“Kill the gate.”

Niklaus issued the command seconds after he and Celt dropped off the back of the speeding truck, its hulking frame still carrying on down the road even as they moved towards the reinforced iron gate that surrounded the massive property they meant to infiltrate. In seconds, there was an audible click as the lock disengaged, the rolling gate shifting open just far enough for Niklaus and Celt to slip inside, closing again once they were on the other side.

Thousands of miles away, one of his associates, Winter—who was more of an outside contractor since she wasn’t officially part of the Den—sat behind a laptop, having already hacked into the mainframe of the security system for this particular estate, waiting for her next instructions.

While Niklaus didn’t usually like hackers—they could wield far too much power with only a keyboard—he needed Winter for this assignment, especially if he wanted to get them out of Russia alive within the hour.

Mikhail Volkov might have been the former head of a vast criminal organization, but he still possessed a lot of power and influence, and there was also a number of corrupt politicians in his pocket. With a single phone call, he could have the property surrounded in minutes—and the last thing Niklaus wanted was to spend the next thirty years locked in a gulag fighting for his life against prisoners and guards alike.

They already had one former member trapped in one with no way to get him out…yet.

“You have twenty minutes to get in and out, Red,” Winter said over the ear-piece they all wore. “Your plane leaves in forty-five minutes. If you’re not there when it takes off, you’re in deep shit.”

Red.

For the last seven years, that had been his new name, the one he had earned through bloodshed and relentless work. Nowadays, outside a select number of people in New York City, that was the only name he answered to.

It wasn’t just a title. It was an embodiment of everything he had become.

Whenever he heard it, he could feel the almost phantom burn of the branding iron that had been used on him, a reminder of the life he had given up for everything he had gained—a reminder that he was no longer a scared boy.

They all bore the brand somewhere, but only Niklaus wore his on his neck for all to see.

Palming his glock, he headed for the monstrosity of a house that loomed just ahead, Celt at his heels.

Dressed all in black—as was his custom—with a beanie covering his hair, and a mask concealing his face, he blended into the night, remaining unnoticed even as he came upon the first few guards.

There were three that patrolled the front, all carrying assault rifles, and all of which were trigger happy and more than willing to shoot first rather than ask who they were. With the slightest of gestures from Niklaus, Celt moved around the house, going for the last two that were waiting on the other side.

Making sure Celt was clear first, Niklaus took a moment to screw on the silencer, waiting until Celt was out of sight before he aimed at the first guard. The man had paused in his check of the grounds to reach for his phone. Before he had the chance to answer, however, Niklaus pulled the trigger, exhaling after the bullet exploded through the chamber and imbedded itself in the man’s forehead.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Silently, Niklaus jogged over to the man, relieving him of the walkie-talkie that was clipped to his belt, then dragged his body towards the bushes, keeping him out of sight.

Thirty seconds later, the other two were dead as well.

For months, Niklaus had studied the security and their protocol, making sure that when this day came, his task would go off seamlessly. Of course, all the training in the world couldn’t account for human error. That was why Niklaus usually preferred jobs where he was on the other end of a sniper’s rifle, and could handle things from a distance.

Up close and personal? He saved that for people that had crossed him.

But when it came to this particular job, he hadn’t had a choice. And, whether he wanted to admit it or not, this one was personal as well.

The guards outside were the easiest, they were too spaced out for there to have been much of a problem, but inside, there were at least seven more on the ground floor alone, and another four guarding the floor where Mikhail’s office was. He could just see movement out the corner of his eye, but then there was a flash, and nothing more.

“I’ve got it covered,” Celt said, his voice scratchy and slightly out of breath.

Nodding, though he couldn’t be seen, Niklaus went on to the stairs, slowly moving up as he kept his gun at the ready. The first man to appear took two shots to the chest. The sound of his body hitting the ground brought the other two running, but before either could register what happened, they were down as well.

The threat neutralized, Niklaus holstered his weapon and headed for the office, stepping over the bodies that blocked his way. Once he was inside with the door closed behind him, he took a breath.

Obviously surprising the man seated behind the sturdy looking desk, he touched a finger to his ear. “Cut the power.”

Not even a minute later, it was done.

Mikhail Volkov hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to hit the panic button that was on the underside of his desk.

While he was nearing seventy, Mikhail didn’t look his age. If anything, he looked closer to his mid-forties thanks to his size and dark hair that was liberally sprinkled with gray, a little more since the last time Niklaus had seen him. There was no trace of fear in his eyes as he glared at Niklaus, his hands twitching with the need to reach for the gun Niklaus knew was sitting in the top right hand drawer.

But even he had to know that Niklaus would get a shot off before he could even touch the wood.

“Who sent you?”

Niklaus didn’t answer, not right away. The plan was to get in, get the information, and get out but now…Niklaus had other plans.

After all, this was the last time he would ever see the man.

Making a split decision, Niklaus reached up with a gloved hand, shoving his mask off his face to the top of his head. While the man might not have vocalized a response to seeing Niklaus’ face, his eyes gave him away.

He sat back with a slight smile, seeming pleased with the mercenary standing across from him. “Hello, Niklaus.”

“You didn’t mistake me for Mishca? I’m touched.” It wasn’t like the two simply resembled each other, they were twins. And since he had done the Russian a favor not too long ago that involved him acting the part of club owner, Niklaus had grown out his hair and beard to the point that it was nearly impossible to tell them apart.

“I believe I would know the son I raised.”

If that was supposed to be a jab at Niklaus, Mikhail would have to do better than that. Mikhail was no more Niklaus’ father than the Russian was his brother. He had gone twenty-one years without knowing either of them existed, and though he had developed a relationship of sorts with the Russian over the last three years, nothing had really changed for him. Not really. He was still as bitter as he had always been.

When Mikhail’s eyes skirted to the door, Niklaus merely shook his head, helping himself to one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“All of them?” Mikhail asked, surprise clear in his tone.

“I needed your full attention and interruptions only piss me off.”

That wasn’t necessarily true. He could have left them incapacitated, but it only took one waking up before he was meant to cut this meeting short.

“I should have guessed it would be you,” Mikhail said after he focused his attention back on Niklaus. “Despite my son’s hatred for me, he would never pull the trigger himself. Tell me, how much is he paying you for this?”

“He’s not.”

“Does he know you are here?”

Niklaus shrugged. Whether he did or didn’t, it no longer mattered. Ignoring his question, he instead said, “This isn’t personal.”

“No? Then tell me, who wishes me dead?”

“Came for a name,” he said in lieu of an answer.

“And you believe I’m willing to hand this over?”

Russians were notorious for their codes of silence, but Niklaus doubted Mikhail was going to make this difficult for him. As he had implied, Mishca might not have been willing to pull the trigger, but Niklaus would.

Tapping his gun against the desk, Niklaus asked, “What choice do you have?”

“What name are you looking for?”

“A year and a half ago, you brokered a deal that moved two containers worth of guns and explosives. I need to know who you brokered that deal for.”

Mikhail frowned, his bushy eyebrows bunching together. “This is what you threaten me for?”

Once again, Niklaus shrugged.

He hadn’t understood the need for all of this either. The Kingmaker, as he had officially been dubbed, had seemed pretty resourceful. It wouldn’t surprise Niklaus if he had walked in here on his own and demanded the information. Why send Niklaus to do it?

“The McCarthy family.”

“And…”

“I cannot say who paid for the merchandise. I had product, the McCarthys had a buyer, that is all I know. Perhaps you should tell the man that holds your leash if he wants to find the man he seeks, to get the name from them.”

“You made a deal and didn’t know your buyer?” Niklaus asked, forgetting about his assignment for the moment. “Seems kind of reckless…even for you.”

“And yet I have managed to remove myself from whomever it was that sent you to me. Had I known the name, I’m curious to know what would have become of me?”

“You’re running out of time, Red,” Winter said in his ear.

It was fine. He had the information he needed…but in case he was lying… “Open the safe.”

“What safe?”

Mikhail couldn’t sound any more like he was lying than just then. “The safe where you keep your accounting records. Open it.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

Niklaus didn’t give him a chance to finish that statement. He shot him in the shoulder. “I won’t ask again.”

“Suka!”

Niklaus smiled. “No, I haven’t been someone’s bitch in a long time. So either open her up, or I’ll put another bullet in you and watch the dust come out.”

Shuffling over to a painting on the wall, one hand to his bleeding wound, Mikhail moved it to the side, stumbling through putting in the code and finally getting it open. He grabbed the heavy looking book that was inside, tossing it at Niklaus’ feet.

“There. Now get the fuck out of my home.”

That had been the plan. But now that he was staring at the man he hadn’t seen since he was surveying the Russian, a different kind of emotion swam through him. One that he had grown all too familiar with.

Like his arm was not his own, he raised his gun, seeing the dawning realization in Mikhail’s eyes.

“Seven years ago, Jetmir Besnik and his crew snatched me and someone I cared about off the street because they thought I was one of you. Sarah? She was just collateral damage. But me? They wanted to make me bleed, and for three days, they did. On that third day, Jetmir set Sarah on fire…but I’m sure you already know this considering you struck a deal with the lot of them.”

“And I hear you’ve taken your revenge, no? The Besnik family is no more. You should be appeased.”

Niklaus shook his head, stepping forward so that he was close enough to Mikhail to see the look in his eyes. “Is the man who leads the lamb to slaughter not just as guilty as the man who slits its throat? I know the part you played in it all, Mikhail.”

Mikhail shook his head frantically, still in disbelief. “Mishca wou—”

“Mishca sends his regards,” Niklaus said as he pulled the trigger, leaving the man to bleed out on the polished wood floors.

---

Niklaus hated New York City and everything it stood for.

It was portrayed as such a glamorous place, one where people would kill to be, but his first introduction to the city left him resenting the very name.

How long had it been since he was last here?

Not that long ago, maybe a year at most—which also happened to be the last time he was on US soil at all—when Lauren gave birth. Despite his attitude towards the Russian, he still made it a point to be there when he was needed.

But when he had called the Kingmaker with an update, the man had wasted no time in giving him a location, and instructing him to go to the one place Niklaus had been trying to avoid.

It was what it was.

Before the meet, he stopped by a storage unit he kept in Brooklyn, unlocking and lifting the garage door, smiling at his baby inside.

If there was one thing he missed, it was definitely his car. It had taken a few years and a hell of a lot of money to get her back in running condition, but now that she was, he loved her all the more.

The ’67 Chevy Impala was a masterpiece, and one of the few possessions to his name that he actually cherished.

Before leaving again, he popped the trunk, lifting the rolling case he had left behind during his last visit, and after he stowed it away, he skipped heading to a hotel, going to the Kingmaker first instead.

As expected, he was exactly where he said he would be, and at Niklaus’ approach, the man smiled though it didn’t ring true.

“Niklaus, always a pleasure.”

Control was one of the many things Niklaus had learned to appreciate after his had been taken away so easily. In his line of work, control was essential in making sure everything went according to plan.

And maybe it was because he lacked control around his new handler that he disliked the man so much. By nature, Niklaus wasn’t very trusting, but with his handler? Even less so. It didn’t help that he knew nothing about the man, and because of this, didn’t know what his motives were. And worse, his actions were too calculated.

Before, Z would call and set up a meet at one of his offices—one that was unlisted but always the same building—and they would be wrapped up within the hour.

When the Kingmaker—and that name was annoying as fuck to say—called, there was no guarantee where the meeting would be held. Their first had been in the back of an Escalade under the Brooklyn bridge, another in a sweatshop in the middle of Columbia—with Niklaus still not knowing how they had both ended up there in the first place—and now, they were standing in a trinkets shop in Chinatown, in a back room where years-old gambling machines were set up as men slouched over them in sweaty clothes, testing their luck.

The Kingmaker was seated at a leaning card table, currency from varying countries stacked in front of him as an older Asian woman stood next to him counting it all, tallying each bundle with a quick scribble of her pen.

“Do you have an update for me?”

“It seemed he didn’t mind talking business in front of strangers. The Russian knew nothing about the buyer, says he went through an Irish family—McCarthys—and through them we can find the buyer.”

“Interesting.” Tapping his thumb against his leg, the Kingmaker stared off to the side, not looking at anything as he was lost to his thoughts.

Niklaus was more than ready to leave, even if he had only been there for a few minutes—but he knew better than to leave before dismissed.

“The timeline has moved up,” the Kingmaker said breaking his silence. “I have reason to believe whatever deal was struck, it’s going to finish in sixteen days. I suggest you get a move on lest you lose your target.”

Usually, Niklaus spent months surveying his targets, learning their weaknesses, and their patterns of behavior. Going after an entire family, however, not to mention a mystery person whose name Niklaus didn’t even know…sixteen days was not enough time.

“That’s not going to work.”

The Kingmaker met his gaze, his expression telling him his thoughts on the matter, but Niklaus ground his teeth, choking down what he really wanted to say.

“If you want the job done—”

“If I recall, I gave you this assignment over a year ago. In that time, you’ve chosen to do everything but, including picking up a smoking habit.” His eyes skirted to the cigarette tucked behind Niklaus’ ear. “I’ve elected to ignore the latter, but you need to understand something, Niklaus Volkov.”

The room grew so silent that Niklaus’ defenses rose, waiting for a threat to appear.

His voice didn’t shift in pitch, nor had he changed his expression from the complete ease that was resting there, but in his next words, the threat was clear.

“The moment you no longer serve a purpose, you become useless to me.”

The threat rankled, and though it pained him to do so, Niklaus remained silent.

“I suggest you get moving,” he said as he glanced down at his watch, an expensive looking thing that cost more than Niklaus was willing to spend on anything except his car. “You’re running out of time.”

---

Back at his hotel room, Niklaus lugged the case from his trunk, carrying it into his temporary home before slamming the door shut and flipping all the locks. He didn’t have much time to prepare, so if he wanted to get a jump on this, he had to start now.

Turning the latches, he threw open the top of the case, pulling out a laptop bag, setting that on the table that was used for eating, then returned to the trunk to pull out a new vest—top of the line Kevlar—and a few of his favorite weapons. His rifle stayed locked in its case at the bottom. Though long-range shots were his specialty, he doubted he would have much use for it since his job was intelligence as opposed to assassination. As he finished checking over his gear, he went ahead and turned on the laptop, typing in the special encryption key that let him enter the network where he made a call to one of the two people he knew he would need for this assignment.

Usually, he worked alone—they all did. In their trade, it was easier to remain unattached. Not to mention that it could be deadly owing someone a favor. But he only had a little over two weeks to see this done.

An icon appeared on the screen, one depicting a smiling skull, then seconds later, a new window popped open, Winter’s face coming into focus.

“Red? I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

Gray eyes, almost as light as the shade of her bleached and dyed hair turned inquisitive as she studied him from her side of the screen. “Sounds fun. What do you need?”

That was a good question… “Everything. A family, last name McCarthy.”

She arched a brow. “That’s not enough for me to go on. It’s a common name.”

“Well as of now, that’s all I got. They’re a crime family undoubtedly with ties both here in New York and in Ireland. They traffic weapons, so that might help narrow the search.”

Winter nodded. “I’ll do what I can. What’s your timeline?”

“I need the information in forty-eight hours.”

Whistling, she shook her head. “My rate just went up ten percent.”

Despite him having to pay her exorbitant fees—at least until his check was cut for this assignment—Niklaus gave her a small smile. Even with the short timeframe, one that most wouldn’t be able to manage, Winter always came through. “I’ll get back to you when I know more.”

The screen went black as Winter ended the call.

One down, one to go.

Digging out his phone, he pressed ‘two’ then the call button, bringing it up to his ear, hearing the monotone ringing for several moments before blaring music sounded on the other end.

“What can I do you for?”

“I need a favor.”

“You seem to need a lot of those lately, boyo.”

Of course it would be Celt that gave him a hard time. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

He hung up before Celt could respond, knowing that whatever his response would be would probably be something he didn’t want to hear.

Strapping up, Niklaus headed for the door. He had been in the room for all of twenty minutes before he was back out again. But he would have to get used to it again as he doubted he would be keeping regular hours over the next couple of weeks.

Celt had a series of safe houses all over the world. He could be the poster child for backup plans and making sure that if anything went wrong, he could hide out somewhere and not be found. In the state of New York alone, he had seven, but out of those seven, there was only one that he used as his private residence, and only seven members of the Den actually knew of its existence. Niklaus was one of those seven.

It was once a cotton candy factory, and despite the time that had passed since it closed down, it still smelled faintly of sugar. Celt had converted the place into a loft-style apartment, making improvements as he went along.

Pulling up outside the building, Niklaus killed the engine and climbed out, jogging over to the lift, pushing the gate open and stepping in before pressing the button for him to go up. The lift rocked and rattled, a testament to how long the building had been standing, before it stopped entirely.

Stepping into the loft, Niklaus barely spared the place a glance—having been there a number of times over the years—and headed for the kitchen pantry where there was a hidden keypad behind the spice rack. One code and palm print later, Niklaus was stepping onto another elevator, this one having been specially installed by contractors that were close to the Den. The brushed nickel interior looked innocent at first glance, but there was a tiny camera in the ceiling, and if there ever happened to be someone riding down to the hidden level that Celt didn’t sanction, he only had to press a button on his phone to release a gas that would incapacitate his victim in moments.

On the ride down, Celt held life and death in his hands.

When the doors finally opened, letting in the stark whiteness of the War Room, Niklaus had to blink a few times to clear his vision. Guns lined the backlit walls, black racks hanging on all sides except for one. There were a number of monitors that made up that last wall. Three were for each level of the building where Celt had set up cameras, and the fourth was for the outside perimeter. Then, there was the wall of money that Celt had. While Niklaus was usually one to receive his payments in wired transactions to offshore bank accounts—before he ultimately moved the money when the need arose—Celt preferred to get paid in cash, storing the excessive amounts in his home. This wall of currency was only a small fraction of how much money was truly in this place.

Sitting at the conference table that was nearly as wide as it was long and split the room in half was Celt. His booted feet were kicked up, a keyboard resting on his thighs as he lazily surfed the web, barely sparing Niklaus a glance as he entered, but when he did, his answering smile illuminated his bearded face.

Niklaus could still remember the day he and Celt crossed paths.

It was after he had agreed to go with Z. After a plane and car ride that he only vaguely remembered. Perhaps a day’s time after Z had left him in that windowless room, his ominous words lingering in the silence of the room.

The longer he had remained in that room, the more time his mind had to focus, not on the mysterious place he had then resided at—though he’d had plenty of time to think on that considering how long he had been left alone. No, after his thoughts had drifted from the present, they went back to the one place he wished they hadn’t.

Sarah…

But the thought of her hadn’t overwhelmed him as he had thought it would. Instead, he had grown used to the silence, or he had falsely believed he hadn’t gone mad yet, at least until a piercing noise began emitting from the walls, forcing him to cringe away from the noise though there was nowhere to go.

Soon, he had thought he heard tiny voices talking to him, making him laugh at his own insanity.

He had been so sure he was losing it.

Finally, after he’d been sure he couldn’t take anymore, everything shutoff once more as darkness reigned again. A long time—or it had felt like that at the time—the door to his room had opened, making Niklaus jolt, his eyes swinging to the man that had been entering.

He hadn’t been much older than Niklaus had at the time, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five—he still wasn’t sure of Celt’s age to this day—but he had the eyes of a man that had seen many things.

Unlike when Niklaus had first been brought in, Celt hadn’t been wearing a mask, and the only reason Niklaus recognized him was because of the two black bands that were tattooed on his left forearm.

He’d brought in a glass of water, a lifeline if Niklaus had ever seen one.

Right as he was about to leave, Celt had said something that had stuck with him since the last word was uttered.

“Do not fear death. Embrace it. Pain is inevitable, learn to love it.”

Niklaus didn’t want to think where he would be without Celt.

“What can I do you for?” Celt asked sitting back, folding his hands behind his head.

“Man named Donovan McCarthy. A year ago, he brokered a deal between Mikhail Volkov—” Celt arched a brow at the name. “—and the man I’m trying to find. Volkov handed over the merchandise a week ago, but the final transaction doesn’t go down for another sixteen days.”

“Why so long?” Celt asked sitting forward. “If they made the transaction a year ago, why is it just now ending?”

Niklaus had been wondering the same thing since his meeting with the Kingmaker. No matter how he ran the possibilities, it didn’t make sense. He doubted Mikhail hadn’t been able to supply the weapons long before now—that was what the Volkovs specialized in—so that begged the question, what the hell were they dealing with? It was obvious this was no ordinary transaction, especially if a man like the Kingmaker was involved in this.

“I don’t know, but I need to find out. What can you tell me about McCarthy?”

“His main operation is out of Dublin, but he recently transplanted here with his sons to branch out—take over territory. You’ve heard of Declan Flanagan?”

Only because of his connection to Mikhail and Mishca. Back when he had first started looking into the Volkov Bratva, he didn’t just stop at the men that made up that particular organization, but anyone they had come into contact with as well. The list was a mile long, filled with politicians, other syndicates, and at least a dozen men in different precincts around the state.

But whereas most of those had been allies, the Flanagan family hated the Volkovs—particularly Declan Flanagan. While Niklaus might not have been able to find why the pair were at odds, he knew, if only because Declan never failed to do something to get under Mishca’s skin—like the time he sent two brothers to try and kill him, though he had to have known they would fail. Niklaus might not have known the man personally, but he liked him.

Enemy of his enemy, and all that.

“Yeah. What of him?”

“His da died a year and a half ago, complications from an old gunshot wound. They say Declan couldn’t handle it, went off on a binger for the better part of a year. That was when the McCarthys moved in, started taking over his territory. By the time he got his shite together, they had already planted roots. They’ve been at war ever since.”

“We could use that,” Niklaus said, more to himself than to Celt.

“Tell me this. How exactly are you going to get a name from the McCarthys? It was different with Volkov, no? You had leverage over him. This lot…you’re going in blind.”

“I’ll find it.” He always did. “Where can I find them?”

“They have a warehouse near the docks, but I’ve heard their youngest hangs around a pub. Parting Glass Tavern. Some say he’s sweet on the owner.”

Getting to his feet, Niklaus memorized the faces staring back at him from the projector.

“Right, I’ll give it a look.”

“Aye. Careful out there, Red.” Celt dropped his feet down. “You know how we Irish are.”

Yeah, that was the last thing he needed to worry about.

Parting Glass Tavern, he had heard of it, and not because of its connection with the Irishman he was tracking.

It seemed the McCarthy boy wasn’t the only one that knew and had a thing for the owner.