Page 46 of Isaac

I’m nervous despite all this being familiar territory. The only difference is that I didn’t need to pretend to be someone I’m not back on the battlefield. Here, I have to split myself in half.

An array of chairs, clean and new, forms a circle at the room's heart.

Isaac moves effortlessly across the space and eases into one. No words escape his lips. Silence is his companion today. His gaze skates over to his Rolex before getting lost in the enigmatic void of the nearest window. He's fixated on a hole gnawing at its wooden frame like it hides secrets only discernible to him.

Jeremy and Ricky are statues nearby, their hands lingering over cold, silent weapons. The rest of us latch onto the shadows while Seven is guarding the entrance leading to the stairs.

This feels heavy–critical to destiny itself.

And then the massive door at the very end of the room swings open and a parade of men file in.

The one to enter first is another brick-faced guy with an AK as if they all come from the same assembly line.

He is followed by the man I recognize instantly. His every line has been etched into my brain ever since Nicole showedme his photo. Solovey—an elder bleached by time who carries himself with dark authority even though he appears unarmed. He’s tall and fit with a growing belly and plump checks. He's nothing like his photographs I saw. His dark gray three-piece suit probably costs more than I make a year. Some things—even fabrics—just evoke wealth. Up next, is someone fresher-faced in comparison to Solovey, but his attire screams prestige as well. I deduce he’s not the lackey. He’s someone important since he doesn’t appear to be carrying a weapon. At least, not obvious.

The procession draws to its close when four more individuals step in—each armed to the teeth. They leave no doubts about their intent if things don’t go as planned.

"Isaac Thoreau," Solovey greets with a wolfish grin curling around his words. "Pleased to finally make acquaintance."

His approach makes the heavy atmosphere feel even more suffocating.

Solovey’s piercing eyes seem to see straight through me when he glances around the room right before sitting in an empty chair opposite Isaac.

"My son, Vlad," the Russian says, gesturing at the Fresh Face, who positions himself behind Solovey, hands in the pockets of his pinstriped pants. His gaze is just as cunning and unreadable as his father’s. It feels like fingers tracing along my vertebrae when I look at him.

"Vlad assists me with operations," Solovey explains.

And by operations, he of course means all the illegal shit he does. Since his political career back home has come to an end. Asshole got too cocky.

But I don’t have the luxury of letting my imagination play today. I focus on Isaac as he nods curtly at the Russian, acknowledging the information.

"We are a family business, just like you," Yuri supplies with a smile.

"Yes." Isaac’s voice is strained yet polite. And to the outsider that strain is probably not detectable, but I got to know him a little over these past few weeks. I can tell the difference. He sounds on edge. "I hope this meeting proves fruitful for both our organizations."

"Indeed." Yuri’s accent is thick and deliberate. "We have much to offer each other."

"We’ll see," Isaac says, emotionless. He wastes no time getting straight to the point. "So tell me, Mr. Solovey, why do you want to do business with us?"

"Our common friend, Mr. Avagyan, speaks highly of your team," Yuri answers smoothly, his accent lending a dangerous edge to his words. "He tells me you are efficient and most importantly, not under police surveillance."

Isaac's lips curl into a tight-lipped smile. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Yuri. I don't get in bed with people I don't know."

"Understandable," Yuri says with a nod. He makes a swift gesture to his men, and two more stone-faced goons carry in a large wooden box. They deposit it with an echoing thud onto the cold, concrete floor right smack in the middle of the chair-formed circle between Solovey and Isaac. All while Jeremy’s hand is on his Glock as if he’s ready to sprint into action any second.

"Perhaps our product will speak for itself," Solovey brags. "Top-notch quality. It would be a shame for you to pass up on such easy money."

From my corner at the back of the warehouse, I find myself unable to get a glimpse into the mysterious contents of the box. But damn, do I have a hunch.

The instant Jeremy strides forward and draws out an AR-15 from its confines, my premonition solidifies into crystal-clear certainty. I watch him inspecting every inch of the weapon withnarrowed eyes—fingers gently tracing over its sleek surface as he evaluates its weight and balance.

The vast warehouse absorbs any other noise, except for the distinct click of a loaded magazine being inserted into place, its sound bouncing off the concrete walls and broken glass.

"Not bad," Jeremy mutters begrudgingly putting the piece back in the box. Though it's clear he'd rather not admit it.

And then Isaac shifts in his chair, unsettling the silence around us. His severe gaze lands on my face, an undercurrent of unspoken expectation charging the air between us. Our eyes are locked for a brief moment, only long enough for me to understand what he wants when he abruptly gestures toward the box with a jerk of his chin.

I nod and I step forward, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares on me, the collective scrutiny of people that would kill me if they knew I was the law.

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