play and prime selection.
Dragan took his time, turning his head with an admiring smile on his lips. He was actually taking stock of the layout through a pair of five-hundred-dollar sunglasses that were tinted just enough to hide his eyes, but allow clear vision.
Logan was doing the same from behind a pair of iconic-looking Oakleys most people associated with modern security.
Once Dragan had drawn a gaggle of attention from the pool of beauties, he strode confidently toward three women holding martini glasses. Cookie cutter babes, all dressed in designer chic right down to exquisite jeweled and feathered masks that covered the top halves of their faces.
The Trophy Room was a private—and secret—venue owned by three international businessmen. Their hand-selected stable of women were brought in from all over the world, including some from this country.
The mask indicated availability.
Once a deal was struck, the mask came off, which prevented confusion and allowed the predatorial male to show off his “catch.”
Dragan spoke with a smooth Russian accent. “Good evening, ladies.”
While Logan’s partner did his job of making an entrance and charming the women, Logan moved to a quiet spot at the end of the thirty-foot black granite bar. He picked a position close enough to keep an eye on Dragan’s back and observe the room at the same time.
The Banker had said to arrive early and his woman would contact Dragan before 0030 hours. But the bastard wouldn’t commit to a code message that would have made it simple to confirm who the correct woman was. The Banker was known for playing games until you were accepted inside his circle of mercenaries. He felt that any operative worth his salt should be able to spot a contact inside a room full of prostitutes.
He had a point.
It still pissed off Logan.
A muscle twitched between his shoulder blades. Would the Banker really show himself when the time came? Logan hadn’t found anyone within the Banker’s circle of resources, but the Banker had been credited with enough successful attacks to prove he hired capable muscle.
Logan knew of two mercs who’d tried to sign on and failed the Banker’s initial tests.
Failure coming in the form of torture, then death.
Logan’s failure would put his men at risk and leave his brother Yuri to die in a Russian prison where he was being held. Held was an innocuous term for what Yuri might be suffering at the moment.
Worry fisted in his gut, but Logan had to force it away and stay on task. If anything went wrong tonight, he could forget getting a second chance at a meeting, based on the Banker’s known MO. No, this was his one opportunity to capture the head of a snake that slithered through the world, leaving a swath of destruction everywhere it went.
That snake had to be handed over alive in trade for Yuri.
A woman in a sweeping, deep-blue gown strolled up to Logan. Brunette hair fell to her waist and the design on her mask matched a swirl of rhinestones down the front of her dress, drawing his eye to the cleavage on display. He had the advantage of taking her in without notice from behind his dark glasses. And she had a lot of fine real estate, but he would have expected the Banker to at least send a statuesque blonde, based on the rumors Logan’s team had leaked about Dragan’s female of choice.
Not a five-foot-four, dark-haired hooker.
Full lips painted cherry red smiled at him. “Would you like something to drink or is alcohol off limits when you’re working?”
He wasn’t picking up anything from this woman that registered needle movement on his operative meter. Would the Banker send a novice? Logan didn’t think so. This woman was only looking for a shortcut to the man with the money.
Dragan.
Logan kept his head turned toward Dragan, but watched her out of the corner of his eye when he answered. “No, thank you.”
Her smile slipped. She glanced over her shoulder to where Dragan held court. “I’ll have a
Richard Ellis Preston Jr.