Chapter 5 – The Tax

Kirill

I hold Dom’s gaze for three seconds. I’m the only one in this team who issues orders, but she’s my second-in-command for a reason. She sees the angles I miss when my temper flares, and right now, my temper is a lit fuse.

I open my hand and the kid drops like a stone. He lands hard on the concrete, his worn boots scuffing against the oil stains, a sharp gasp punching out of his lungs as his bruised ribs take the impact.

He catches himself on the edge of the tool chest, coughing and glaring at me with absolute venom.

"Stay there," I tell him, pointing a finger at his face. "If you take one step toward that door, I will let Max practice his golf swing on your kneecaps."

Oliver’s jaw tightens, but he stays put, leaning heavily against the red metal drawers.

I turn my back on him. "Dom, Max, Butcher, Saint. Office. Now."

I don't wait to see if they follow. I walk to the heavy steel door that separates the grimy facade of the front from the high-tech sanctuary of the back, punching my code into the keypad. The deadbolts clank open, and I step through, taking the steel stairs up to the glass-walled command center two at a time.

The door hisses shut behind Saint, who trails in spinning a customized folding knife between his fingers.

The soundproofing in the glass office is absolute. On the monitors dotted around the space, we have a perfect bird’s-eye view of the shop floor.

Oliver Blaese is poking gingerly at his split lip, wincing as his fingers come away bloody. He looks entirely out of place, a bruised, filthy stray locked in a cage with apex predators.

"Have you all lost your fucking minds?" I demand, leaning my hands flat on the central conference table. I glare at the four members of my team who are present. The other five will be taking the night shift.

"He’s a walking target. He stood in the middle of a public street and screamed my name. He’s clearly a fucking idiot."

"Kir, he’s offering a lot of money to buy our protection," Dominique says, taking her usual seat on the leather sofa. "We should at least determine whether he has the funds."

"I don’t care if he’s Bill Gates’s son with access to the family safe," I snap. "He’s being hunted by professionals. If we take him in, we invite that heat directly to our doorstep."

Butcher, a man whose neck is thicker than my thigh, but stands a head shorter than me, crosses his massive arms over his chest. "We handle heat, man. It’s literally what we do for a living."

"We are a strike team," I correct him, my voice rising. "We are assassins. We locate, we eliminate, we extract. We’re not glorified bouncers. We don’t do babysitting details."

"With respect, Kirill," Saint murmurs, leaning against the glass wall. His dark eyes are exhausted, the shadows beneath them bruised purple. "I would kill a man right now for a babysitting detail."

I stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"We’re burned out," Max chimes in. The giant Scotsman runs a hand over his red beard, his shoulders slumping slightly. "We’ve been running non-stop for six months. South America was a meat grinder."

"We got the job done and made a fortune," I argue.

"Barely," Butcher grumbles. "Six months in the jungles of Colombia and Peru. Dealing with cartels, dodging paramilitary squads, sleeping in mud that smelled like rot and cordite. I have jungle rot between my toes that I’m pretty sure is gaining sentience. I haven't slept in a real bed for more than four hours at a time since June."

"They're right, Kir," Dominique says quietly. "The squad is redlining. We need time off. If we go back into the field right now, someone is going to make a mistake, and that someone is going to die. This is easy money for minimum effort."

I look around the room and see the fatigue carved into their faces. I demand perfection from my team, and they give it to me, but they’re still flesh and blood.

"And you think hiding a marked man in my penthouse is going to be a vacation?" I ask, my tone incredulous.

"It’s a staycation," Saint says with a faint, cynical smile.

"We lock down the perimeter. We sit on the couch. We order takeout. If anyone comes knocking, we shoot them from the comfort of your home. No jungles. No mud. Lots of money. It’s a fucking dream job, man."

"He’s a beat-up kid in stolen clothes," I sneer. "He probably stole a credit card to get the money he was waving around."

"We can verify that," Dominique says. She looks at me, her expression resolute. "I call a vote."

I stiffen. I fucking hate democracy. It’s a flawed system that breeds complacency, but it’s the foundational rule of the Iron Wraiths.

I lead, but I don’t rule as a tyrant. On matters that dictate the operational direction of the entire team, the majority holds weight.

"All in favor of hearing the kid out and taking the contract if the money is real?" Dominique asks.

She raises her hand.

Saint raises his hand instantly.

Butcher sighs, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest, and raises his hand.

I look at Max. My oldest friend. The man who’s stood back-to-back with me in more firefights than I can count. Max looks at me apologetically, gives a slight shrug of his massive shoulders, and raises his hand.

Four to one.

A muscle in my jaw tics. I’m outvoted and I’m livid.

"Fine," I growl, the word scraping out of my throat like shattered glass. I don’t know why the thought of keeping the kid around bothers me so much, but I know this is going to go sideways.

"You want to play at being bodyguards so badly, we’ll do it. But I handle the negotiations. If he can’t meet my terms, I’m throwing him out, and I don’t want to hear another word about it."

"Your terms are usually fair," Dominique says, though her eyes narrow slightly, sensing the trap.

I don't reply. I turn on my heel, punch the button to open the door, and descend the metal staircase back into the grime of the workshop.

I can’t override the vote, but I can sabotage the contract. I’ll set the price so astronomically high, so obscenely extortionate, that this arrogant little shit won't have a choice but to limp out the door of his own accord. I’ll price him out of his own survival.

When I step back onto the shop floor, Oliver is exactly where I left him. When he hears my boots on the concrete, he squares his shoulders, lifting his chin.

It’s a pathetic attempt at projecting strength, considering his left eye is swollen into a violet slit and he can barely stand straight.

I walk right up to him, using my height, looming over him so he has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. I want him to feel the physical disparity between us. I want him to feel small.

"My team is tired," I tell him, my voice devoid of any warmth. "They want a vacation. They seem to think babysitting you qualifies."

A spark of triumph flashes in his good eye. "So, you’ll do it."

"There’s a tax," I say smoothly. "For the inconvenience. For the heat you bring to my door. For the fact that you insulted my security."

Oliver’s expression turns guarded. He crosses his arms over his chest, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his bruised ribs. "I said I could pay and I offered a very generous rate."

I let a cold, predatory smile curve my lips.

"To secure the services of the Iron Wraiths," I say, my accent thick and sharp, "There is a retaining f*e. One million dollars. Non-refundable. Paid upfront before you take a single step past this workshop."

Oliver shrugs, “Okay, sure.”

"That is just to open the door," I continue, stepping half a pace closer. "For the actual protection detail, the rate is one hundred thousand dollars a day. Payable at the end of every twenty-four-hour cycle. If you miss a payment, we drop you on the curb."

The little fucker smirks at me. “Doable.”

"And," I add, dropping my voice to a dangerous murmur, "For every assailant my team has to permanently remove from the board to keep you breathing, the bounty is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Per head."

I fold my arms, mirroring his stance, and wait. I wait for the desperation to break him. I wait for the arrogant smirk to fall off his bruised face.

I wait for him to realize he’s talking to monsters who care about nothing but the bottom line, and for him to turn around and run back into the rain.

Oliver doesn't blink. He doesn't scream. He just lets out a tired sigh, running a shaking hand through his matted blonde hair.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand," he repeats, his voice flat.

"Per head," I remind him.

He stares at me for a long moment. His brain is working, calculating, but not with panic. He looks like a man doing mental math at a car dealership.

"Fine," Oliver says.

I freeze. The satisfaction I was feeling evaporates, replaced by a sudden, jarring spike of disbelief. My trap just snapped shut on empty air.

"What did you say?" I demand, allowing my heavy accent to slip.

Oliver lifts his chin, meeting my gaze dead on. The stormy blue of his iris is practically vibrating with exhausted annoyance.

"I said fine, you extortionist prick. You have a deal," he snaps.

"I’m going to go and dig my go-bag out of the trash and I’ll pay you the first instalment in cash. You’ll have to accept wire transfers for the rest. I’m not carrying a million dollars in my underwear, and I’d really like a fucking shower. And someone has to go get me some new clothes and decent shoes, I’ll write down my sizes and which labels I prefer."

Motherfucker.