It was like every bit of oxygen had been sucked from the room. As if he had forgotten every instinct he’d been taught in training to never turn his back on the enemy he was fighting.
He wasn’t thinking at all.
That was when the Jackal struck—well-placed hits to each leg sent him crashing to his knees before the butt of a rifle was jabbed against his back. When he hit the floor, he felt it then—the barrel of a gun aimed at his head, the metal just grazing his scalp.
The shuffling of feet had him jerking his gaze up to find Reagan in the mouth of the door with tears in her eyes and the twins clutching her tight.
Ilya had Keira’s hand tucked tightly in his, but Keira ... she stared at him with fear in her eyes, tears gathering as she tried to reach for him, her little hands extended as she murmured papa over and over again.
For her, he could force a smile. For her, he couldn’t do anything but remain on his knees on his bedroom floor knowing that at any moment, he would die.
“Ya v poryadke, printsessa. Bez slez.” I’m fine, princess. No tears.
But those words only managed to make her sniffle louder. She reached for him, though Reagan quickly grabbed her tight, refusing to let her go.
“Either you leave on your own two feet,” another man said as he moved from the shadows behind Reagan, “or they don’t.”
Niklaus dropped his gun.
It wasn’t a question about the choice he had to make.
“Let them go and I’ll come with you.”
He could see the protest in Reagan’s eyes. He could see the moment when she readied to tell him not a chance, but he silenced her with a glance.
The Jackal restrained him, and the last thing he saw before a hood dropped over his head was the lone tear that tracked down Reagan’s face.
“Good evening, Mr. Volkov.”
“Yeah, no one calls me that,” Niklaus grumbled as he looked up from the steel table in front of him to the woman currently entering the room.
While Belladonna’s smile was kind, even as she issued threats, there was malice in this woman’s grin. It was clear Belladonna’s assistant, Kava, didn’t like him very much.
“My instructions were to treat you as a guest,” she said without inflection as she sat in the chair opposite him, setting a folder on the table between them.
“Do I look like a fucking guest to you?” Niklaus asked as he lifted his hands, the chains circling his wrists rattling with the movement.
Her smile was slight. “Those are more for my protection than for your confinement.”
Like she would fucking need it with the Jackal standing only a few feet away, but Niklaus was less concerned with the bastard in the mask because of the other man in the room. He stared him down, waiting until the moment the man’s gaze was on him before saying, “Don’t think these fucking cuffs will save you from me. The second I get free, I’m putting your head through a fucking wall. You don’t touch my wife and live.”
He looked amused, his lip curling at the corner. At least until Kava turned and speared him with a glance, the multitude of piercings in her ear glinting in the low light of the room. “You were to bring Mr. Volkov in without any harm coming to his family, no? Your instructions were very clear.”
The man shrugged as he folded his arms across his chest, speaking for the first time since they had been inside this room. “She was in the way.”
Almost imperceptibly, the Jackal’s hold on his rifle shifted, his finger now closer to the trigger.
“Did you disobey an order?” Kava asked, ignoring the man’s remark altogether.
“I got him here, didn’t I?”
“Omorî.”
Too late the man realized he’d answered incorrectly. Before he could even look in the Jackal’s direction, the other man had aimed and fired. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Niklaus had seen too much to react to someone dying right in front of him—he was more curious that Kava had spoken Romanian rather than the man dying.
Omorî, she said. Execute.
Again, Romanian?
“I apologize for his behavior. I can assure you our—”
“What’s Belladonna want with me?” Niklaus asked, cutting her off. “This is her doing, no?”
Even stuck inside a cell without access to any phone or technology, the woman was still managing to wreak havoc—and none of them had anticipated it.
At his question, Kava looked at him—actually looked at him, and the expression on her face brought one word to mind. Unapologetic. As if she knew what he was thinking.
“You cut the head off a snake, it can still bite.”
Clearly. “So what’s this going to be—a little torture before you let your war dog back there kill me?”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Volkov. We don’t intend to cause you any harm.”
“What the fuck do you call this then?”
“You don’t know where you are?”
Her question prompted him to look around the room, but nothing stood out to him or sparked a memory. It was hotel room like any other hotel room, though a little more upper class than he would usually stay in.
“I guess you wouldn’t,” Kava said before he could answer. “This was the room where your life was forever changed.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking your boss might have me confused with someone else. I’ve never been in this room.”
He had never even seen it before.
Kava opened the folder, Niklaus’s gaze immediately dropping to the contents—specifically the picture resting on top. It was only his training that stopped him from reacting because the two figures depicted in the black and white surveillance photo weren’t just familiar to him.
One was his father—a man whose forehead he had put a bullet in. Someone he had deemed ultimately responsible for what had happened to him. He hadn’t cared that Mikhail Volkov thought Niklaus was his twin brother when he had him kidnapped and tortured, or even that he was supposed to die at the end of it all.
More, he hadn’t even cared that he wasn’t the one who was tortured. Someone else had suffered because of Mikhail’s actions, and for that, the man had to die.
But while he already knew of Mikhail’s involvement in the plot with the Albanian syndicate who had tortured him, Niklaus wasn’t expecting to see the other man depicted.
Not when the Kingmaker had never mentioned him ever doing business with Mikhail.
Sure, his handler had made a deal with his twin brother on another matter, but he’d been offered that information freely.
Why hadn’t he mentioned this?
Worse, there was no way he could ignore the timestamp down in the left bottom-hand corner. Sure, it could have been faked—he’d done that a time or two himself—but some part of him that had never completely trusted the Kingmaker fully believed the image was real.
“What’s this?”
“Curious, wasn’t it?” Kava said as she reached into the folder to pull out more. “That the men who tortured you knew exactly where to find you. It might have been just a simple case of mistaken identity—even I would have believed that. But you know better now, though. You know this life, and more importantly, you know your brother.”
One aspect of Niklaus’s kidnap and torture had never made sense to him, though it had always been a fleeting thought in the back of his mind. There, but never of any importance.
How had the Albanians found him?
Niklaus did know his brother now more than he ever had then. He knew what made the man tick. He knew his habits and travels.
He knew his brother would never step foot in the neighborhood Niklaus had been in at the time. The territory was owned by the Irish and considering their relation back then, tensions were high. It would have looked like a declaration of war.
Which only meant his being taken hadn’t been a case of mistaken identity as he had always thought.
“That’s not fucking possible,” Niklaus murmured to himself, still star
ing at the damning evidence right in front of him.
His father’s smiling face. The Kingmaker was stoic as ever, but with that familiar glint of arrogance in his eyes.
“He offers you what you want for a price,” Kava went on, her voice softer, gentler. “But he never mentions what that price is.”
The price was supposed to be his loyalty, his willingness to kill in his name. For that, he was given the brand on the back of his neck that marked him as a mercenary of the Den. But now that he thought about it, he was compensated for every job he did for the Kingmaker.
His vengeance, however, the Kingmaker hadn’t paid him for that.
When he hunted down those fucking Albanians and dismantled their organization, that was personal.
The Kingmaker had given him the solution to a problem of his own making.
Niklaus had always thought the Albanians had made him—forced him down this path—but while they did, to a point, the blame wasn’t theirs.
Is the man who leads the lamb to slaughter not just as guilty as the man who slits its throat?
The Kingmaker was just as guilty as the rest of them.
Niklaus finally looked away from the images, refusing to drop his gaze again as he faced Kava. “What does Belladonna want from me—from us? I take you and the merc back there are the reason he’s missing.”
Kava nodded once. “We’re just the messengers.”
“That doesn’t answer my other question. What’s Belladonna want with me? She’s not sharing all of this,” he said with a gesture of his hand to the pictures, “without wanting something in return.”
She probably learned that from the best.
“She’s offering you the same thing she offered Celt,” Kava said sitting forward. “It’s your choice whether you choose to accept it.”
Niklaus knew, without her having to say, what that choice would come down to—whether he was willing to betray a man who’d betrayed him.
Chapter 15
Monsters, for lack of a better word, were supposed to be monstrous.
They were supposed to be as grotesque on the outside as they were on the inside. They were supposed to reflect their vicious nature, but the monster that had plagued Iris all her life wasn’t a frightening figure at all.
He didn’t have devil’s horns or disfiguring scars.
He was just a man.
Michael Spader didn’t have a cell like Belladonna’s. There was no bed or books to read. Not even a chair to offer the smallest bit of comfort.
Instead, he sat on the dirty concrete floor, his shirt open at the collar and stained with sweat, his once expensive designer pants frayed and filthy.
In a glance, he looked nothing like the man she had studied for years. Nothing like the prestigious governor who had wined and dined his guests back at the fundraiser.
Iris smiled at the thought.
There was no better feeling than the elation that coursed through her as she walked down the row of cells until she reached his. A better person might have felt sympathy for the once powerful man who had been brought so low. The bruises were stark on his pale skin, and it was quite clear, with one cursory look over him, that someone—and she had a pretty good idea who that someone was—had slowly and systematically been torturing him over the length of his stay.
Instead, she felt nothing at all.
No … no, that wasn’t quite right.
She felt something. Though in her current state of mind, she didn’t exactly know the right description to put to the emotion.
The governor looked up reluctantly, a sneer already forming before he set his gaze on her, but once he did, the expression melted away. She wasn’t who he had been expecting even as she saw the recognition there.
“And who, exactly, are you supposed to be?” he asked with a tilt of his head, his gaze assessing and crude. “A treat to soften me before he sends his savage in here?”
Definitely Synek.
“Trust me, I wouldn’t be very good at pretending to like you.”
That remark was enough to wipe the smirk off his face. “Then what the hell do you want?”
“The truth,” she answered, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned back against the bars and kept her gaze firmly trained on him.
For once, she was thankful for the lessons she learned from the Wraiths. How, even as nervous as she was, she could stand there with her head up and no quiver in her voice.
The Wraiths had made her strong.
They’d prepared her for the moment when she would stare down the man she hated and smile.
“You’re not one of them,” the ex-governor said coolly, his gaze still tracking over her. “You wouldn’t be down here if you were.”
Iris didn’t know what to make of that, so she kept silent, but she did wonder how he could have possibly known. It wasn’t as if everyone in this building was walking around in the same gear that Synek did.
“So if you don’t work for the Kingmaker, who are you?”
“You had a cop locked away for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Jesus.
She had figured her father wasn’t the only victim of his in his quest to garner more power within the underground, but she didn’t expect him to be so casual about it. As though the lives he ruined meant nothing.
“He was a detective for the 56th Precinct investigating a murder of a prostitute. I’m sure you remember Marvin Spencer, right? He’d only connected her to some low-level dealer. He didn’t even know you were a part of it, so why did you want to kill him?”
She tried to understand the emotions that flashed across his face, the last one being suspicion, but she couldn’t for the life of her understand why he was unsure about anything she was saying. What reason did he have to worry about what she was asking when it wouldn’t affect his time here at all?
She expected him to taunt her some more, to make light of what he had done. Instead, his eyes narrowed as he shuffled to his feet, nearly colliding with the wall as his legs buckled.
“Who sent you?”
Confused, Iris frowned. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Is this some kind of goddamn test?” he asked as if she would know what he meant.
He spoke with such vehemence that she wondered just what he and the Kingmaker had discussed while they were down here during his interrogations.
But no, she thought a moment later. That didn’t make sense.
Synek’s handler had made it very clear that his concern for what happened to her father was nonexistent, so she doubted he would have been asking about the ex-governor’s involvement.
Which could only mean he was talking about Belladonna.
“Do you need to be tested?” Iris asked, throwing the question back at him. While she didn’t know what had caused the fear he now felt, she wouldn’t tip her hand just yet. Not when he could give him something she didn’t already know.
“I’m doing everything she—” He stopped after a moment, his gaze darting over her face. Maybe her own expression was a little too curious because at the next moment, he cleared his throat, looking away. “You might not work for the Kingmaker, but you’re aligned with him, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter either way.”
“It matters if you think you can trust him.” His arrogance was back, twisting his features. “There is no scenario where he wins.”
“You obviously don’t know the man,” Iris said with a shake of her head.
“Obviously, you don’t know her.”
“You’re not supposed to be down here.”
They both turned to look at the owner of that voice, spotting a mercenary Iris didn’t recognize standing a few feet away, his frown becoming more pronounced as he glowered at her. But if he knew she was down here, it wouldn’t be long before others did as well.
And considering she had told Synek she would stay away from the ex-governor, it was only a matt
er of time before he found out.
Even as the only thing she wanted to do was stay there and question him further until she got the answers she was looking for, Iris reluctantly took a step back, her gaze still on the ex-governor.
When the mercenary attempted to grab her arm, she shook him off and headed for the elevators, already knowing what she would be speaking to Belladonna about this time.
As she entered the room she had become all too familiar with, Iris wasn’t sure what changed from one day to the next—how the woman who had seemed so unbreakable now looked as if she had been trapped in this place for weeks as opposed to mere days. Besides their ongoing conversations twice a day, she was left to her own devices the rest of the time she was in this room.
To anyone else, her imprisonment might have looked easy, considering she was given meals, her cell looked more like an under furnished hotel room, and she wasn’t being tortured. But nothing compared to having your own freedom and the choice to do whatever you wanted.
Iris couldn’t deny that.
It amazed her, though, that she found herself feeling any sympathy at all for Belladonna. She was supposed to be the enemy, the person who the Den as a collective despised. The woman who seemed to be making it her life mission to ruin a man who Iris couldn’t be sure if she actually liked.
But her opinion of either of them didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Feelings weren’t supposed to be involved when it came to the job. She was supposed to be indifferent.
“The governor,” Iris said as she kept moving forward until she was right up against the glass. “He’s part of your plan, isn’t he?”
“You’re all a part of my plan,” Belladonna said with a noncommittal shrug. “Some pieces just haven’t been utilized yet.”
“Why?” Iris asked. “What’s your endgame?”
Her gaze drifted past Iris, settling on the elevator before she looked back down at her hands. “Amateurs always make the same mistake when they play chess,” she said as she stood, brushing invisible lint from the front of her pants.
Iris. (Den of Mercenaries Book 7) Page 17