Page 47 of Reclaiming Adelaide

Goddammit.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” I walked into the garage and slammed the door behind me.

I wouldn’t allow my dick to lead me around. I had more self-control than that.

So why was it so difficult to stay mad at her?

Sliding into my car, I backed down my driveway, then took off to a discreet meeting location my team had used before. I glanced at the manila folder sitting in the seat beside me with my terms printed inside. If they didn’t accept them, there was no telling what our next steps would be, other than I wouldn’t allow them to have her.

Not when there was a potential… My car erupted with ringing and announced the caller.

“Tonk. I’m on my way.”

“We’re positioned. I brought everyone.”

And no doubt they had done the same.

It was precautionary.

People were less likely to draw their weapon as a show of force if they knew the opposition had them, too. It’s why mass shooters chose targets with the knowledge they wouldn’t get fired on.

Cowards.

“I won’t ask you how you feel about this…”

“Not good.”

I chuckled low and quiet—the motion setting me back in my seat as I switched hands on the steering wheel, then shook out my healing, but still injured, hand.

“Dealing with any sort of mercenary is a risk.”

They all lived by their own code, like pirates. Although, I’d say pirates were a bit more lawless than mercenaries. At least they followed their leader and didn’t run mutinies.

“I’m pulling up.”

Driving through the security gate, I found the empty hanger which housed an old millionaire’s plane who’d left for a lengthy vacation.

There were three large black trucks parked in front of the wide-open hangar, and next to that was Tonk’s vehicle. I pulled in beside his.

Stepping out with my folder in hand, a murmur of chatter filtered through the building where I was headed.

I counted sixteen men, all dressed in swat attire.

“Seems a bit excessive for a peace talk,” I said as I walked through the doors towards their huddle.

“You can never be too cautious.”

His underlying accent would deceive even the most well-spoken American. In fact, you wouldn’t know where to place it. He could’ve passed for a tanned Jersey native, minus the obnoxious attitude some had.

“Sarkis?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s get started.”

“Awful lot of work for a girl.”

“Here,” I said, handing him the folder. “This outlines the terms of our deal.”

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