Hostile Ground (The Arsenal #7) - Cara Carnes Page 0,8
black hair and paced toward the sliding glass door.
“You aren’t going out there alone,” Beast said, hands fisted at his sides. “This shit’s gone on long enough. It’s time we changed things up.”
“Iriana’s cover is solid in Kristof’s network. I didn’t waste a month doing his dirty work for nothing. The auction is in two days. This is almost over.”
“He’s taking advantage of the situation,” Beast said. “This past two weeks is overkill.”
Maybe. Addy rubbed the palms of her hands on her eyes. “Kristof had a valid concern going into this. He wouldn’t typically accept someone holding an auction without his approval since everything sold in the underground is supposed to go through him. Everything we’ve done the past few days was so that anyone watching him would see he’s conducting business as usual with his new enforcer. It strengthens my cover and eases any tensions people may have when he enters that auction. We’ll be done in a few days.”
“Unless they move it again,” Shep said. He shoved a clip into his Glock. “How do we know he’s not fucking with us?”
They didn’t. He’d swept her into his world with seemingly unobstructed access to its inner workings. The action demonstrated his absolute trust in Iriana so that anyone knew she was to be as feared as him. But everything hinged on Kristof. There was little The Arsenal could do since they were operating illegally within Russia.
Okay, they technically had a couple of government contracts to secure the missiles, but that didn’t mean shit if things went sideways. Political blowhards scurried faster than roaches.
“We don’t,” Zoey said into the com. “But she’s right. This is the play.”
Surprise kept Addy quiet as she exited the apartment and made her way down the rickety stairwell leading to the main entrance. Zoey had come a long way since arriving at The Arsenal, but she was still an emotionally charged timebomb with a short fuse Kristof set off anytime he was within Addy’s reach.
A light breeze swept Addy’s hair into her face. She brushed it away, using the motion to cover her quick visual scan of the area. Lavrov knew better than show up here. An occasional drop-off after an underground fight was one thing. Appearing in broad daylight? Total lunacy. They had an agreement.
“What are you doing here?” Flawless Russian rolled from her without hesitation as her gaze swept to the building Yesim’s crew sometimes inhabited. The fake accent had become second nature the past month. No one except Kristof knew who she truly was.
He hadn’t trusted anyone in his crew to know the truth—that he’d made a deal with The Arsenal to help them secure the biochemical weapons in exchange for a meet with Stacia. Who was she? Why had Lavrov agreed to help just for a chance to speak with the woman Zoey had rescued from a sex trafficker three years ago?
Kristof rose from his perch atop the car hood. Blood droplets, courtesy of the enforcement visit she’d made with him a few hours ago, still dotted the white shirt barely visible beneath his dark gray Armani suit. Dark circles contrasted against his pale gray eyes. “Iriana.”
The man exuded sex appeal in every movement, quiet confidence he projected with ease. The expensive material clung to his muscular thighs as he strode forward. She’d spent too many sleepless nights wondering what he looked like stripped bare.
“Lavrov.” She crossed her arms. Tingles beaded along her arms when his gaze slid from her face and paused at her breasts. The red spaghetti-strapped top she wore hugged her body. “What are you doing here?”
“We have business to attend.”
Addy stifled the curse rising in her throat. They’d tended business for a day straight and had stopped three hours ago. Did the bastard ever sleep?
Early-morning dawn threatened on the horizon, offering soft splays of promised light. Her gaze swept to Ivan, Kristof’s second-in-command, who glared at her from the other side of the car where he waited. They’d butted heads in the past, not that the idiot knew. Back then she’d been Addy, an Arsenal operative.
A new hair color and a fake Russian accent had addled his pea-sized brain into accepting her as Iriana, mercenary for hire. Her new identity, however, was a threat he wasn’t accepting easily. He didn’t like that Kristof had brought her into their network.
She slid her hand down Kristof’s muscular torso and purred. “Then let’s go. I do love the fun you come up with.”