood tall, his smile growing a touch. “You have to betray your brotherhood.”
*
Manhattan, New York
Six hours earlier …
The day the rain smelled of summer flowers, Iris wanted to die.
She could hear it beating down on the brick and mortar building she sat in, surrounded by the dozens of journalists with cameras in their hands, oblivious to everything but the seven people sitting at the very front of the room.
The judge in black robes, his ever-present frown in place, clutched a gavel tightly in his right hand. The first time she laid eyes on him, she’d feared the power he held as the voice of the court. In this room, his word was law.
But it wasn’t her fear of him that had her twisting her hands in her lap. Rather, it was of the man reclined back in his chair, arms casually stretched out on either side of him. For all the care he seemed to give for where he was, he could have been anywhere.
Not on trial for murder.
This wasn’t her first time inside a courtroom, tucked away in the back where she remained quiet and observing. Only this time, she wasn’t crying silently and wishing that she could escape with the man who’d sat at the front of the room with his head hung in shame, unable to do anything but accept the fate they bestowed on him.
A life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit.
It had only taken the jury twenty minutes to come back with a verdict.
Twenty minutes to send her father to prison and there had been nothing she could do about it.
She still remembered the vortex she’d fallen into after. Not sure what to do, but since, she had returned to the very same courtroom with the very same judge.
But this trial was far more interesting because the man seated at the front of her room was guilty of more than just the crime he was charged with.
He knew the truth about her father because he was the one who had done the crime.
She had no evidence to support her claim, only a picture of his face tucked away in one of her father’s files that she had memorized.
But, she’d contented herself with the knowledge that he might have been able to get away with one crime, but he wouldn’t get away with another.
For fourteen days, Iris had come to this very room, tucked in the back where she went unnoticed. The people around her were more concerned with the man on trial rather than a girl who could have been anyone.
From the men and women who made up the jury, to the bailiffs and court attendants, and even the defense and prosecuting attorneys who argued their cases. Even the journalists snapping photos didn’t seem to realize she sat among them.
Not that she minded.
Iris noticed everyone and everything, but no one noticed her—the way she preferred it.
If they had, they might have realized that while the judge presided over the case, there was a girl that sat among them who didn’t belong, and they wouldn’t have been so careless with their words.
She heard everything they said—from the witnesses who took the stands, to the experts on murder weapons and police procedures, and to the men sitting to her left who could hardly go a few minutes without whispering to each other.
They didn’t just mumble about the man currently on trial, but on all the cases they’d been covering over the last few months.
Including her father’s.
“Can you really trust a dirty cop?”
“He got himself locked up.”
“The victim deserved better, I’ll tell you that.”
Ever since that first day, Iris had to dig her nails into her palms to force herself not to respond, to pretend as if their words didn’t seep into her bones and make her want to hurt them the way their careless musings hurt her.
They didn’t know her father—not when he’d been a proud p
olice detective, or even when he was forced out and became a bounty hunter. They only knew of the man who had to stand on trial for the murder of a drug dealer.
She wanted to tell them her father was a good man, that he’d done everything in his power to give them both a good life despite the obstacles they’d faced, but the promise she’d made him kept her silent.
To them, she didn’t exist—the one good thing that had come from her mother who’d taken off years ago. Allison had left his name off the birth certificate back during a time when she hadn’t been sure she wanted anything to do with Iris’s father, but it had worked out in their favor in the end.
It doesn’t matter now, Iris told herself as she slid forward, resting her sweaty palms against the cold wood of the bench in front of her.
Justice always prevailed.
That was what her father had always taught her, anyway. In the end, justice ensured that the bad guys paid for their crimes, vindicating the good ones.
She just needed to hear the words.
“Has the jury reached a decision?” Judge Matthes asked, turning his eyes to the foreman who stood.
“We have, your honor.”
“If the defendant would rise …”
The foreman was a tall man, his stomach just starting to overlap the waistband of his creased pants. His white shirt starched to near cardboard, the black tie hanging around his neck was skewed just slightly to the left. Iris didn’t know why those details stood out to her at that moment, but he had her undivided attention. Even as the man she’d grown to hate with every fiber of her being stood and straightened his suit jacket.
The foreman unfolded a note he held, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck and dampening the collar of his shirt. “We, the jury, find the defendant, Ernest Rockly …”
Her breath caught in her throat, her gaze flickering to the table as Ernest smiled.
The foreman hesitated, his gaze drifting over to the man as well, his throat working as he swallowed. “We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty on the count of second degree …”
Den of Mercenaries: Volume Two Page 24