One spoke first. “Mr. Harper.”
Harper smiled like he’d been waiting to hear that all night. “You must be Rami,” he said smoothly. “Or one of the men who takes orders from him. Hard to tell; you boys like to mix and match your little warlord fashion choices.”
Rafe didn’t move. The two gunmen stiffened.
Harper’s grin widened as he flourished, confident and sharp. “Relax. If I wanted you dead, my guy would’ve put you down before you finished saying hello.”
They both flicked quick looks at Rafe. He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He just watched, predatory and quiet. The kind that made lesser men sweat.
A third figure emerged from behind a stack of rotting crates. Taller and better-fed with a scar running from the corner of his mouth to the hinge of his jaw—Rami.
He carried himself like a man who’d survived enough firefights to believe he was untouchable. He wasn’t. He approached Harper with exaggerated indifference. “We do not appreciate disrespect, Harper.”
Harper shrugged lightly. “Then don’t provide reasons to dish it out.”
Rami’s eyes sharpened. Rafe stepped half a pace forward, subtle enough the casual observer wouldn’t notice. But men who ran guns and bought weapons for militias noticed everything.
Rami did. “And this?” His chin lifted at Rafe. “Your shadow?”
Harper clicked his tongue. “This is Mr. Moretti. He’s here to ensure our conversations stay civil.”
Rafe gave no greeting. No nod. Nothing. He kept his eyes on Rami’s hands.
Rami studied him. “Your man does not speak?”
Harper smirked. “Only when I need someone to bleed.”
A ripple of unease passed between the guards.
Rami shifted his attention back to Harper, reassessing. “You come with confidence.”
“I come with money,” Harper corrected. “Confidence is free.”
Rami didn’t smile. “You want to buy something heavy.”
Harper’s tone turned cool. “I want to know if the thing I came for is real.”
“Come with me.” Rami turned toward the half-collapsed warehouse.
Harper followed. Rafe ghosted in behind them, each step slow and quiet as sifted sand.
Inside, the air smelled of rust, old motor oil, and heat baked into concrete for decades. A single generator-powered bulb flickered overhead, revealing crates stenciled with Cyrillic markings.
Rami tapped the nearest crate. “We provide proof before we discuss price.”
Harper put a hand up. “Before any proof, I need something else.”
Rami’s eyebrow twitched. “What?”
Harper gestured at the room’s shadows. “Tell your snipers on the north roof to stand down.”
Rami flinched.
Rafe didn’t even look up at the roof. “Three shooters. Two on the parapet, one in the gap behind the satellite dish.” His voice was rasped, hard-edged. It was Moretti’s voice, not Dante’s.
Rami’s eyes snapped to him. “Impossible.”
Rafe shrugged casually. “They breathe loudly.”
