The warehouse smelled like oil and rust, overlaid with the acrid tang of gunpowder residue that never quite left places like this. I'd been coming to this particular location since I was sixteen—back when my father still thought he could mold me into something that resembled a legitimate business person. That delusion hadn't lasted long.
Now, at thirty-two, I knew exactly what I was. And I knew what places like this were for.
Dmitri Volkov sat across from me at a metal table that had seen better decades, his bulk spilling over the edges of a chair that creaked ominously beneath him. Two of his men flanked him—standard protocol. My own soldiers lined the walls, Marco was stationed closest to the door. The Russian arms dealer had been reliable for five years. Reliable, that is, until three
