Riding The Edge - Elise Faber Page 0,17

make a legitimate living.

They just saw the pretty beaches, the friendly locals, and opened up their wallets.

But I wasn’t here to take down the entire Italian mob—though it would be a nice side project. Rather, the rest of the team and I were here to investigate Ava’s assessments about the data, and if they proved right, we might be able to interrupt a shipment.

Of people.

Fuck, that made me sick.

It made me want to hunt the fuckers down who thought it was somehow okay to trade in people—in children and women and men who were vulnerable—and obliterate each and every one of them.

I might be able to take down a decent chunk of them before I went down, but the killing done by my hands wouldn’t do anything.

Yes, it would make me feel better.

Yes, maybe some vengeance would be enacted.

But the crimes wouldn’t stop, and neither would the exploitation, the trafficking, the illegal drugs.

So, instead of loading up with weapons and going on some I will find you-Taken movie vendetta, I sat in the fucking lounge chair and accepted the drink from the man who was a pawn of the Toscalo family with a “Thank you,” a smile, and slipping a large enough tip into his hand that maybe someday, if he got enough of them, the man might be able to eventually get out.

Then I sat there and sipped the whiskey and waited.

For my “girlfriend.”

Before Laila and Ryker had gotten hitched and Ryker was running his own team, I probably would have been paired with our team leader or stashed at the bar like Laila was, watching my back. But now that things between her and Ryker were legal and Ryker had gotten his possessive angry eyes down pat, I knew it was better for my physical well-being to not be playing Laila’s doting boyfriend.

Plus, Laila didn’t speak fluent Italian. Not like—

“Hi, baby.”

I stilled, trying not to let my jaw drop open and failing miserably.

Because . . .

Ava.

She had peeled off after we’d arrived at the hotel to “freshen up and change into my swimsuit”—though that hadn’t been all she was doing. She’d also been setting cameras and placing microphones that Olive, Laila, and Ryker would monitor.

Because if Ava was right, the exchange would be happening somewhere on this hotel’s property in one day’s time.

In a crowded, tourist-filled building, during one of the busiest weekends in the summer.

The Toscalo family had balls, that was for damn sure.

Kind of like the woman standing in front of me wearing a positively tiny string bikini. Breasts. Hips. Thighs. Miles of creamy skin. A large hat shaded her face, and fuck, she was a wet dream come to life. I nearly begged her to spin around so I could see that luscious ass.

I didn’t.

Because Luna was probably around somewhere, and I didn’t feel like getting shot again.

Ava lifted a brow, and a moment too late I scrambled up, remembering to play the role of boyfriend. “Baby?” I asked softly, leaning in to kiss her cheek and gesturing for her to take the lounge chair.

“Would you prefer Boner?” she returned chipperly.

I ignored the name and countered, “Where’s your weapon?” I knew she wouldn’t be without one.

One brown brow came up as she lowered herself onto the chair. “Where do you think it is?”

I grinned, tore my gaze from her body, and sat down on the sand next to her. “Are we only going to talk to each other in questions from now on?”

Scanning the horizon, she asked, “How do you feel about questions?”

I snorted.

“Knife in my purse,” she said, breaking the question streak. “Plastic pistol hidden in the flowers of the hat. Stiletto in the frame of my glasses. You?”

“Blades in both flip-flops. Handgun in my backpack.”

“Good.” She shifted in the chair. “Everything in my quadrant is in place. Bags made it safely to our room. Laila and Ryker are next door. As planned, Olive is on the floor below, so we have access to the stairwell.”

“Have you seen any of your family?”

That was part of the reason she’d been the one to place the cameras. She could move like the wind, melt into shadows, and she knew who to look out for.

“Yes,” she said. “Three cousins. What about you?”

I nodded at a cabana tucked beneath several palm trees. It was draped in a white gauzy material, but even from fifty feet away, we could see the group of men inside. “No Toscalos. But some of the Mikhailova clan are inside. Three bratok”—soliders—“meeting with their