Chapter 4 – The Wolf’s Den

Kirill

Peace is the only commodity I haven’t been able to buy, so I built a fortress to try and manufacture it instead.

From the street, the warehouse on Commerce Street looks like a rotting tooth in a mouth full of cavities.

It’s a monolith of red brick, blackened by decades of industrial soot, with shattered windows boarded up by warped plywood and graffiti scrawled across the loading bay doors.

To the casual observer, and even more importantly the not-so-casual ones with badges, it’s just another corpse of American manufacturing left to decompose in the damp Brooklyn air.

The inside is divided into two very different worlds.

The back, where I am now, is the sanctuary. It’s soundproofed, climate-controlled, and equipped with a security grid that rivals the Pentagon. It’s a space of leather furniture, high-end servers, and enough weaponry to stage a coup on a mid-sized country.

The front is the mask.

If you walk through the main doors, assuming you can get past the three-inch steel deadbolts and my deadly crew, you find yourself in a mechanic’s workshop that looks like it hasn’t passed a health and safety inspection since the eighties.

It smells of old grease, stale tobacco, and rust. There are oil stains on the concrete that are older than most of my team. It’s designed to be underestimated. It’s designed to make people look at us and see nothing but grease monkeys and low-level criminals.

"Quiet night," Dominique murmurs.

She’s lounging on the sofa in the command center, cleaning a gun with the kind of absentminded affection most women reserve for a cat. Her boots are up on the coffee table, right next to a laptop streaming the perimeter feeds.

I don't like quiet. Quiet means the world is holding its breath. It means the chaotic variables of the universe are aligning for something stupid to happen.

I take a sip of black coffee, the bitterness sitting heavy on my tongue. My eyes flick to screen four when I see movement.

"Contact," I say, my voice dropping an octave. It’s a reflex. The predator in me waking up.

Dominique stops cleaning the gun. "Police?"

"No." I zoom in. "A stray."

It’s a figure walking down the center of the street. A solitary shape wrapped in layers of over-sized, filthy clothing. A Mets cap is pulled low, obscuring the face.

He looks erratic, walking forward a few steps, then stopping to look around him, turning in a circle, before giving another few steps.

He appears to be looking for something.

"Junkie?" Dominique asks, standing up and coming to my shoulder.

"Maybe," I say. "Or a scout."

I switch to the thermal feed. The figure is glowing red. Body heat is high, but there’s no tactical gear. No body armor.

He stops right in front of our warehouse. He’s not looking at the door, though. He’s looking up at the blackened windows, scanning the brickwork.

He looks like a gutter rat. An urchin scavenging for scraps. But the behavior is wrong. A scavenger looks down for dropped coins or cigarette butts. This one is looking up. Searching.

My fingers fly across the console, cycling through the perimeter cameras. I check the alleyways for three blocks in every direction. I’m looking for the support team. The black van with the tinted windows. The sniper on the adjacent roof. The plainclothes cops sitting in a sedan eating donuts.

Nothing.

Just the rain-slicked streets of an industrial wasteland and one very lost, very pathetic-looking kid.

I’m about to dismiss him. It’s New York. Crazy people wandering the industrial districts looking for empty buildings to squat in is hardly a headline event.

I reach for the control to dim the monitor. "False alarm. Just a stray."

Then the audio sensor spikes into the red.

The kid on the street cups his hands around his mouth, throws his head back, and screams.

"KIRILL NIKOLAEV!"

I freeze. The coffee cup in my hand threatens to crack under the pressure of my grip.

My real name. Not my road name. Not my handle. My legal, birth certificate, Russian-government-file name. Screamed at the top of a stranger’s lungs in the middle of Brooklyn.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Max’s voice drifts over the intercom from the gym area. "Did I just hear what I think I heard?"

The kid takes a breath and does it again.

"I KNOW YOU’RE AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE! KIRILL NIKOLAEV!"

"Shut up you little bastard," I snarl, slamming the coffee cup down on the desk. Coffee splashes over the rim, splashing on the glass. "Who is this idiot?"

"He’s loud, I’ll give him that," Dominique says, her hand drifting to the pistol on her belt. "Do we silence him?"

"Get him inside," I command, my voice cold. "Let me find out how he knows my name before I put a bullet in his throat for broadcasting my identity to the entire tristate area."

"On it," Max replies.

I watch on the monitor as Max bursts out of the side door like a bull released from a chute. The kid tries to back up, stumbling over his own feet, but he’s slow and clumsy. Max grabs him by the scruff of that ridiculous oversized jacket and hauls him inside, kicking the door shut behind them.

I leave the command center, walking down the pristine hallway to the heavy security door that separates our work area from the front cover. I punch in the code, the steel tumblers clicking open.

The atmosphere changes instantly. Shadows cling to the corners, hiding the rusted spare parts and piles of tires. It’s a graveyard for machinery.

Max has the kid shoved up against a tool chest near the parked bikes. Between my Harley and Saint’s Indian, both looking menacing in the dim light.

The kid is panting, his chest heaving under the layers of grime. His cap has fallen off, revealing matted blonde hair that looks like it hasn’t seen shampoo in a week.

I stop in the shadows, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.

He lifts his head and his face is a ruin. One eye is swollen shut, a grotesque purple bruise blossoming across his cheekbone. His lip is split and caked with dried blood. There’s a smear of dirt across his forehead. He looks like he went ten rounds with a meat tenderizer and lost every single one.

But the one good eye, blue, sharp, and eerily intelligent, locks onto Max with a sneer that belongs on a king, not a beggar.

"I said I want to see Kirill Nikolaev," the kid spits. Blood flecks his chin when he speaks.

Max, towering over him at six-foot-four of Scottish muscle and red beard, crosses his arms over his chest.

"You’re looking at him, lad," Max lies, his voice a deep, gravelly burr. "Now, why were you screaming my name on the street like a banshee?"

The kid stares at Max. He looks him up and down, taking in the red beard, the pale skin, and the distinct lack of Slavic bone structure.

Then, the little shit laughs.

It’s a wet, hacking sound, but it’s definitely a laugh.

"You’re not Kirill," the kid rasps. "Unless Kirill Nikolaev developed a penchant for haggis and lost his Russian accent overnight. You sound like a reject from the cast of Braveheart."

Max blinks, genuinely offended. "I do not sound like-"

"Enough," I say.

My voice cuts through the garage like a blade.

I step out of the shadows and walk toward them, my boots silent on the oil-stained concrete. The kid’s head snaps to me.

His good eye widens. He tracks me, his gaze dropping to my boots, then up to my face. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Good. He has some survival instinct.

"Who the fuck are you?" I ask, stopping three feet from him. "And why are you broadcasting my name to the entire borough?"

He straightens up, pushing himself off the tool chest. He tries to brush off his filthy jacket, an attempt at dignity that is almost painful to watch. He winces as he moves, favoring his left side. Bruised ribs, probably.

"I’m your new client," he says, lifting his chin. “Oliver Blaese.”

"We don't have clients," I say, my accent thicker than it’s been in years. "We are a motorcycle club. We ride bikes. We drink beer. We fix engines. We don't take walk-ins from street urchins."

"Cut the shit," he snaps. "I know who you are. I know what you do. You make problems disappear."

I step closer, invading his personal space. I tower over him. I can see the pulse fluttering in his neck, fast and erratic like a trapped moth.

"You have been misinformed," I say softly. "And you are trespassing. Give me one reason why I shouldn't let Max break your legs and throw you in the dumpster out back."

The kid flinches, but he doesn't back down. He reaches into his pocket.

Max tenses, hand going to the large wrench on the workbench. Butcher steps out from behind a rack of tires, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Relax," the kid says, pulling out a wad of cash. It’s pitiful. A few thousand dollars, maybe. "I can pay. I have access to funds. Significant funds. I just can't access them right now. Not without a secure terminal."

"I don't need your lunch money," I scoff. "And I don't care about your funds."

"I’m being hunted," he blurts out.

He gestures to his face. "This is from some of my new fans."

I look at the bruising. It’s fresh.

"And this concerns me... why?" I ask, bored.

"I need protection," he says. "I need somewhere safe to stay. And I need you to handle them."

"Handle them," I repeat.

"Kill them," he clarifies. "I’ll pay hundred thousand a head for every assailant you deal with permanently. You won’t even have to look for them. They keep sniffing me out somehow."

I stare at him. He’s terrified out of his mind. But he’s standing here, in my base, ordering hits like he’s ordering a takeout meal.

I let out a short, harsh laugh that echoes off the concrete walls.

"You think this is a movie, little boy?" I ask. "You think you can just walk into a biker den and hire a hitman?"

"It’s not a biker den," he argues, looking around at the dusty tools and the rusted chassis of an old Chevy in the corner. "This is a front. I know it’s a front. You’re mercenaries using the club as a cover. I’m not an idiot."

"You are an idiot," I correct him. "Because you walked in here alone. If I were who you think I am, you would already be dead."

"If you were who I think you are, you’d be smart enough to take my money," he retorts.

The audacity.

It’s almost impressive.

"We move things," I lie smoothly. "If you need a package across the border, maybe we talk. If you need drugs moved, maybe we talk. But babysitting? Murder for hire?" I shake my head. "We are not in the business of cleaning up messes for teenagers who got in over their heads."

His face flushes.

"I’m not a teenager," he snaps. "I’m twenty-four."

"You look twelve," I say. "And you smell like a wet dog."

"I’ve been living on the street for two days because people are trying to put a bullet in my brain!" he yells, his control finally fracturing. "I heard about your reputation, Nikolaev. I know you’re the best. Stop playing games!"

"My reputation," I muse. "And where did you hear this reputation? Who sent you?"

He clamps his mouth shut.

"I can't tell you that," he says stubbornly.

"Then get out."

I grab him by the arm. His bicep is surprisingly firm under the thick jacket.

"No! Wait!" he cries, digging his heels in. "You have to help me! I have nowhere else to go!"

"Not my problem," I growl, hauling him toward the door.

He struggles, flailing against my grip. It’s like holding a feral cat. He claws at my hand, his nails digging in.

"Let go of me, you fascist prick!"

"Fascist?" I raise an eyebrow. "That is a new one."

I drag him past the lifts. He’s light, easy to move, but he fights with a desperate, frantic energy.

"Please!" he gasps. "They’ll kill me tonight! If you throw me out there, you’re signing my death warrant!"

"Better yours than mine," I say. "You bring heat to my door. You scream my name. You are a liability."

I reach for the handle of the side door. I’m going to toss him into the alley and lock the deadbolt. If he’s still there in ten minutes, I’ll have Max remove him forcibly.

"Kir," a voice calls out.

I stop, my hand on the latch.

Dominique’s stepped through the security door from the back. She stands in the threshold between the glossy, high-tech world behind her and the gritty workshop in front. Her arms are crossed, her expression unreadable.

"What?" I bark.

"Put him down," she says.

I frown. "I am throwing out the trash."

"We need to talk first," she declares, her voice firm.