The only thing that would relax him right now was about three rounds in bed with her. Not trusting himself to touch her, he tipped his head to indicate which way to go, and she started walking back along the pool deck the way they had come. Bran fell in beside her.
He had thought this job was going to be hard. Now he knew exactly how hard it was.Pun intended. Time to get the job done and get back home before he did something he would regret.
Or maybe he wouldn’t regret it at all.
Exactly what he was afraid of.
Halloween night. A full moon, the wind howling. People roaming the streets dressed like fucking dead people. It suited Vlad’s foul mood perfectly.
Vladimir Petrov wasn’t actually Russian. He just liked pretending he was. Vlad’s real first name was Janos, and according to his grandmother on his mother’s side, he was Czechoslovakian. Ancestry.com agreed—at least 30 percent.
Of course, he’d been born in the States, as American as his friend, Harley Graves, aka Gravedigger,Diggerto the guys in the White Dragons.
Vlad clenched his fist. He and Digger had fucked up royally tonight. They were being paid a shit ton of money to take care of the girl. Should have been simple, would have been if it weren’t for the cocky bastard she was with.
Two against one, he and Digger both ex-army, still in prime condition, training a couple days a week. It should have been easy. But the guy they’d come up against was no average soldier. The way he handled himself, he was spec ops for sure, and as good as Vlad had ever seen.
Thank Christ, Digger had been smart enough to get the truck so they could get the hell out of there.
Vlad clenched his jaw, dreading the report they would have to make to the man who had hired them—not a guy you wanted to disappoint. Guy like that—Weaver, he called himself. Just Weaver. Good chance you could wind up buzzard meat out in the desert.
Vlad scratched his chin beneath his thin blond beard and glanced over at Digger, whose mood was as foul as his own. They were supposed to check in when the job was done, get a location from Weaver to pick up the money they’d earned. But they had failed tonight, and with Weaver, failure wasn’t an option.
A shudder of dread rolled down his spine.
He looked over at Digger, who was pacing the floor of the apartment, wearing a hole in the cheap brown-shag carpeting. “I been thinking. There’s no reason we have to call in tonight.”
Digger paused. He rubbed the side of his neck just above his tat. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean our time hasn’t completely run out. If we could find the girl, we could make another run at her and still meet our deadline.”
Digger grunted, his features grim. “Odds are she’ll still be with her Captain America boyfriend.”
“Maybe. Maybe it won’t matter. Not if we can come up with a better plan.”
“You got an idea that’s gonna get us paid and save our asses?”
“We gotta find ’em first, but yeah. We’ll get our money and better yet, we won’t get dead.”
Digger walked over to the breakfast bar, where a six-pack of empty Coors bottles lined up on the counter like dead soldiers. “I’m listening. But this idea better work or instead of the girl, Weaver will be gunning for us.”
