Standing high above the water, Niklaus dropped the last of the bags over the bridge, wiping his gloved hands on the front of his jeans, watching as the black bags bobbed on the surface of the water before disappearing beneath. When he was younger, he had heard many stories about revenge, though in those cases, it dealt with something far less meaningful, like losing a fight or being embarrassed by someone, but the moral of those were that revenge was never the answer. Something along the lines of digging two graves when on the path of it…unlike those people whose joy was short lived, Niklaus couldn’t agree that revenge was a bad thing.
After spending the better part of the last five years seeking vengeance against the men that had forced him down this path to begin with, the journey was almost over. The head of those he felt were responsible was now sinking into the murky depths of the water below, he felt considerably lighter, like the weight of his responsibilities had finally lifted.
Nothing could compare to how he felt in that moment.
As a mercenary, it was very rare for anyone to carry something amongst them that could be used to identify them, but Niklaus was rather good at what he did and didn’t have such fears. Reaching for the delicate length of chain that hung around his neck, he pulled it free from its hiding place beneath his shirt, kissing the locket that hung from the end of it.
It was over, finally…for the both of them.
Turning away, he lifted his hood, concealing his face once more, but he was in no rush to leave. On this bridge, in the dead of night, he was alone…at least that was what he had thought until he faced the street.
Twin headlights flared to life in the distance suddenly, blinding him. Even though he had assumed he had assumed he would be alone, Niklaus hadn’t come unprepared.
One gun at his back and knives strapped to his arms, he was as ready as he could ever be, and if whoever lurked in that car worked with the now dead Albanian mobster that was sinking to the bottom of that body of water, they wouldn’t be walking away either.
However, before he could reach for any weapon, he heard the unmistakable click of multiple assault rifles. In part, that rid him of his unease. The Albanians might have been ruthless, but they were not nearly as well trained as this lot were.
Only mercenaries, especially those that belonged to the Den, could arm themselves simultaneously when he had only thought to reach for his own weapon.
Of course, the notion of them being there at all did bother him, especially considering this last job with the Albanians had been on his own time. He knew for a fact that his handler, Z, was not the one in the Escalade, because this wasn’t the way he operated. Whenever Niklaus was needed for a job, he received an encrypted text message with coordinates to a safe house where they would be meeting, and only then was he given his actual assignment.
Whoever was waiting for him…Niklaus didn’t know.
Sighing with a roll of his eyes, Niklaus held his hands up in a non-threatening gesture, shuffling along as two came out of the darkness that shielded them, urging him towards the black Escalade that was now idling some distance away. Once Niklaus got a good look at them though, he dropped his hands. A few of them he recognized from his training days, others he’d seen in passing.
It was odd still, considering he’d never been around most of them without his mask. He could only imagine what they were thinking now that they were seeing his face for the first time. And some, the second.
But, the one that was now at his back, Niklaus didn’t recognize, and for this reason, he was on edge having someone he didn’t trust walking behind him.
Especially when he gave Niklaus a shove to move faster.
Before he could check the impulse, he spun, disarming the man with alarming speed, using the butt of the rifle to hit him in the stomach, doubling him over.
“Never touch me.”
“Oy, get in the damn truck!”
At that accented voice, Niklaus tossed the rifle down at the man, turning to face one of the few people he considered a friend.
Celt, whose real name was still unknown to Niklaus, was one of only six people that he kept in contact with, and the others were only on occasion.
Niklaus could still remember his own grueling process of learning how to speak without inflections coloring his words and carefully crafting his speech so that there was no particular dialect. So either they hadn’t broken Celt completely, or the stubborn bastard had refused to give in—Niklaus leaned towards the latter.