Tricks & Treats: A Wild Bunch Halloween Novella

by London Miller

  Finally, that seemed to spark a reaction in the assassin across from them that was more myth than anything else.

  The Jackal’s expression didn’t change as he regarded them, his yes dark and emotionless—a predator’s eyes—but he did lift his hand a moment later and crooked his finger at them.

  A dare.

  A challenge.

  His mistake.

  Fang moved first, the rest of them following—the pattern they fell into as effortless as breathing. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They knew how to strike as one to bring their enemy down.

  Except, Nicu didn’t miss the way the man blocked just as easily—as if he knew what move they would make before they even did it. As if he was analyzing their fight pattern and using it against them.

  Nicu had never seen anything like it.

  Fang broke pattern, stepping back instead of forward at the very last second, drawing the Jackal’s gaze in his direction, and with just that one variance, he was able to draw his fist back and swing, connecting with the Jackal’s face.

  The force of his punch not only knocked the man’s mask askew, it fell off completely.

  For the first time, the Jackal was unmasked, and the man beneath was the last person Nicu expected to see here of all places.

  He’d known those eyes, he realized now.

  The hair …

  The cut of the man’s jaw …

  Even the small scar just below his bottom lip was all familiar …

  After all, he had put it there during a play fight back at the orphanage where they had grown up. A mistake that had cost him nearly a week in the closet though the boy hadn’t thought twice about the mark.

  Sebastian.

  His friend.

  His brother.

  It wasn’t fucking possible.

  Fang was the first to let his shock dissipate as he ripped off his mask, forgetting all about the procedure they had in place for when they ventured out to do a job. They never, ever, took off their masks.

  It just wasn’t done.

  But him, he would.

  They would.

  “Sebastian?” Fang called, voicing every bit of disbelief and confusion Nicu felt.

  There was only one question that kept repeating itself over and over again in Nicu’s head as he stared at a face he never thought he would see again.

  How?

  It didn’t make any sense—not when he should have been dead.

  “Sunt eu frate—It’s me, brother,” Fang whispered, his voice pained. “Christophe.”

  Nicu looked back at Sebastian, waiting for any hint of recognition in the man’s face as they each took a step back, giving him space.

  Letting him see as they all removed their masks.

  But while there was a flicker of something there, all too soon it was gone again. “Who the hell is Sebastian?”

  He didn’t remember them, that much was clear.

  Worse, he didn’t even remember himself.

  During his days with the Lotus Society, there was one rule his handler, Nix, had taught him that he never failed to remember.

  Don’t ever turn your back to anyone in a room.

  It was why Nicu usually stood opposite a wall to ensure no one could stab him in the back without seeing them coming.

  With his focus on Sebastian, he’d forgotten about the other mercenary in the room. And while he was distracted, staring at a man he long thought dead, the mercenary was pulling his weapon.

  Sebastian reacted first, moving so fast he was practically a blur before he grabbed hold of Vali, just as the mercenary fired a shot.

  The world ceased to exist around Nicu. White noise sounded in his ears, so loud it drowned out everything else.

  The only thing he knew was panic.

  Something he hadn’t felt in far too long.

  It didn’t matter how quickly he moved, he didn’t miss Vali’s grunt as the bullet made contact with his vest, right at his back between his shoulders. A few inches higher, he would have been a dead man.

  Nicu wasn’t thinking about Sebastian or the mercenaries in the facility or the fucking job itself. All he saw—all he heard was Vali.

  It all happened too quickly, and though his training should have kicked in, panic took its place.

  He was already moving forward when Sebastian seemed to forget himself again, and before any of them could stop him, he shoved Vali at the window that was already spidered down the center, damage caused by the building coming down around them as two bomb charges went off.

  Vali hit the wall of glass hard—hard enough that it broke with little effort and all Nicu saw was the panic in Vali’s eyes before he tipped over the edge, grasping at nothing.

  Distantly, Nicu could hear his own exclamation as he ran as fast as he could across the room, diving for him before he could fall completely out of the window. He didn’t care what happened to himself, or that they both could go tumbling out and fall to their deaths.

  Nicu wasn’t going to let him go.

  Not ever.

  And for a moment, he was almost sure this was how it would end for them, but he couldn’t think of a better way for things to end.

  The two of them, as it had always been for so long now, but before they could fall through the open window, someone caught him before they could plummet to the ground several feet below.

  Not today, Nicu thought, his heart hammering in his chest as he gripped Vali by his ankles until his hands ached.

  He wouldn’t lose him today …

  Nicu jerked out of the memory, realizing he had fallen silent again—a habit he too often fell into when his mind was troubled.

  One of the many things he still needed to work on.

  Clearing his throat, he looked back down at his hands. “I made a mistake that nearly cost him his life.”

  “Should you blame yourself for something out of your control? Beyond that, mistakes,” Father said, “are easily forgiven.”

  Nicu didn’t doubt that, and he was even sure Vali didn’t harbor any blame toward him at all for what happened that day, but that didn’t stop Nicu from feeling the weight of his failure.

  It didn’t erase the anxiety in his chest at the idea of almost losing him.

  It ate at him—corroded his every thought.

  “It won’t happen again,” Nicu said with absolute conviction. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  Which was why he was here tonight, needing to purge it all from his system—needing to lessen his guilt.

  He didn’t attend church every Sunday, or practice any one faith, but when he came here, he took Confession very seriously.

  What he said, he meant.

  And whatever confessions he made, it was because he had no intention of committing that sin again.

  Father made a low noise in the back of his throat. “I caution you to remember that mistakes are what make us human. You may find fault in them, but you shouldn’t allow yourself to drown in them.”

  “Do I have any penance, Father?” he asked, studying the tattoo around his forearm, the cross at the very end nearly reaching the palm of his hand.

  If he turned his hand over and held it just so, it looked as if he were clutching rosary beads.

  “I don’t believe that that’ll be necessary,” Father said, “but I do have something I want you to do.”

  This was a first.

  The last time Nicu had ventured in here, the priest had made him recite a few Hail Marys and attend mass for several weeks following, but that was because last time had been a bit more serious.

  Last time, there had been blood on his hands.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I want you to think about why you came here today,” Father said evenly.

  Nicu scratched at the hair on his jaw he needed to shave. “I already know why.”

  “You believe you do, yes, but that’s not the only reason. I want you to think about how you felt in that moment and why it is you fel
t that way.”

  The answer was simple. Vali had nearly died and he was taking it hard. There was nothing more to think about, but he didn’t voice that thought knowing the priest’s mind wouldn’t be swayed.

  Instead, he offered a low acknowledgment. “My donation is in the usual spot.”

  “God be with you, Nicu,” Father said, using his name.

  One of the only people outside of his brothers permitted to do so. “And with you.”

  Nicu left the booth, feeling a bit lighter though he didn’t doubt it would still take some time for him to move past this.

  He didn’t miss Vali up on the balcony for whatever reason. Every other time, he tended to avoid coming in every chance he got. But he always came, no matter what, because he knew how important it was for Nicu.

  Yeah … he wouldn’t handle it well if he ever lost him.

  Pre-Order Today!

  Newsletter

  Keep up with all things London Miller, including exclusive cover reveals, giveaways, and more!

  http://eepurl.com/dADuKn

  Part I

  Crooks & Kings

  Prologue

  January 31, 2017

  Christophe Lupei knew what it felt like to be helpless.

  The feeling threaded through his every thought when he’d been back at the orphanage and under the care of a tyrant. It swam in his veins like a dark promise he couldn’t ignore. But he’d fought those demons. Overcame them.

  He hadn’t felt this kind of weakness again … until now.

  How quickly he was snapped back to the past when his back was against the wall, and he had to fight his way out. No, he needed to fight his way out because someone was relying on him.

  Someone who meant the world to him.

  As he stood there, the barrel of his rifle pointed at the man on his knees before him, he focused on one thing—one person.

  Aidra.

  Aidra.

  Aidra.

  Her name whispered over and over inside his head, maddening him, goading him to finish this at his own speed instead of waiting as was his protocol.

  Christophe had never cared for politics and the dramas it involved. The politician begging for his life meant nothing to him, nor did he give a shit what the man could give him for sparing his life.

  He had to die for Aidra to live.

  Simple as that.

  But this wasn’t his kill, or his call, to make.

  He had to wait for the two men seated in plush wingback chairs to finish asking their questions.

  They were brothers on opposite sides of the underworld. One was known only as The Kingmaker, a fixer of unparalleled abilities—he was capable of starting and ending wars, all for a price.

  The other brother, however, was a former assassin, and the man who’d single-handedly cut through at least thirty men to free Christophe and so many others from a place he wished he could forget.

  Nix, his name was.

  The Facilitator.

  And his handler.

  Every second of the seven and a half minutes he stood there, he saw the conversation going on around him, but he didn’t hear a word.

  He couldn’t focus.

  He couldn’t think.

  His finger slipping around the trigger of his rifle, Christophe considered pulling it, knowing the moment he did, the hot lead would tear its way through the man’s skull, and he’d be dead before he hit the ground.

  “I’m a man of my word,” The Kingmaker said, drawing Christophe from his thoughts. “I won’t kill you this evening.”

  The man, whatever the fuck his name was, didn’t have a chance to even sigh in relief before Nix aimed and fired.

  Not even two minutes later, Nix’s phone rang.

  Blood rushed in his ears, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. Frozen in place, Christophe waited on bated breath until finally, Nix was ending the call and looking at him.

  “Thirty-two fifty-one Adame Street. Go, and don’t hesitate to cut through anyone in your way.”

  He didn’t have to be told twice, nor did his brothers who were right at his heels the second he bolted from the room.

  Once he was on his motorcycle with the address plugged into GPS, he took off without looking back.

  “Slow down,” Aidra would have said if she was with him, her arms squeezing tight around his middle, “or you’ll crash and kill us both.”

  She’d always hated when he drove recklessly, and even now, as he raced to save her life, she would probably be more concerned about him wiping out than the fact he was going well over a hundred miles an hour trying to get to her.

  But Christophe didn’t care.

  He just wanted to make sure he could get there in time so she could yell at him about being reckless with his own life.

  He needed to get to her.

  A robotic voice droned in his ear, spouting directions for the warehouse he was heading toward. It would have been a twenty-minute drive, he was sure.

  Christophe made it in seven.

  Squeezing the brake hard, it sent his bike skidding across the pavement, but even as he laid it down with little care to its paint, he was taking off across the parking lot, running faster than he ever had in his life.

  His brothers were close behind, their booted feet echoing off the ground as they dashed after him, but his gaze focused straight ahead, only thinking about what he would find on the other side of the locked door.

  Pulling the gun from its holster at his waist, Christophe fired, rearing back to send his booted foot against the door.

  A crash sounded then a curse followed as a man ran out a back door, just a blur at the edge of his vision, but he didn’t direct his attention to the runner.

  Rather to the tank set up in the middle of the floor.

  Aidra …

  Her hands and ankles were bound, but her eyes were wide with panic as the water feeding into the tank was nearing the top of her head.

  “I’m going to get you out!” he said—he promised.

  If it was the last fucking thing he did.

  Christophe scrambled forward, trying to find the opening, but the latch was impossible to open, no matter how he twisted and pulled—and finally, losing his patience, he shot the fucking thing.

  Nothing.

  The bullets only embedded themselves in the metal but nothing more.

  Tăcut, who was only a foot away, tried to shoot at the glass, but besides a vague scuff where the bullet struck, the glass held.

  They’d made a tank of reinforced glass.

  If possible, the panic only grew in Aidra’s eyes, mirroring what he felt.

  He needed to think.

  He needed to think.

  He needed to think.

  Nothing was ever truly bulletproof. If you shot it enough, its integrity would start to fail, and eventually, it would break.

  That was easy—there was enough ammunition between the two of them that by the time they were done, there would be nothing left but dust.

  He could get her out.

  He would get her out, but even as hope filled him, time wasn’t on his side. The water was already above her head.

  Three minutes …

  He had three minutes to get her out before she drowned.

  Christophe fired until his gun clicked, until the center of the glass was opaque, and he could no longer see Aidra’s face, but he did see the rest of her—the way her legs had stopped flailing and her arms had gone limp.

  The panic and acute pain filling his chest were nearly too much. Too real.

  She wouldn’t die. She couldn’t.

  Not like this.

  Not when he was right there and could save her.

  One minute, Tăcut was beside him, and the next, the man was gone, only to return seconds later with a sledgehammer from a nearby workbench, and with every bit of strength he possessed, he sent it flying against the glass.

  One hit.

  Another.

  Another.

&nb
sp; Until finally, finally the glass front shattered and water gushed out, nearly taking them off their feet, but Christophe stood fast.

  “Aidra!” he shouted, even as he pulled her from the tank, ignoring the feel of her clammy skin as he laid her flat, shoving the strands of her hair back from her face.

  Stacking his hands on her chest, he pressed, trying to force the water from her lungs. Rearing up, he opened her mouth, blowing in air before he repeated it all again.

  He didn’t stop, even as his arms cramped, even as he felt one of her ribs crack under the pressure.

  But she never uttered a sound.

  He knew.

  He knew, but he didn’t stop.

  She didn’t deserve this—not Aidra. She was too kind, too giving, too sweet—too much of what was good about him to be taken from the world as violently as she was.

  Gut-wrenching screams echoed all around him, the noise nearly splitting his head open, and the only thing he wanted at that moment was for it to fucking stop.

  But as he cradled her in his arms, holding her tight against him, he realized the screams were coming from him.

  He whispered words she couldn’t hear.

  Apologies.

  Promises.

  He would make this right.

  He would avenge her until there was nothing left of him—at least what little was left now that she was gone.

  Even as his mind seized on the bloodlust quickly churning to life inside him, Christophe remained where he kneeled, holding her close as he should have done before.

  He should never have let her walk away.

  His brothers stood silently around them, eyes on anything but the sight he must have made.

  Of the lot of them, he knew how best to channel his pain, how to bury it deep until there was nothing left to feel—but he didn’t this time.

  He let his grief consume him.

  He needed to feel everything.

  Christophe leaned forward, pressing his lips to her cold temple as he whispered a prayer, words he had never offered to another.

  Don’t go, he wanted to say.

  What would he do without her smile and laughter and joy?