Retribution (2 page)

Did that make him any
better than Peter? Probably not.

Yet, there
was
a
difference.

He
did
have a soul.

He
was
capable of loving
someone.

He knew the love of family,
the closeness of brotherhood, and deep anguished grief over losing
someone.

No, he may not be better
than the man across from him in body count, but he sure as
hell
was
different. He clenched his jaw to control his anger and
anguish. It was still so fresh.

So, as much as Ryan
disliked him, he was there, not only because of the request of his
superiors, but because of personal reasons. He took in a hushed
deep breath to keep his emotions under control. His eyes went over
Peter’s face again. There were old scars there, streaks of white
that set them apart from normal skin color. He knew what knife
scars looked like, having a few himself. It was said that it was
his preferred weapon when dealing with those that got in his way.
One looked as though it just missed his right eye, distorting the
hair on his eyebrow, and must hurt like the devil when he got it.
It ran halfway down his face to his jaw. The other was on the jut
of his chin. He bet this man was a force to be reckoned with in a
knife fight.

He flipped a photograph
around and stuck a finger on it. “This was you?”

Ryan leaned forward and
looked at the photo. He then leaned back and met his eyes again.
“Yes.”

“I heard about that in the
papers. A terrorist siege on an ambassador and his family in Iraq.
No casualties?”

“Not on my
side.”

“The other?”

“Fifty four.”

“Jesus Christ.” He stared
at him in awe. “How many men took that building?”

“Including me—three.” He
kept his voice even and calm as if he were discussing the
weather.

“I’ve seen enough. This is
impressive,” Peter finally admitted. He sprawled several more
photographs out in front of him to examine them better.
“
Really
impressive.”

No shit
, Ryan thought in response to his compliment. He already was
aware of that. There was no need to answer him because it wasn’t
placed in the context of a question. Honestly, he wasn’t a man of
many words anyway. Besides, he already knew his history was
impressive. He was the best of the best in his field, yet unknown
in many circles, including Peter’s. It was that way for a reason.
As for his new potential employer, again he was just letting him
know that he could get his hands on anything, including his past.
It was a warning to him that he couldn’t have secrets.

However, if he thought to
rattle him a little, it didn’t work. He needed Peter to have that
file. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been called upon, and he wouldn’t
have his thick greedy fingers on it. Only he had to make it look
like Peter was able to obtain it without his knowledge and here the
man was dangling it in front of him as if it was supposed to make
him understand how much power he had in those circles. Ryan had to
resist from smiling cynically. Only if he knew it was censored and
modified to be used as bait. As soon as the information hit the
market, Ryan expected a phone call, and two days after it was
released he got one. Well, he got over a dozen, but Peter’s was
only one he was after.

He took in a relaxed breath
and looked out the window past Peter. It was a terrific view of the
Miami skyline. The back, of the property, like the front, had an
expansive well-manicured garden. There was also a large swimming
pool. The mansion was set back from a private beach and had a high
stone wall. It was a sin to have such privacy when the scenery
would be beautiful if opened up. Yet he understood the need for the
privacy. Peter being who he was had many enemies.

He’d been to Miami a few
times for jobs, but nothing permanent. He smiled to himself. The
women were beautiful though—shapely, but had a little less class
than he preferred. He honestly shouldn’t categorize them, but he
had a world of experience. He liked living overseas, mostly in
France, his mother’s native country. They had a villa there that
had been in his family for generations. And the
women
, oh the women! There was
something about French women; sassy, classy and beautiful. He also
had an apartment in New York where he spent many months out of the
year for business. He almost smirked again. He was growing bored
and his mind was wandering.

“I have men in my employ
that don’t come near this type of training, and they are the best
around,” Peter stated without lifting his head. Every time he
looked through the file, he’d seen something new, and every time he
was just as impressed. He wanted the best, and he was pretty sure
he’d gotten him.

If you think
so
. What he’d seen so far didn’t leave an
impression. Ryan brought his eyes back to him but still never said
anything. He didn’t seem to expect him to. Peter was just talking
out loud letting him know that he knew a lot about him. His accent
was noticeable but not impeding to the point where someone couldn’t
understand him. It wouldn’t matter, Ryan spoke Slavic and Chechen
besides French and English and a few others. As for his men, that
was pride speaking. He’d sized them up when he came in. They were
typical Russian mercenaries, brutal war formed men, trained in the
field, so they lacked the discipline he had—and the brains. They
were what he, and others of his expertise, referred to them as;
meatheads. They were easy to find in the war torn country, in
abundance, and therefore easy to replace, because well, they
were—easy to kill.

After another few minutes
Peter shut the file, folded his hands together on top of the desk
and met Ryan’s eyes, “I like what I see.”

Of course you
do
. “Good.” Ryan said confidently. He knew
for a fact that none of the men that Peter employed had anything
near his talents or his references. They were mere mercenaries, big
and brainless, but loyal, and although Ryan was fronting as one, he
was better. He was intelligent and tactical. He was trained by men
that were a dying breed, put through trials of extreme survival and
discipline.

“There’s something I did
not see in your file. Have you ever protected a woman?”

“No. Not long term. Just
rescue and recovery.”
How hard could it
be?

Again, the barely
discernable smile. “What’s your rate?” he said, finally getting to
the point.

“Five thousand a week.”
Peter didn’t even bat an eye at Ryan’s price. Again, no shock
there.

Then, slowly, Peter let an
expression reach his hard face, but it wasn’t surprise. It was
amusement. “Well, I’d throw you out of here if you weren’t such a
hard find and your reputation speaks volumes.” He sat back in his
seat, opened a drawer on his right, and took out a stack of banded
bills tossing it on the desk in front of him. “That’s the first
month.”

Ryan glanced at the stack
of money then back to the other man, “I never said I’d take the
job, Mr. Nickolov.” His voice was even and self-assured, like
everything else about him.

“You don’t have a choice.”
He reached in the drawer and pulled out another stack, flapping it
back and forth, “I just upped your salary to thirty thousand a
month. You belong to me now.” He tossed it next to the other one.
“And if you don’t take the job—” he leaned forward in his seat
making eye contact “—I’ll have you killed. That’s how much I need
you.”

The man wasn’t kidding.
There was no sense of humor in that cold soulless stare. Ryan
actually smiled arrogantly not the least bit frightened. Peter
thought that anyone could be bought with money or intimidated. It
was never even a consideration that Ryan wasn’t there for that
reason. It would be his downfall.
Conceited prick,
he thought to
himself.

The other man shrugged
thinking he knew what that smile meant. He didn’t have a man that
matched Ryan’s talent so he wouldn’t be an easy man to kill. “Or I
can try,” he said finally smiling coldly. “Anyway, it’s important
to me. I’ve already lost one daughter. I can’t lose the other.
She’s all I have left.” His expression pinched at the memory. He
abruptly stood up and walked to the window folding his hands behind
his broad back and looking out at nothing in particular. “This is a
fucked up world Mr. Casey. I’ve done some horrid things in my life
and I don’t want my daughter to pay for it again.” He turned around
and looked at him. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone, so
don’t take it personally.” He nodded toward the stack of money that
Ryan had yet to touch, “but I trust money. That will make you
loyal.” Peter already knew that Ryan liked money because he was
wearing a three thousand dollar suit. That was the reason he upped
his salary. He considered himself quite observant. He didn’t come
from a poor one bedroom home in Chechnya to being rich by being
stupid. “I would consider this a personal favor.” He said that last
bit as if Ryan had a lot to gain from a favor.

Ryan already knew he was
going to take the job but he had to make this look good. He rubbed
his forefinger over the stubble on his chin and set his eyes on the
stacks of cash. After a moment of mock consideration, he leaned
forward, reached over and fanned his thumb through one of the
stacks of crisp one hundred dollar bills as if it was normal to
receive a stack of untraceable unmarked bills. Then he took both
stacks and placed them inside his suit jacket pocket and met
Peter’s eyes again. “When do you want me to start?”

“Today. Now.” Peter turned
back to him finally letting his expression soften a little. There
may have been a hint of relief there also, but it was gone
quickly.

Ryan remained seated. Peter
may have been done, but he wasn’t. “First, we need to be clear on a
few things.”

“Clear?”

“Yes. I’m not an assassin.
No matter what that file says, or what I’ve done in the past. I’m
only here to protect your daughter. I also do not take orders from
your men—only you and only in regards to your daughter’s
safety—well, most of the time I’ll do my own thing
anyway.”

“Is that right?” Peter
obviously didn’t like someone telling him how things were. His
expression darkened.

“You wanted the best Mr.
Nickolov. These are the reasons I’m good at what I do. I’ve also
done my homework. I know what you do and I don’t care. I’ve worked
for more powerful men, but my terms are always consistent. I’m here
for your daughter. If you expect something else, I’ll walk.” There
was no way in hell he was going to help this bastard run drugs or
protect shipments in any way. He had to be clear and he had to be
in control of this job. There was a slight twist in the man’s
expression and Ryan knew it was anger, but he did his best to hide
it well. He thought he might have blown it until Peter
spoke.

“You’re hired as of right
now. Ivan will get you settled upstairs.” He waved two fingers
toward one of the two sentinel men standing behind Ryan.

Well, apparently he
accepted his terms. “All right,” he said turning and looking at
Ivan, studying him with a quick expert glance like he did everyone
he met. His experience allowed him to sum up someone’s skills in
that short time. Ivan was a thick bodied man that looked to be in
his mid-forties. He already knew who Ivan was. In fact, he knew the
names of all the men in Peter’s employ.

Ivan Demetrev, was Peter’s
most loyal and would do anything for him. Well, if Ivan was his
best man, he certainly didn’t have anything to worry about. Ivan
seemed more on the chubby side unlike him who was solidly built,
but he still didn’t underestimate any of the men who Peter had
under his employ because they had no limits on what they would do
for him. He was adamant only to hire those that were fiercely
loyal, preferably his own countrymen, and they usually had specific
talents. They were fearless. Not particularly smart though. Take
Ivan for example. He could tell from the scarring on his knuckles
that he was familiar with busting facial bones. He was also the one
that patted him down when he first came into the office. Ryan
handed over his handguns he kept in his shoulder holsters without a
second thought. He didn’t need them to cause damage if needed. Yet
he missed the knife he kept strapped on the inside calf, an easy
find. There was a look in the man’s eyes when he first came in too.
It was a look that basically said he didn’t belong there. Obviously
Peter’s men didn’t like outside help.

“Mr. Casey.”

He turned back to Peter at
the sound of his name.

“My daughter is getting
released from the hospital today. She needs someone to go and get
her—preferably you. She will not see me now.” His eyes went to his
men. “Or them. I need someone else. Someone she will learn to
respect. She needs to be brought back here. Nowhere else is safe
until we find the bastards who killed my other
daughter.”

“I understand.”

“She’s been through a lot
so I don’t expect you will find her in the best of
moods.”

“How does she feel about a
bodyguard?”