by D. A. Young
“Allow me to refresh your memory, pendejo.”
It was the only warning Holt received as a blade hurtled sinisterly out of the darkness, aimed directly at his throat. Narrowly, he shifted to his right and snatched the dagger by the handle out of thin air.
“Asshole!” Holt chuckled as the Spaniard made himself known, stepping out from the shadows and they exchanged a grin. He’d come to think of Cruz Merada as someone he could count on to watch his six. The swarthy ladies’ man had more than proven himself on their previous missions.
“I’ve been called worse,” Cruz said. “Hola, amigo. Como estas?”
“Just fine. You?”
Cruz shrugged carelessly. “Can’t complain. You know how it is in our line of work. Better than some, worse than others.”
Meaning they were alive instead of six feet under like their deceased adversaries who didn’t take their fearsome reputations seriously.
Holt snorted. “Look at you waxin’ poetic. Romankov call you?”
“El Lobo had one of his guards do it. He is concerned about the unexpected company and decided my assistance would be needed. You know, he’s really a bossy pendejo, si? With his “Rawr! Listen to me! I am the big, bad wolf who will rip your guts out” attitude,” He grinned slyly and tossed Holt his phone. “Before you say no to my help, I brought you a Christmas gift.”
Holt raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “Oh, we gift-givin’ amigos, now? If I accept it, you better not expect me to put out.”
“Should I be overwhelmed by the urge, I’ll pray to every deity known to man for the strength to resist your charisma,” Cruz responded drolly. “He wanted me to scope out the airport, but I had a hunch and played it. If your people were anything like mine…have a look.”
Holt pressed the play button on the video and watched as a snowmobile rider approached his home. They stopped two hundred yards away and surveyed it before branching out and doing recon work. Deciding the coast was clear, they approached his backdoor. The camera angle shifted as Cruz moved for better viewpoints. The rider picked the lock and slipped in. Under the splash of moonlight Holt detected the night-vision goggles he wore.
“Why don’t you have an alarm system?”
“Because first of all, who would motherfuckin’ dare?” Holt muttered absently, focused on the footage. “Secondly, this is The Row. This type of bullshit ain’t never been a problem here.”
“Romankov ordered his men to surround the tarmac and your parents’ house when he received a call from the tower after they got a call from an unknown aircraft requesting permission to land. The guards are loaded with arsenal and are to follow your lead. Grisha informed me that the rider is now back on the plane, along with the snowmobile.”
Inside of the house, the flicker of a flashlight flitted from room-to-room as the intruder skimmed through all of Holt’s things. Cruz zoomed in as he rummaged through a basket of clean clothes on his bed. Holt’s fingers tightened around the phone. He and Kat had utilized the Jacuzzi just two days ago, and the two scraps of fabric she called a bikini had been washed and was waiting to be folded. The intruder picked something up and held the flashlight over it, thoroughly inspecting it before bringing it to his face, then nose, familiarizing himself with it. Finally, he slipped it into the inside of his puffer jacket before rearranging the basket as he’d found it. Five minutes later, he was exiting the house and zooming off.
Cruz glanced at Holt’s rigid face. His flaring nostrils and glacier eyes brimming with murderous intent had the Spaniard smirking. “Would it be too much to hope that those are your undergarments?”
“That would have been a smarter choice for him.” The words pulsed with a viciousness waiting to be unleashed.
“Recognize him?”
“Don’t you know a dead man walking when you see one, Merada?”
Holt flung the dagger back at him. It was caught with a careless elegance and pocketed in one smooth gesture. Cruz trailed Holt back to his truck, leaning patiently against the side while he unlocked it. He flipped the backseat up to reveal several cases and bypassed the padded tactical weapons case and scoped rifle/shotgun case for a worn, leather-wrapped bundle. Holt lifted it out and pulled a gun holster out before slamming the seat back in place, automatically locking it. He stripped off his jacket, opened the bundle, and withdrew a back harness that held his baby. His weapon of choice was a nineteen-inch hickory handled axe, designed to wield large game. Weighing less than two pounds, the steel blade was able to chop through pelvic and rib bones. Holt strapped it to his back and swiftly adjusted it across his chest for easy access before slipping the gun holster over it then his jacket back on and concealing it.
Finally, Cruz spoke. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news—”
“Too late for that,” Holt tersely cut him off. He was in no mood to be reined in. Not that he didn’t appreciate the loaned manpower, but this was his shit. No one else was going to dictate his actions.
“He said there’s to be no bloodshed.”
“Weapons are merely instruments for diplomacy.”
“On that, we are in complete agreement. You know, Romankov’s integrity can be so annoying at times. He’s a real killjoy,” Cruz complained as he moved around to the passenger side and got in. “To hell with it. We never get to kill anyone anymore! I’m willing to look the other way while you handle your business.”
“Awfully generous of you.”
“Bah! I need to feel something! Anything! I’m dying here in this godforsaken little town!”
“Is that really the reasonin’ you want to plant your flag with, Merada?” Holt questioned dubiously as he started his truck and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out a Glock, slid it under his jacket and into the holster. Holt removed his phone and checked it. He had three missed calls and smiled when he saw whom they were from before pocketing it and pulling away from the curb. “‘Cause I gotta say it’s about as logical as a zebra strollin’ into a lion’s den to party.”
“You’re overthinking things, amigo. It’s simple: death is merely a reminder to live life fully,” Cruz brooded, staring out the window at the passing snow-capped scenery. “Enlighten me. You could have relocated anywhere else in the world when you earned favor. You’ve got the money and means to do it. Why stay here? Why not Rio or Tokyo? Bali, Berlin or Paris? Even Cape Town?”
Despite the darkness, he caught the brilliant flash of Holt’s grin. “You’re overthinkin’ it and complicatin’ shit, Merada. This is my home, plain and simple. It’s where I was raised and where I plan to raise my children. My family put down roots here long before I was born and so did Kat’s. We’ve been blessed to experience the finer things in life in the grandest cities all around the world, but no matter where we travel to and the bright lights and sophistication those places may offer, Whiskey Row is, and always will be, home for us.”
“How do you and “The Wolf” do it, though? Manage to conceal the very nature of who you are? How does the taste for death go dormant? You’re a hunter playing house with your prey!”
A sullen Cruz puffed out his disdain, fingers tapping against the door handle impatiently. “Whiskey Row is officially where Guardians go to die. Maybe I should suggest that the Chamber of Commerce committee put that on their brochure.”
“What crawled up your ass and died, dickhead?” Holt inquired, turning down the empty road that led to the private landing strip. “Just so we’re clear, these people are my friends and family! Never has a violent thought crossed my mind about the town’s residents.”
Except one.
That one, Holt had wanted with an obsessive violence, but it wasn’t his debt to collect. In hindsight, looking back on the way things turned out, Holt wished he’d gone with his gut. Instead, he’d hesitated, allowing his respect for a good friend to impede his decision. It was the kind of thing that got a person killed. One miscalculation. That was all it took. Even the most minuscule error could alter the fate of many. In the end, it had, making
Holt feel like a failure as worlds crumbled around him.
“This is where I’ve invested my life. Killin’ was never my passion. It just happens to be somethin’ I’m damned good at. You ever think you feel different because of your circumstances?”
“Do not speak of things you know nothing about,” Cruz snapped. He lowered the window, hoping the freezing temperature would quell his irrational temper. Yet, he didn’t deny Holt’s observation.
Every great house across Europe had a Guardian to protect their assets. That individual was normally born into the family and trained in Instruction, joining the Collective and rising faithfully to negotiate, maim, kill, and destroy depending on the situation when called upon. When the Hidalgos of Aragon, Spain’s last great protector, Gabriel was wounded and unable to carry out his duties, the family Patriarch, Bautista Hidalgo, ordered his son to find a replacement of his caliber. The lucky prospect was on his way to serving a life sentence in Cote Del Sol prison.
Raphael Merada was guilty of beating a man to death with a tenderizer for robbing his parents’ butcher shop, Merada Jamonarium, and killing his brother and sister-in-law who happened to be closing that evening. The family had served the Hidalgos loyally for a century. His father Lucca begged for an appointment with Bautista and pleaded with him to put in a good word on Raphael’s behalf. He offered the lifelong servitude of his son in whatever capacity the Hidalgos saw fit. The older gentleman couldn’t bear to see his oldest son end up in one of the country’s worst prisons.
Seizing the opportunity, Gabriel agreed. He’d seen the young man’s skill set when he came to prepare fresh meat for festivities. It was poetry in motion to watch the young man effortlessly work his sixteen-inch scimitar on a vaca in one fell swoop, the nonflexible knife curving smoothly as it trimmed and broke down large cuts of meat into steaks, stew meat, and roasts. Or the way he palmed a clam knife and Frenched racks of lamb and veal, scraping membranes off the bones in the blink of an eye.
Raphael was an excellent protégé. He welcomed the challenge of learning a new animal to dissect, absorbing it all like a sponge. He applied his expertise ruthlessly around the world, instilling fear in House Hidalgo’s enemies. Raphael began to pass his knowledge down to his orphaned nephew at an early age. When he deemed him ready, the older man stepped aside to make way for Cruz and retired to run Merada Jamonarium.
“Well, shut the fuck up then. No point in bitchin’ if a resolution won’t be attempted. We’re on,” Holt announced.
Alexei had basically provided him an army the size of a small country. Custom black Hummers created a wide perimeter around the jet. From the tower, Frank stood sentry. He acknowledged Holt and Cruz with a wave. Unbeknown to them, at his feet was an M3E1 bazooka that Alexei had acquired two months ago from his acquaintances at the Pentagon. The weapon wasn’t even yet used in military tactics and combat and was still in the testing phase by the army. Per Alexei’s directive, if the Swedes tried anything suspect, Frank was allowed to show his ass accordingly with it.
Holt examined the platinum jet on the tarmac with Falk Incorporated declared in bold black lettering on the side and a gigantic, life-like, black octopus emblem in front of it. The tentacles appeared to be flowing sinuously, some wrapping around the side of the jet as if it were trying to devour it. Holt wondered who’d been sent to deal with him, he’d forgotten to ask after his father dropped the fiancée bombshell on Kat. Whomever it was, he knew they were enjoying the lavish amenities inside. The jet had a lounge zone, featuring a giant screen television, leather sofas and recliners, and an entertainment console and wet bar. There were four bedrooms, each with full-size baths, two half-baths, a conference room, dining room, and a fully-equipped kitchen. State-of-the-art technology, ample leg room, and storage space were provided throughout, and a staff of eight was on duty at all times.
Driving directly between two Hummers, up to the jet, Holt stopped two hundred feet away, directly in front of the door. He turned to his friend with a grim look. “Keep your head on a swivel, Merada.”
Cruz’s grin was dipped in expectation. “I always do, amigo.”
Chapter Nine
They emerged from the vehicle, moving to stand in front of the truck as the jet’s stairs deployed. Slowly, a knee-length, cranberry-red fur coat and white leather stiletto boots were revealed. Immediately, Holt relaxed, recognizing the fashion style of his twenty-nine-year-old cousin, Thea Falk. The boots covered endlessly long legs and stopped mid-thigh, exposing a sliver of ivory skin. The rest of her svelte body was hidden under a white body-con, turtleneck mini-dress. Cruz whistled his approval when her face was finally revealed.
Her chestnut hair was a pixy cut of tousled waves with golden highlights, framing her waif-like face with delicate cheekbones while a pert, straight nose and delicately arched brows lent to her overall attractiveness. When her eyes found Holt’s, her bow-shaped lips, covered in pale pink gloss, stretched into a mischievous grin, revealing snow-white, straight teeth. Even though it was nightfall, Holt knew her cornflower-blue eyes were sparkling with laughter as she grandly descended.
“It would appear Christmas comes early for me this year! Lucky for the senorita, I live on the naughty list,” Cruz drawled as the leggy Scandinavian beauty approached them.
“You really are an ass, Merada!” Holt snarled under his breath. “Tuck that slobberin’, disrespectful tongue back into your loose mouth before I tighten that shit up! That’s my cousin you’re talkin’ about!”
Cruz’s laugh was borderline lecherous, flaying every one of Holt’s nerves. “Exactly! She’s your family, not mine, amigo! As we are not here for pleasure, I’ll hold my tongue…for now.” He emitted a sigh of mock resignation. “Just don’t get mad when she takes an interest in me. I can’t help it if women find me irresistible.”
“Don’t bother pullin’ that phony “Puss ’n’ Boots” accent outta your ass either. She’s too smart to fall for that.”
Affronted, Cruz retorted, “My accent is very real, pendejo!”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I’m simply sayin’ that when there are females in the vicinity, you get all flamboyant and ratchet it up to ‘Salt Bae’ levels.”
"Te jodes!"
Holt laughed. “Doesn’t that mean go fuc—”
“Hälsningar kusin!” the woman squealed, interrupting their bickering as she reached them, arms extended to Holt. She laughed joyously as he engulfed her in a bear hug and lifted her from the ground, kissing both of her cheeks before setting her down. “Hur har du varit? I’ve missed you!”
“Hej, Thea! No complaints here. And you? My apologies for the delay. If I’d known it was you they’d sent, I would have never kept you waitin’, darlin’.”
“I see your John Wayne is very much on here in America. I like it! No worries, Holton. I suspected as much.” Thea crinkled her nose at him. “You didn't answer your phone and your father was not very friendly when I called. I expected to have to wait for awhile so I had Chef Freya prepare something to eat. Would you care to join me?” Thea turned her curious gaze to Cruz and found her appraisal reciprocated. His onyx eyes smoldered, and the Latin lothario wore a sensual smile that Holt wanted to bitch-slap off his smug face. “Who’s your companion?”
With a thunderous frown, Holt reluctantly introduced them. “Thea, this is Cruz Merada. The results on his last five STD exams have come back as epic fails. Avoid him or entertain him at your own risk. Merada, my baby cousin, Thea Falk.”
She laughed while Cruz glowered at Holt furiously. “Forgive your cousin, Senorita. He has an extremely warped sense of humor.” He took her white-gloved hand and bowed gallantly over it, pressing his lips briefly to the leather. “It is my absolute pleasure to make the acquaintance of such a stunning woman.”
“Charming,” Thea murmured when he straightened. “I like a man with manners, Mr. Merada. Especially if he knows when to turn them off. Tell me, cousin; can he be trusted?”
“With my life,” Holt grudgingly pledg
ed, ignoring Cruz who was preening like a peacock at his admission. “Did you come alone?”
Disgust replaced her amusement. “No. Otto sent his lapdog Ras. It’s his lame attempt at controlling things. Xander accompanied me, per usual.” Her lips pursed, and she arched a censorious eyebrow at Holt. “Ras left before the welcoming committee showed up. I did try to call and warn you and received no answer. I wanted Xan to follow but you know he refuses to leave my side.”
Rasmus Bergqvist and Xander Liarthos. Ras was not only Ebbe’s grandson and Cleo’s brother but also Otto’s best friend and personal assistant. Xander was Thea’s personal bodyguard whenever she traveled, shadowing her every move. As if they’d been summoned, the men appeared in the entryway.
“It’s his job. One he takes seriously. Don’t fuck it up for him by bein’ difficult, Thea.” Holt ignored her pout to stare at the men. “How is our cousin?”
She sighed theatrically. “A perfect angel for me except where you’re concerned. Otto’s still a jealous bastard with a hard-on for you. After all, you are Ivar’s valt en.”
Hostile, dark eyes met Holt’s with a fake-ass smile plastered across his mouth. Ras. The one who’d had the nerve to let his balls drop and enter Holt’s domain without permission and dared to steal from him. He’d exchanged the snow gear for a dark suit and tie with a white dress shirt, like Xander. Like Cleo’s, his hair was dark but severely buzzed. He was leaner than Holt and knew how to handle himself. Ras extracted a cigarette from his suit jacket and lit it. Plumes of smoke curled toward the sky as he blew them out, disparagingly taking in his surroundings. Meanwhile, Xander nodded and Holt returned the gesture.
“Don’t start that ‘chosen one’ shit with me, Thea,” Holt coolly reprimanded her, to which she rolled her eyes. “I’ve never asked for, nor expected, anythin’ from y’all. What brings you to town?”
“When are you going to acknowledge that Falk blood runs through your veins, too?”