Angry took on a whole new meaning as Nicolas Strakhov yanked off his protective headgear. He was covered in troll dung from head to toe. Running a hand through his ebony black hair, he stared at his brothers. His smoke gray eyes held a ruthless gleam.
"Somebody sabotaged us!" His voice was coarse and raspy.
Nicolas, known as Nic to most, was a product of both the old and the new Russia. He was a supremely confident man, a natural-born leader. He took what he wanted because no one was usually foolish enough to stand in his way. He was in essence a man who could move mountains. He was also fiercely loyal to his friends and family, although he saw himself as essentially alone, a persuasive, pervasive and perplexing personality.
"Merde! This diabolical dung-throwing means war. We will show no mercy to our enemies!" Nic spat as he began unzipping his protective outerwear.
His two brothers, Gregor and Alexander, nodded in agreement. They too had pulled off their helmets, their pale gray eyes glittering in the twilight, their features taut with anger.
Alex, who was the youngest of the three, remarked slyly, "I bet I know who sabotaged us, Nic."
"I think, so do I. Paranormalbustin' Pest Pursuers, Inc. Who else would care if we rounded up these trolls and sent them off to Russia but our competition?" Nic growled.
Gregor, the middle child, more studious and even tempered, was less resolute. "We don't know for certain. We have no proof. Just because they are unworthy Americans doesn't mean they are behind this morass."
Nic gave his brother a glacial stare. He had made it his business to learn something about his competition, which was this brother and sister team. The sister probably looked like a sumo wrestler and cussed like a sailor. Why else, Nic reasoned, would any reasonable female be in the business of monster removal? Certainly no one dainty or attractive would want to wrestle ghosts and get their pretty white hands dirty—like his own were at this moment. Ugh, troll dung.
Of course, Nic had also gathered that the Hammetts, including their strange old bird of an uncle, were enamored with that Humphrey Bogart fellow and his movies. And after renting some of those classic forties films, he had unwillingly admitted that, though he didn't trust or care too much for his business competition, he did appreciate their taste in entertainment.
"Who else would ruin this troll run? Who else would dare?" Alex argued. "Our surveillance showed twelve trolls living and breathing under the bridge. Because of this sabotage, we only captured seven. Seven! We Strakhovs never fail! But tonight we did, and all because of them." He spat the last words out with great distaste.
Nic's eyes were smoldering, their gray smoke almost afire. He added, "And the five we didn't capture will now head for the hills. We'll have to try and track them to their new lair. Only, now they'll be leery and hard to track. Someone will pay for this fiasco! No one makes a fool out of a Strakhov, or causes him to rescind on his word!"
Nic's ruggedly handsome features were hard, making him appear a bit older than his reputed thirty-nine years of age. Yet, that hardness did not diminish from his natural, rugged good looks. He had prominent cheekbones and a full, firm mouth. He was a man who women looked at not once or twice, but for whom they would wrench their necks trying to get a third or fourth glimpse.
Still, as the years marched on Nic had stayed alone for the simple reason that he never met a woman he wanted to spend time with on a day-today basis for the rest of his life. His shortest relationship had lasted one night, and there were more than a few of those. His longest relationship had lasted six months.
His brothers, who were peeling out of their filth-covered uniforms, were also handsome men. Not as attractive as Nic, but close enough. They were both well over six-feet tall, with hair so black it shone with blue highlights in the daylight.
Alex was cunning, sometimes unprincipled, and loved playing pranks. Gregor was thoughtful and more reserved. Nic was the aggressive one, unafraid to show his feelings and ruthless when crossed. And none of the brothers had any trouble with women. In fact, they could beat them off with a stick if they were so inclined. But they weren't. They loved women, were worshipped by women, were spoiled by women and rarely had a serious thought for any particular woman. They were playboys at their best and worst. Likely it was because they were raised from birth with wealth, privilege and the punishing need to win at all costs. Like tonight's treachery—that would not go unforgiven or unpunished.
"Alex, make sure you find out who did this by tomorrow night," Nic ordered. "Then I will take appropriate action. We're going to crush those Hammetts! They'll rue the day they were born."
Alex grinned. He loved it when his brother got that feral glint in his eyes. Nic was a man others revered or feared, and it looked like the Hammetts were going to get a chance at the latter. "What will you do to punish them? Shall we hang them by their thumbs with corkscrews, or should it be the rack?"
Gregor choked. Nic laughed harshly, then grudgingly said, "Ah, for the old days."
Gathering up his equipment, he opened the door of their specialized van. He reminded Alex, "I need the answers soon, before I leave for my trip to help out our cousin. Once I know for absolutely certain who did this, then. I will decide which method of punishment fits the crime. I'll think on it while I'm gone."
"But you'll be gone a good week," Alex argued. "What was done tonight deserves swift retribution. Triple-P Inc. needs to be ground into dirt beneath our feet. We need to strike at their hearts, their pride!"
Only half listening to Alex, Nic was letting his mind revolve; it was spinning quickly as he came up with scenarios. Glancing at his youngest brother, he nodded. "Yes, you always hated competition. But remember the Russian saying, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.' And I intend to serve these Americans cold cuts."
Getting into the van and sitting next to him, listening to his brother's harsh warning, Gregor shuddered. Nic was formidable even before the added stimulation of being angered. Angry, Nic was a force to be reckoned with.
His eyes on the road, Nic added in a voice rilled with grim determination, "Merde! Nobody but nobody—and certainly not some insignificant little American nobody—crosses Nicolas Strakhov and gets away with it!"
Driving off toward their warehouse, Nic turned to his brothers, eyeing them with heat. "What is that saying… ?" Snapping his fingers, he suddenly nodded. "Ah, yes. Samantha and Bogart Hammett will soon be up that creek without a paddle."