Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1) (4 page)

C
old
.

That was the only thing Niklaus registered for the next few hours. Like before, time was an odd thing as he was moved from one vehicle to another, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a plane as well.

As they passed through the rolling gates, the bag was removed from Niklaus’ head, and as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight streaming in through the back windows, he wasn’t quite sure what the purpose of the hood was. Besides the concrete building looming ahead, there was nothing left to see. There were trees, lots of them, and besides the guards with vicious looking dogs, the place looked rather abandoned.

By the time he was back on the ground, nearly half a day had passed unbeknownst to him. A single car ride later, he was being transported into an armored compound that resembled a prison more than a training facility. It definitely didn’t look like a place that he would want to enter after his captivity. And it definitely didn’t look like a place that the man who had found him would frequent.

Soon, he was hustled out of the van towards the entrance. Various corridors faded to the background of his mind as he walked through dozens of doors as his surroundings began to blend into themselves.

Finally, as they reached the end of a long hallway where a lone door loomed ahead of them, Niklaus began to second guess his decision to come to this place, even more so when that door was opened and he was pushed inside.

Still weak from his injuries, he stumbled, hitting the concrete floor hard as he rolled over to keep them in his sights. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of them as they all stared down at him with the door open at their backs. All of them wore ski masks and dark clothing, and while their arms rested at their sides. Niklaus didn’t doubt that they were waiting for him to make a move.

After a moment, they shuffled to the side as the man from the alley appeared in the doorway, surveying Niklaus with casual indifference. The light illuminated his profile, making him seem like some sort of god, but Niklaus didn’t believe in that.

Not anymore.

“You are not a prisoner here,” the man said. “This door will remain unlocked and should you choose to leave, no one will stop you. If you choose to stay, however, the life you led outside this room will cease to exist.” The man came forward then, crouching down so he was eye-level with Niklaus. “I am not cruel. I’ll at least tell you what to expect. First, they will break your mind, then—if you are sane enough to notice—they will break your body. By the end, you will beg for death, far worse than anything those Albanians put you through.”

One by one, the men exited until there was no one left but the man and Niklaus.

“But should you finish your training, you will be better for it. And you may even thank me for what you become.”

The man turned for the door, but before he could leave, Niklaus called out to him. “What? What will I become?”

Only glancing back for half a second, the man said two words that made a chill run down Niklaus’ spine.

“A weapon.”

H
e couldn’t see a thing
, not since they left him in complete darkness, on his stomach in the center of the room. Even noise evaded him, only the sound of his heavy breathing and the occasional person walking outside the door granted him any reprieve. And somehow, food was always put into his room without him ever seeing the person who left it.

Niklaus couldn’t say how long he had been in the room, and the longer he laid there, the more time his mind had to focus. Not on the mysterious place he now resided in—though he had had plenty of time for that as the possibilities were endless—but after so long, his thoughts had drifted from the present to the one place he didn’t want to revisit.

Sarah.

Thoughts of her plagued him, hounded his every breathing moment to the point that he could almost swear he smelled her perfume surrounding him, that soft lilac fragrance a comfort in the barren recesses of his mind.

The further he slipped into that headspace, the less pain he was in.

She was smiling at him, the only look he ever wanted to see on her face. Before he knew it, Niklaus was reaching for her, wanting to touch her to make sure she was real, but as his fingers came into contact with her skin, he burned.

Jerking his hands away, he stared at them, wondering why he hurt. An apology was ready at his lips, but as he looked to Sarah, flames were consuming her, slowly melting her flesh away, but all the while, she stared at him, pleading with her eyes.

“I-I…” He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t force the words out if he tried.

Niklaus couldn’t even bring himself to look away as he watched her burn to nothing, and as she did, the memories of his time with the Albanians came rushing in.

The smell of burning flesh…

The pain he suffered…

The laughter…

The crying…

His
weakness
…

Niklaus didn’t realize he’d been screaming all over again until a piercing sound emanating from the walls woke him, making him cringe and slap his hands over his ears. His throat was raw, his cheeks wet with tears.

He was almost glad for the sound, if only because it drew him out of a terrible place, but as quickly as the sound had started, it tapered off, leaving a slight ringing in his ears.

Niklaus moved to sit up, flexing his arms, feeling the strength returning. His back was itching like mad, but he was thankful for this because it meant he was healing. The physical pain was finally dulling, the mental…well that still lingered.

For a while, Niklaus had forgotten about the echoing noise that had woken him from his nightmare, at least until it started again, seeming louder than last time. This time, when it tapered off, it was only gone for seconds before it started back up again. Time and time again, the sound came to life, ringing ever louder.

He had mistakenly tried to time it, wanting to prepare himself for the next burst, but soon the intervals in which it played changed, making him wary every time silence filled the room.

Next came the lights.

From complete darkness to the brightest and hottest lights he had ever seen. They nearly blinded him, making his head pound as his pupils dilated painfully. For the longest time, the two sensory items alternated, working in accord until he was on the floor, just trying to remember how to breathe.

Soon, he thought he heard a voice within the shrill sounds, and was almost inclined to laugh at the thought. Even in his miserable state, he never forgot that the door was still there, waiting for his failure and cowardice to bring him to it, but even as the pain went on, and he finally found himself crawling across the floor for it, his arm shaking terribly as he reached for the knob, he never opened it.

A piece of him, no matter how small that piece was, refused to let himself give up.

When he dropped his arms to his sides out of pure exhaustion, everything shut off once more and he was left to the darkness.

His old friend…

T
he door swung open
, making Niklaus jolt as he rolled to see who stood there. He felt wired, his movements jerky as he forced himself to a sitting position, trying to get a better look at the man coming towards him.

He couldn’t be much older than Niklaus, maybe a few years, but he had the eyes of a man that had seen many things. Unlike before, he was not wearing a mask. At least Niklaus thought he was one of the men that had dragged him into this room based on the tattoos that circled his forearm.

Or was that somebody else?

Niklaus was losing it…

In one hand he held a plate, in the other a glass of water.

How long had it been since Niklaus last ate?

He couldn’t care less about the food, his attention focused solely on the water. They both were set down a few feet from him, but Niklaus waited until the man took a step back before reaching for the water, drinking it down as fast as possible, not noticing that because of his trembling hands, water was sliding down his chin and wetting his shirt.

As the man backed away, Niklaus’ grip on the glass grew tighter. He didn’t know how much more he could withstand. The man from the alley had been right. Physical torture was one thing, this was worse…and they hadn’t even touched him. His will was slowly deteriorating.

Hesitating in the doorway, his arms now folded across his chest, he took a moment to study Niklaus, seeming to reach a conclusion.

His next words both fortified Niklaus’ resolve and terrified him more.

“Do not fear death,” he said in a gravelly, lilting accent. “Embrace it. Pain is inevitable, learn to love it.”

H
is hand out beside him
, Niklaus tapped out a cadence on the concrete with his thumb and middle finger, forming a rhythm that only he could understand. After his last visitor, no one else came back to the room, but the lights and sounds had started right back up. He had eaten the food brought to him, and ended the stomach pains he hadn’t realized were plaguing him.

This time, even as the madness crept ever near, he didn’t try to block it out—didn’t try not to feel anything. Instead, he gave himself over to it, letting the sounds penetrate his ears and the lights bleed into his eyes and warming his skin. He held onto the man’s words like a lifeline, finally giving himself over to the very thing that was threatening to take him over.

Madness. He was beginning to welcome him like an old friend…

It was like a sickness, slowly poisoning him the longer he remained in that room, but gradually, that madness turned into something else, something he couldn’t identify.

He thought of the faces of the Albanians, committing them to memory, burning them there to the point that if he was asked years from now what they looked like, he’d be able to paint a clear picture. He vowed to himself that he would make them feel exactly how he felt at his lowest moment.

And although Mishca, his twin brother and savior, should have been the lone person in that entire fucked-up situation that he was grateful for, his fury burned brightest for him.

He didn’t know when, and he didn’t know how, but one day he was going to make that Russian pay.

It was only a matter of time…

Very soon, Niklaus no longer reacted to the lights and sounds. Whenever one, or both, came on, he blinked like it was all second nature.

Finally, after what had felt like days locked in that hole, the door opened once more, the man from the alley walking in, along with the one that had brought him food, and a few others. Since they were all there sans masks, he figured that he had passed the first test.

He was brought from that room to another one that had windows. He gave them the briefest of glances, taking in as much of the outside as he could, before he devoted his attention to the other occupants. For all he could discern about his location, he could have been down the street from the first place he'd been held, or across the ocean in an entirely different country.

The new room Niklaus entered was brightly lit with LED lights across the ceiling, a steel slab of a table and chairs cutting the room in half. He sat in one, no one speaking to him, or he to them. The man from the alley took the opposite one.

“Niklaus, I don’t believe I’ve given you my name. Call me Z.”

That was an odd name to go by—or letter—but he didn’t question it, merely nodded.

“How has your week in the hole been?”

A week?
One
week?

It had felt like ages had passed in that darkened room. How exactly was he expected to answer that question? “Fine.”

“And your injuries?”

Truthfully, they had been the last thing on Niklaus mind considered what else he had been preoccupied with inside that room. He wasn’t at one-hundred percent, but better than where he had started.

“They were worse.”

The corner of Z’s mouth tipped up, but he didn’t offer a response to that. “Considering you’ve come to the Den broken, your training will be considerably harder than most.”

There was something worse?

He gestured to the only one that Niklaus recognized—the one that had brought him the food and water. Now that he was out of that room, it was easier to make out what Celt—a nam he had heard someone else use—looked like.

Tall, as most of the men in the room were, he had broad shoulders and green eyes that almost seemed too light, along with a full beard that was about a shade or two lighter than his darker hair.

With only the slightest of chin lifts, Celt acknowledged Z’s words.

“He’ll be overseeing your training. Only he will determine when you’re ready. I suggest you try and best him or you’ll never see the outside of this place again.”

But the question was, best him at
what
? He still had no clue who they were or what they did. Soldiers? Doubtful. Assassins? Maybe.

Z climbed to his feet, nodding back at Celt. “Training starts now.”

A
ny sense
of understanding Niklaus thought he possessed about Celt disappeared the moment they were alone, and in another room with concrete floors and an array of weaponry in a glass case across the back wall. The first time they entered, Niklaus had been instructed to pick a weapon, any of the number that were on display.

With his body still healing, he had decided against his fists, choosing one that looked like a rather large stick. Niklaus was satisfied, at least until he saw the flash of a smirk on Celt’s face.

That should have been his first clue that this wouldn’t be nearly as easy as he had hoped.

Celt didn’t pick a weapon, and minutes later, Niklaus learned why.

He didn’t need one.

No matter how Niklaus struck out with his weapon, whether it be spontaneous or calculated, Celt avoided the blow, sidestepping each one.

“You’re too predictable,” he said, catching the stick the next time Niklaus swung, pulling it free from his grasp and tossing it across the room. “You’re showing me everything—that’s your weakness. You’ll be dead in an hour.”

The more he talked, the worse Niklaus felt. He already had enough baggage weighing him down, and worse were the memories that plagued him of how helpless he had felt in that house with Jetmir and the others.

They had so easily overpowered him, and the idea of that happening all over again had Niklaus tossing his other weapon, letting it clatter to the floor as he faced Celt once more.

Celt had his guard up, that much was clear despite how he tried to put on a relaxed air. It was obvious he expected Niklaus to attack him now, lash out because of his words, but he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Show me.”

“Show you what?” Celt returned, but Niklaus could tell by the way he asked the question that the man knew exactly what he was asking.

“Show me how not to lose.”

S
itting in the boiler room
, shirtless, sweating, Niklaus kept his breaths even as Celt tugged on thick, black gloves, wrapping his hand around the handle of the rod sticking out of glowing red coals. As it was pulled free, the end of it glowed vibrantly, forcing his eyes to the symbol there.

He had been training for this moment even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

Six months spent in a padded room with Celt teaching him how to fight, and which weapons were best to use. His training was tedious, to the point that even in his dreams, he was assembling and disassembling weaponry, learning every little aspect there was.

It was one of Celt’s rules, one of the many that he’d told Niklaus over the course of their work together: learn your weapon, or die trying to use it.

It hadn’t just been Celt teaching him however. Over the next few months, there had been others, a team of sorts that came in and out his life sporadically.

After Celt, there had been Calavera, a specialist in knives that would have put Valon to shame. Though he sported more cuts than he would have liked after their time together, he appreciated the knowledge more.

After her came Skorpion, Grimm, and another man whose name Niklaus still didn’t know. He didn’t know where they came from, or where they went, but they had all offered him some knowledge that would serve him well for his duration with the Den.

All of it, more than thirteen months of training had led up to this point where there would be no turning back from the path he had taken. With a single mark, he would be branded with the very thing he needed to get the revenge he sought...

He had only a spare moment to take it in before Z signaled for two—ones Niklaus had worked with, but had yet to learn their names—to come forward and grab hold of him, keeping him in place.

Niklaus knew what to expect—Celt had warned him.

Dropping his head forward, he drew in a deep breath, trying to keep his wits about him. It was quiet for so long that Niklaus wasn’t sure if this entire process was only meant to frighten him, but just as he’d begun to relax, his shoulders slouching, Celt pressed the heated metal to his flesh.

The agony was enough to make his eyes water, but he gritted his teeth to get through it, refusing to cry out even as the pain threatened to force it out of him. He was sure he would pass out before the process was over, but worse was the overwhelming scent of burning flesh that suffocated him. It brought back memories better left to the past.

However, before he could sink too deeply into them, Celt pulled the rod away, the heavy metal clanging on the floor after he dropped it.

When the hands on him disappeared, Niklaus felt lightheaded and weak, almost to the point that he was seeing stars, but he managed to stay upright, blinking to clear his vision as they all circled to stand in front of him.

He was careful not to move his head too much, not wanting to make the pain any worse, but he made it his mission to look at them all.

From the very beginning, Niklaus had never seen Celt crack, never a smile, or any expression besides the blank, emotionless mask he always wore, but now for the first time, a hint of a smile curled his lips as he nodded at Niklaus.

“Welcome to the Den, Red.”