Page 62 of Ruthless

"How do you know this Diego guy again?" I asked, checking my weapon for the third time.

"Shared interest in explosives and pretty men," Lo replied, straightening as headlights appeared in the distance. "Here they come. Try not to shoot anyone immediately, yeah?"

Vincent shifted closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine. The simple contact grounded me, a reminder of why we were taking these risks.

A battered Land Rover approached, stopping thirty yards away. The driver's door opened, and a man emerged, silhouetted against the fading light.

"That's Diego," Lo murmured.

I studied the approaching man, positioning myself slightly in front of Vincent. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the bouncy stride of someone perpetually excited about life. Tousled honey-brown curls caught the fading light, his megawatt smile visible even at this distance.

"Lorenzo!" Diego called, voice bright and musical, carrying a cheerful Andalusian accent. "My favorite tiny assassin!"

Lo grinned, tucking his knife away before striding forward to meet him. They embraced enthusiastically, Diego lifting Lo off his feet and spinning him around once.

"Diego Reyes, meet Luka Aleksandar," Lo said, gesturing toward me. "The one I told you about. And Dr. Vincent Matthews."

Diego bounded over, hand extended. "The infamous ferryman who broke his contract. And the therapist worth breaking it for. Epic romance, my friends!"

I kept my expression neutral, one hand reaching back to rest on Vincent's arm. "Word travels fast."

"Shall we take this inside? Less exposed. Plus, I thought I saw a spider near that old fuel tank and I'd rather not tempt fate."

He gestured toward the largest hangar, its massive doors partially open, revealing only darkness beyond. The hangar interior was better maintained than its exterior suggested. Soft lighting illuminated a small twin-engine plane in the center. It was sleek, unmarked, clearly modified for purposes beyond standard aviation.

Diego moved to a metal cabinet, extracting a box lined with copper mesh. "Phones. In here."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Faraday cage," he explained. "Insurance policy. My associate is... cautious."

I glanced at Lo, who nodded slightly. With reluctance, I placed my phone in the box, watching as Lo and Diego did the same. Vincent followed suit.

"Now strip," Diego said casually.

"Excuse me?" Vincent spoke for the first time.

"Need to check for wires. Tracking devices." Diego's expression remained professionally detached. "Nothing personal."

"Very personal from where I'm standing," I growled, stepping in front of Vincent. The thought of him exposed in front of a stranger made something possessive curl in my gut.

Lo was already unbuttoning his shirt. "Standard procedure, princess."

Reluctantly, I began removing my shirt, motioning for Vincent to do the same. But I kept my body angled to block Diego's view of Vincent.

Muttering curses in three languages, I stripped down to my boxers. Diego checked my clothes efficiently, then moved to Vincent next, his examination making my jaw clench with irrational territoriality. “Are we good?”

Diego handed our clothes back, and we started yanking them on. “For now, but I would advise against making any sudden moves. My associate is faster than you think he is.”

A figure materialized from the aircraft's shadow. Never seen him before, but my assassin's instincts screamed danger.

He was tall, lean muscle under a threadbare black tee that clung to his frame, with the cold confidence of someone who'd survived St. Petersburg's harshest winters. Worn black tactical pants hung low on sharp hips. A few tattoos marked his visible skin. His golden brown hair fell in waves over a severe undercut on one side. A single silver orthodox cross dangled from one ear, matched by a smallhoop through his eyebrow. His features were Slavic—high, sharp cheekbones, full lips curved into a permanent half-smirk, and eyes so pale blue they seemed almost colorless, like the eyes of a wolf in winter.

The katana strapped across his back seemed at odds with his Russian heritage, but he wore it like it belonged there. He moved like the blade was an extension of his spine.

The stranger took a drag of his cigarette, studying me through narrowed eyes. The silence stretched uncomfortably as he exhaled a perfect smoke ring.

"Jasper," Lo greeted him, breaking the tension. "Thanks for coming."

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