CHAPTER 1
Sweat lined the brow of the small man sitting across from me. The thin comb-over lay plastered to his forehead despite the cool air flowing through a nearby air vent. He hugged a briefcase close in his lap, not looking at any of the men who stood around the table. His eyes kept glancing toward the exit, as if all he wanted to do was bolt and make a run from the tension slowly escalating within the dark room.
I totally understood the sentiment.
“We haven’t got all day,” muttered a dark-haired Scotsman leaning against the far wall, but he was silenced by the morose glare of the blond man beside him.
Hands clapped down on my shoulders and I flinched. “Right then,” came a cheery voice from behind me as my hands curled into fists beneath the table. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get on with the show. Who wants to start?”
Nobody shared his enthusiasm. Across from me, the thin man flinched at each word, looking like he wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. I swallowed nervously as silence again permeated the room. Finally one large man leaning against a nearby wall pulled himself upright. Everyone else in the room rose slightly in attention, unconsciously deferring to his leadership. “Loki,” he rumbled, the thick Russian accent lending weight to his words, “now is not the time for your games.”
“If not now, Vasili, then when?”
I noticed several others in the room grit their teeth at the jovial reply. Vasili grunted, then looked across the table from me. “Doctor Marchand,” the large Russian murmured, “make your request.”
The thin man started, glancing blankly up at the Russian. The hands on my shoulders squeezed enough to get my attention. “Your turn.”
My turn? I half-turned toward the man behind me. “To do what?” I tensed as several sets of eyes in the room turned toward me.
“Translation, my dear. Dr. Marchand here is French.”
I gave the arms dealer behind me a sharp look. If this had been any other situation, I might also have given Lucas Hamilton a piece of my mind. I’d been born in Canada and spoke fluent French, but I didn’t like being forced into things. The dark-haired man behind me smiled placidly, quirking one eyebrow. His momentary glance about the room took in the other men before returning back to me – as if I needed a reminder.
I didn’t even know where I was or why I was there; this was the first time anyone had addressed me since we’d entered the room. I’d been given a seat while the others glared at one another, clearly trying to see who had the biggest…well. I faced the Frenchman, pursing my lips. “They say to make your request,” I translated in a dull voice. The pain of my fingernails biting into my palm was the only thing keeping me calm.
Marchand turned wide eyes at me, then licked his lips. His mouth worked for a moment, as if working up the courage, then he murmured, “I need help…smuggling medicines.”
“They’ll want more than that, Doctor,” I replied, trying to ignore the eyes on me. Those slim hands never left my shoulder, but for now their owner was as much the enemy as everyone else in the room. “Where is the medicine going?”
Defiance sparked in the man’s eyes for a brief moment, then died as he looked around the room. “To Africa. My hospital needs these supplies.”
I frowned. He sounded like an honest enough man, so why was he here? Probably the same reason I’m here, I thought, swallowing a bitter pill. Because I have no choice. “He wants to smuggle some medicine to Africa.”
“What medicines?”
“AIDS medication,” I replied after a brief pause, translating the reluctant answer from the Frenchman.
“Africa might be difficult,” Lucas murmured, and I translated. “Greasing all the right palms there can be an expensive proposition.”
“If you can get them to the Caribbean, he can take care of the rest.” My stomach roiled as I listened to myself speak, and I forced myself to breathe slowly. The urge to hyperventilate and panic was powerful. I glanced up to see some of the men eyeing me, and I turned my attention back to the table.
The blond man against the far wall whistled. “That’s expensive stuff,” he said, his voice a rough Australian accent. “Worth a lot on the black market too.”
When I translated this, the Frenchman became incensed. “He insists it’s for his village and surrounding areas,” I explained as the doctor continued to gesticulate wildly. “He isn’t going to sell any of it for profit.”
“Too bad.” The Australian’s laugh was an ugly sound. “He’d get top dollar for it, especially down in Africa.”
Doctor Marchand seemed to understand the gist of the conversation because his face turned red in self-righteous anger, but he stayed quiet. He sent an accusing gaze to me, as if I was the one who gave them the idea, and I glared back. I wanted to tell him that I was as much, if not more so, the victim here, but I doubted he’d believe me. I didn’t asked for this job, I thought silently, trying to shrug off the hands on my shoulders. Blame the slick-tongued snake behind me for that privilege.
The big Russian in charge turned to the man behind me. “You can do this, Loki?”
“Indeed.” Lucas moved to my side but his one hand stayed on my shoulder. I looked up to see his scarred face study everyone else in the room. “However,” he added, quirking an eyebrow, “I don’t think that’s the whole offer. Am I correct, gentlemen?”
“Right you are, mate.” The blond Australian stepped forward. “We’d like to add a bit of our own cargo to the lot, since you’d already be heading that way anyway.”
The doctor glanced up at the Australian, then turned to me. “What are they saying?” he asked in French. I held up a finger, silently asking him to wait, as the conversation continued around me.
“And what would you be transporting?” Loki asked.
“The usual.” Niall grinned. “May as well kill two birds with one stone with this little jaunt.”
Lucas eyed the blond man. “You realized this is only to the Caribbean, right?”
“Yup. I just need to get this lot out of the country; distribution should be easier after that.”
Loki nodded, as if that explained everything. “I’ll need a full inventory.”
The Australian man snapped his fingers, and a sheet of paper was passed across the table. Doctor Marchand followed the exchange, dark brows furrowed. Loki read the list and whistled. “Impressive. Valuable too.”