Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

plan had been shot to shite when he got the phone call in the middle of the night informing him of the meeting he would need to attend the next morning.
    So in the meantime, he had lost himself in O’halla, the fighting ring he ran every couple of weeks when he was in the mood for a little bloodshed. No one—with the exception of Red—knew about his hobby, and he preferred it that way.
    Especially with just how close O’halla was to who Kyrnon was as a person.
    Though he was usually a loner by trade, Kyrnon much preferred to be surrounded by other people, hearing the chatter of incessant voices, or the screams of men in pain.
    But after his ‘death’ nearly seven years ago, he didn’t have much of a choice.
    Scrubbing himself clean, ridding his body of the grime and dirt of O’halla that made up a secret floor of a warehouse he owned across the city, Kyrnon was back out again and getting dressed before heading into the kitchen, bypassing everything until he reached the pantry.
    Inside, he reached behind a shelf, pressing against a hidden panel in the wall, pulling a small square of drywall off. Feeling around the space since it was impossible for him to see in it, he pulled free his favorite gun—a Sig—and a box of ammunition. Loading his gun, he placed the box back inside.
    Though it was rare he had anyone over, at least not while he was present—and he wasn’t trusting by nature—he still made it a point to keep his things hidden away just in case.
    Kyrnon was nothing if not practical.
    Pulling the slide back, he made sure there was a bullet in the chamber before holstering the weapon. Lacing his boots up, then strapping on his vest, Kyrnon was out the door.
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    S tepping out onto the platform , the doors to the train at his back sliding closed, then taking off with a whir, Kyrnon ascended the stairs onto the street above, hands in his pockets as he walked towards the designated place.
    Unlike Z—the man that had recruited, trained, and handled Kyrnon—the Kingmaker didn’t follow that same tradition.
    When he called, and the man didn’t do this often, one was expected to just show without question. Though he had been the new handler for a little over a year now, the Kingmaker hadn’t called on Celt except for one other occasion, and that was only to wrangle in Red should he not readily agree to the Kingmaker’s meeting.
    Since then, Kyrnon hadn’t seen much of the Den besides Red last year when he needed assistance with a man known only as Elias, and the family in Hell’s Kitchen.
    And unlike some others, Kyrnon was moderately happy about being called in. At least now he would have something to do with himself.
    There was a pizza parlor at the corner of 15th and Lexington, one of the best in the city even though Kyrnon had no interest in actually visiting the place. Even as the heavenly aroma of mozzarella cheese and warm tomato sauce filtered out through the open door, his attention had been snared by the shiny black Escalade parked at the curb.
    He was in the right place.
    But, if there was one thing about his handler he disliked, it was how dramatic the man seemed.
    It wasn’t that he didn’t understand precaution. Hell, he was constantly checking over his shoulder, paranoid that one of the many people he had crossed during his work with the Den had finally caught up with him. He understood the need for it.
    It was the fact that he had not bothered to give Kyrnon a location until an hour before the meet.
    But it wasn’t Kyrnon’s place to question those above him. When he had signed that contract, essentially handing his life away until the end date on the last page, he had given up his right to question anything.
    Now that Z—and still, no one knew the truth as to what had happened to the man—was no longer in charge, Kyrnon was looking forward to this latest encounter with the Kingmaker.
    Inside, a teenage girl sat behind a podium, her phone in hand as she paid more attention to it than