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At a little after6:30 PM local time, Addison “Arsenic” Leeds stepped out of the little bistro where she’d popped in for a coffee and a sandwich. She knew the image she presented from the cocktail dress down to her £400 shoes. Though not born into the peerage, she could carry herself as well as any lady, thanks to training in etiquette and protocol. Her ride waited for her, leaning against a motorcycle, a smirk on his ugly mug. With a jerk of his head toward the bike, he said, “Get on.”
He didn’t wait for her agreement, merely straddled the monstrous machine and gave her a smug look. She was hardly dressed to be riding such equipment, but never let it be said odd would stop her. Walking across the cobblestones with care, she refused to make a single misstep. She loosened the chain strap of her clutch then slung it across her body so her hands were free. Then she mounted the bike, uncaring that it bared her legs nearly to her crotch. Setting her heeled feet onto the footrests, she slid her arms around her mark’s waist and leaned into him. He put a hand over hers on his abdomen, then twisted and caught her mouth in a kiss so full of tongue, she barely felt his lips. Nipping him, she tried not to draw blood since she was supposed to be playful.
“Don’t mess up my lipstick. It’s bad enough you’re making me ride this beast.”
He laughed, then ran a hand along her thigh. “That’s not the only beast you’ll be riding tonight.”
She would not roll her eyes, nor would she curl her lip in absolute disgust at how he referred to himself. For his information, he was less a beast and more a trueprick. Instead, she merely smiled, then dropped one hand to his cock and gave him a good hard squeeze. His hiss of pained breath pulled a smile from her. “Can’t wait.”
After this next meeting, she wouldn’t have to. She could put a bullet in his brain and put a period to the end of this ugly chapter in Elite’s history. It’d taken her months to get him to this point. Months of allowing him to coax her into turning rogue against her own team, as if she would ever turn against her brother. Not that anyone understood her relationship with Kryptonite. In fact, Uranium griped repeatedly about him since he discovered the Elements’ involvement in the first place.
Arsenic didn’t let it stop her; her brother needed this mission accomplished. So, she would take care of it. He was a thinker and a code cracker—he looked at patterns and understood them. He just didn’t get people, or how dirty she sometimes had to get in order to get a mission done. She knew it all, and she’d been trained by the best.
Before the best turned on her and slammed the knife in her brother’s back.
“Problem?”
Santos “Uranium” Radomirov was still staring at her, so she gave him a bored look.
“Only that we’re still sitting here.” No sense in concentrating on what had happened before. It was done. Uranium nodded, then his motorbike came to life with a rumble. She secured herself once more against his back and held on as he accelerated out of the parking lot. It was late, it was dark, and the streets were slick with rainfall. Nothing she wore was going to keep her skin on her body if he decided to show off.
Bloody fantastic.
Thankfully, he didn’t seem intent on killing them both. Instead of heading deeper into the city as she’d expected, he turned the bike onto an old access road for a defunct community airport. The humid air and breeze from the ride would likely do a number on her hair. She had a hairband tucked away in her clutch. She and Uranium were supposed to be vacationing on a little island in Bermuda, when in reality, they were wasting time somewhere in Florida. He’d left her at the hotel at dawn, with only a note that said he would pick her up later. After hours of staring at the cheap paint on the wall, she’d made a tactical decision and did him a similar favor by leaving him a note to find.
It didn’t do him any harm; he’d located her well enough. He continued on the route, turning into the airport, then turned onto an adjunct road following a road toward an old hanger. The lack of lights, security, and anything resembling denied access told her this old airport wasn’t really in use anymore. Which made it the perfect location to bring in low-flying planes.
Perfect. She wouldn’t have to worry about getting her shoes muddy.
He pulled up outside the hanger, then waited for her to dismount before silencing the bike and parking it. Once off, he stripped the jacket, then dumped it across the seat. Uranium was a big man, a retired Marine—already dead, according to the US government—and he had the scars and marks to prove it. Half of his face had been disfigured. A member of the Elite Recon teams, he’d been in on all of the disasters that occurred to them, but what they hadn’t realized for the longest time was that the enemy had also turned him.
Turned, not before the disaster in Russia, but afterward. Unfortunately, Titanium’s methods hadn’t gone over well, not that anyone asked Arsenic for her opinion. It only mattered that Uranium began negotiations, then sold them out. He turned over intel about his own team, risking the lives of Copper, Zinc, and Nickel, to name a few.
Once he took her to the man pulling his strings, he would cost no one again—except the price of a bullet.
“If this is your idea of a date, it sucks. Just thought I should tell you.”
“It’s a really good thing I love your British accent, babe,” Uranium said as he sidled up to her then slapped a hand to her ass. Once he had a grip, he dragged her to him for another brutal, sloppy kiss. “Makes me hot when you talk to me like that.”
Linoleum made the man hot. She didn’t take it personally. The ease of his libido helped her do her job. Inside the hanger, he led her to a plane.
Bollocks. He intended for them to fly out without any gear. All she had in her clutch was some lipstick, a lighter, half a pack of cigarettes, and a single credit card. All useful enough, but the card was the most important. It was utterly untraceable—not even by her team or her brother.
The card remained from a cache dating back to her MI6 days, and one she’d brought for a specific purpose. Prior to leaving on their trip, she’d sent a message, and as long as that message was received, the credit card would become her lifeline.
“Surprise, babe. Hop on board.” He gave her ass another smack, and she added it to the long list of infractions she personally wanted to break his bones over. The fucktrumpet had this thing for inflicting pain, and she’d convinced him she enjoyed it. Was her own damn fault—men were so much more malleable via sex than any other method that she’d ever discovered.
Once on board, she found the private jet to be modest yet comfortable. They must’ve had a pilot, though she never saw any sign of him, courtesy of the cockpit hatch remaining closed. Once Uranium joined her, the door sealed and the plane began to taxi out of the hanger.
Choosing a seat away from him, Arsenic crossed one leg over the other, then looked across the aisle to where he glared at her. “Should I ask? I wouldn’t want to be overdressed wherever we’re going.”
“You don’t have to be dressed at all, babe,” he said, and his smile grew even more devious. “In fact, you can’t be dressed at all. They won’t allow anything you have on you to go with you.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt and stood. “You should tell the pilot to stop, then.”
Uranium stood abruptly, frowning. “What’s up?”
“These are expensive shoes. This frock cost a good deal more. The purse?” She held up her clutch. “A limited edition. Not giving up any of it to meet some bloke you think is special. So, open the door and let me off. You can go enjoy your romp without me.”