Until the End (31 page)

Leaving it for the moment, Mishca grabbed Lauren, yanking her into his arms as he held her with as much strength as he could muster. Her entire body was racked with shivers, but she wasn’t sobbing, which Mishca didn’t know whether to be thankful or worried.

So much had happened over the last few weeks that he was worried she was growing accustomed to his violent lifestyle, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Over her shoulder, he spied Brahim’s body and he didn’t have to worry about if he was still breathing. From experience, Mishca knew there was about a dime sized hole in the back of his head, while he didn’t even want to contemplate what the front looked like…if there was still one.

Mishca finally drew back, cupping Lauren’s face as he kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again, knowing that it probably wouldn’t help, but he felt the need to say it anyway.

Her eyes were watery and blood-shot, but she wasn’t crying. She just looked relieved.

“Let me take you home.”

She nodded, but before he could call Luka and Vlad to him, loud footsteps on the stairwell stopped him.

They were deliberate, meant to call attention to whoever was arriving, and as Mishca looked from the window, to the corpse, and back to the hallway, he stiffened.

He knew who was coming.

Twelve more steps brought the stranger to the entryway.

He was distinctly male, with a sniper rifle across his back, throwing knives strapped to his thighs, decked out in full tactical gear that was as dark as the man’s soul. His face was concealed by a black mask, the design rather plain with only the eyes cut out and a space for the nose and mouth.

He wasn’t just a man with a gun, Mishca knew, but a brutal mercenary, one that lived and breathed his occupation, all to feed his vendetta, and one that was just as mysterious as he was legendary.

For the last few years, after using multiple contacts around the world, and abusing every resource he had, Mishca had tracked this particular individual, one that he knew had become a lethal weapon.

Especially know for shots like the one that had taken the life of the dead Albanian on the floor.

The mercenary stopped, his head cocked to the side as he surveyed them with casual disinterest, unconcerned with the guns trained on him.

Not that he needed to be. Undoubtedly, he was the best shot there.

Knowing the man’s skills and the lack of exits, Mishca chose instead to pull Lauren behind him, making sure every part of her was shielded by him.

She was trying to see past him, but he wouldn’t allow it, because at the moment, he had no explanation he could give her, not one short enough at least.

Sensing Mishca’s dilemma, the mercenary canted his head in the other direction, sighing heavily behind his mask.

He couldn’t see his face behind the mask, but Mishca would bet his life that the mercenary was amused by his actions.

Finding his voice, Mishca asked, “Where are my men?”

“Alive.”

Already, despite the danger he posed, Mishca felt his temper flaring, in a way that only this man could do. “Why are you here?”

“I made a promise to you,” the mercenary said in a flat tone, his words distorted. “When you die, it’ll be by my hand.”

Luka, having a particular disdain for mercenaries and authority, didn’t appreciate the mercenary’s words, but Mishca couldn’t allow him to draw his weapon, not against the man in front of them.

“
Ostavit’ yego—Leave it
,” he said harshly. “He’s not here to kill me.”

Lauren’s hands tightened on the back of his shirt, her fear for him making this that much harder.

“No?” The mercenary asked looking around, drawing a pistol from the back of his pants. “It kind of feels that way.”

“You don’t play with your targets,” Mishca responded evenly though he had never been sure of that fact.

He had always assumed—because of the precision in which all of the marks were hit without any evidence left behind—that when the mercenary got a job, he completed it quickly and efficiently.

“Don’t be so sure about that, Russian,” the mercenary said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mishca stared at him, trying to see through the black mesh that shielded the man’s eyes though it was impossible from that difference. He knew all too well what eyes hid behind it.

“Not while she’s here to watch,” Mishca responded gesturing to Lauren. “Especially not in this place.”

That seemed to break the mercenary’s resolve. No longer did he appear casual, but his body grew taut with tension, his fingers tightening around the gun he held.

Mishca had never been back here since that day, but he could still remember it like it had happened just hours before.

Where there was a hole in the floor was where he, himself, had found the mercenary.

A time he hated to think about.

It seemed years’ worth of anger broke out of the mercenary, his attention now focused solely on Mishca. Not waiting for a command from Mishca—though one was not coming—Luka swung at him, but effortlessly, the mercenary spun out of the way, the heel of his palm swinging out at the same time, landing a well laced hit to his jugular, sending Luka to the floor wheezing for air.

Vlad, wisely, stood where he was. After all, he knew the man behind the mask.

Mishca reached behind him, trying to pull Lauren forward and away from him, not wanting her to get accidentally hurt if anything happened, but she clung to him, refusing to let go.

She didn’t realize they were now facing the one person that hated Mishca the most in the world.

Up close, the mercenary was only an inch taller, if that, but his presence made him seem bigger, though at times he could appear smaller as well, a good trait to have in his line of business.

“Careful,” he said with barely restrained fury. He didn’t bother pointing the gun at him because he knew twenty-three ways to kill Mishca without trying, and those were just the ones he could think of at the moment.

There were men that cowered in Mishca’s presence, but this one, no, he didn’t fear anything.

He couldn’t know for sure, but Mishca thought the mercenary’s gaze slipped past him to where Lauren was standing at his back, making his arm tighten with awareness.

He might have thought he knew the mercenary’s plan, but he could never be sure.

“It would only be fair, would it not, if I took your love from you,” the mercenary said though there wasn’t any real threat in his tone.

Now, just that quickly, he sounded bored.

“Except, I only kill those that wrong me.”

“I didn’t,” Mishca said, remembering when he had said something similar all those years ago.

“Guilty by association.”

He felt Lauren stiffen behind him and Mishca nearly cursed. He needed to end this.

“We don’t have time for this,” Mishca said. “Do you not realize what you’ve done? The Albanians are going to want blood for this.”

The mercenary shrugged. “Personal problem.”

“And you think they won’t find out it was you?” Mishca retorted, trying to get him to see reason. “Someone, somewhere has seen your face.”

Laughing, the mercenary pushed his mask up, over the beanie he wore to cover his hair, revealing his face for the first time.

Lauren’s gasp was audible in the decrepit building.

The mercenary looked at Mishca, a burning fury in the identical set of blue eyes they shared, so different from the broken spirit Mishca had seen before.

“I’m not the boy you used to know,” the mercenary said echoing Mishca’s thoughts. “If anyone can identify me, good. I’m counting on it.”

“Klaus—”

It was the first time Mishca had said his name in what felt like ages and it had the desired effect as he lost his maniacal smile.

“
Never
speak my name.”

“And how will they differentiate between us?” Mishca asked solemnly. No one had ever been able to tell the difference until you truly looked.

“I could always kill you then continue my mission.”

“You’re not going to kill me,” Mishca repeated.

“Why not?” Klaus asked with genuine confusion on his face like that had always been a part of his plan.

“Because despite your hatred for me, brother, it would be like killing yourself.”

Mishca had thought he’d made his point and finally gotten the upper hand, but he was mistaken.

“Maybe, but you’re not me,” Klaus said calmly.

Mishca hadn’t noticed the blade hidden in his palm.

Entering the building that was slated for demolition in only a few months’ time, the first thing Jetmir noticed was the smell.

There was nothing quite similar to the scent of death, but it was one he had grown used to in his thirty odd years. Yet today, that acrid smell made his jaw clench in anger.

It had taken a few days—more time than he would have wanted—to track down his brother, but now that he was here, Jetmir was not prepared for what he found.

The Russians had left him in a field far out of the city. It took hours before he could get in contact with any of his men, and even longer to hear about Brahim’s idiotic plan.

He should have listened to him, knowing that Brahim would have stood down if he would have treated him like any of the other members as opposed to a kid brother.

Brahim was beneath a hole in the ceiling, the varying weather taking its toll on his body.

Jetmir didn’t have the opportunity to prepare himself for how he would find his brother, instead, it was slapped in his face, his brother’s dead, unseeing eyes following him as he moved closer.

His skin had an unnatural pallor—the skin around his mouth blackened—his flesh better preserved because of the cold weather. Even in death, he looked like a child, far too young to have beaten Jetmir to the grave.

For once in his life, Jetmir felt remorse. It was his job to protect him, to shelter him until Brahim was ready to have a role in their syndicate.

He had failed him.

Jetmir looked down at his brother’s body, ignoring the smell of him, ignoring everything that might draw his attention away. He needed to commit this to memory, so that upon leaving, he would remember this moment.

Crouching down, he touched his brother’s eyelids, shutting them gently. At least this way, he could imagine him being at peace.

“What did you do, you stupid little shit?” Jetmir asked though he already knew the answer.

Out the corner of his eye, he could see his men turn their back, giving him the privacy he desperately craved.

Whispering a soft prayer, Jetmir stood to his full height, turning his back on the body just as quickly as he had arrived.

On his way out, Jetmir told them, “Deal with it.”

He needed to take care of something.

Putting a cigarette to his lips, Jetmir lit the end of it, watching the sickly man as he prepared Brahim’s body. He didn’t have the time to go through the hassle of getting his brother overseas, so he chose instead to have him cremated.

As the man pulled the lever, the doors opened like the gates of hell, fire licking at the edges of the steel incinerator.

The conveyor belt rattled to life as the body atop it rolled inside. It would be the last time Jetmir would lay eyes on his brother.

When the job was done and the cremator was compensated for his services, Jetmir took a private jet back to Albania, to the home that he shared with his mother.

It was known as the compound, due in part to the fact that it resembled an armed fortress, complete with enough security to man a small army.

During the hour long drive it took to get there after his plane landed, Jetmir thought of how he would tell his mother. Back during the days of his father’s rule, she was known for her strength in lieu of tragedy, but with old age and a failing mind, she was not the woman she used to be. Also, she had never lost a son, and with her fragile heart, Jetmir feared what Brahim’s demise would do to her.

The gates to the compound swung open, allowing Jetmir’s car to roll inside, slamming shut behind him.