Page 45 of Red Fury

“You mean he likes to wave his cock around?” I smile.

Webb chuckles. “Something like that.”

The server comes back a few minutes later, and the waiting continues.

Another twenty minutes crawl by before a different man in an expensive suit appears. “Mr. Kozlov will see you now.”

Thank fuck!

Webb tosses his empty soda can in the trash, and we leave.

The elevator ride to the top floor is silent. When the doors open, I note that the entire floor seems to be one enormous office suite, with modern lines and state-of-the-art everything.

We’re frisked again, this time with electronic devices that sweep for bugs and recording equipment. Only after we’re deemed clean are we escorted to a set of doors.

The office beyond is bigger than most people’s apartments. Expansive windows offer a view of Chicago that must have cost millions. It’s impressive, but all I can think about is shifting and flying. It would be amazing from up here.

I pull myself together, getting my first look at the man himself.

Behind a huge desk that could double as an aircraft carrier sits Roman Kozlov. He’s more impressive in person.

Even though he remains seated, I can tell that he’s big by human standards, almost as tall and built as I am. With broad shoulders, dark hair, and enough tattoos visible at his collar, on his hands and wrists to tell a story. He has an interesting scar on his neck that mars one of the darker tattoos. I wonder whathappened there. It looks like someone cut him up pretty bad. I’m shocked he even survived.

His suit fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body, and the diamond-encrusted cufflinks catch the light when he moves. The Rolex on his wrist has my brows rising for a moment before I school my expression. I note that his cologne is also on the heavy side.

“Davayte nachnem,” he barks to someone in another room who answers in the same language before closing the door.

Based on my Google search of the males, I’m sure it’s Russian. I suddenly wish I’d watched more television. I really do need to immerse myself more in human ways.

“Gentlemen, sit.” He switches to perfect American English. His voice is deep.

There’s no apology for keeping us waiting. No pleasantries. He doesn’t even get up from behind his desk.

We do as he instructs.

“Thank you so much for changing your mind and agreeing to see us,” Webb says with enthusiasm.

Kozlov doesn’t say anything; he leans back in his seat, assessing us.

“This is one of my employees, Damien Marsh,” Webb goes on, gesturing toward me.

Kozlov’s gaze moves my way before going back to Webb.

“So, you came crawling back, Laurence,” he says. “Why are you here? What does the Secretary need now?” He leans forward in his chair, fixing us with calculating eyes. “You should know that arms are purely a sideline business for me. One I’m considering leaving behind.”

Webb laughs like it’s a big joke. “Come on, Mr. Kozlov. Arms and ammunition are big money. You’d be crazy to leave that on the table.”

Kozlov doesn’t laugh. His expression doesn’t change at all. “I’m a busy man, Laurence. Get to the point. What do you want? The last time you placed an order, it got canceled at the last minute. This caused problems with my suppliers. I looked like a fool. I hate having egg on my face.” His voice drops to something that makes my dragon stir uneasily. “It pissed me off.”

Webb swallows hard, his earlier bravado evaporating. “Budget cuts, you understand. Government red tape. But it won’t happen again. We have the budget this time, already set aside. We’re fully committed. You have my word.”

“What do you need?”

The question hangs in the air. Webb takes a deep breath, and I can smell the nervous sweat on him.

“Nuclear weapons,” he says. “Something powerful enough to blow up a small country. Or, as it stands, two small countries.”

Crap!