Page 62 of Protection (Mobsters + Billionaires 2)
“And Ryder is your beautifully scary IT guru, yes? The one with all the intriguing hardware?” she asks, leaning in.
Huh.
“Why do you want to know?”
She shrugs as though the answer is unimportant, but I saw what I saw.
“Then Hopper is correct,” she says. “They will not succeed in breaching her security. Your problem, aside from the fact that the Russians are escalating, is that there’s a deal on the table with the Indian government, and Dr. Laghari has not agreed to the terms. The Russians are not happy about the delay.”
“If they can’t steal the specs digitally, it’ll be easier for them to walk into a production facility and take it,” I reason, hating how much sense that makes.
“You may have noticed that Northern India is a lot closer to Russia than New York,” she says dryly.
“What about the Indian government? Are they aware of the Russian threat?”
She winks as though I’ve accidentally stumbled onto the truth. “Yes, and I find what they’re doing rather interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re refusing to work within Dr. Laghari’s parameters.”
“Yes, I remember. They won’t agree to the working conditions.”
“Have you read the agreement in its entirety, Mr. Edgerton?”
“No.”
“In addition to the working conditions, there are a number of clauses about security, both physical and intellectual, that require the Indian government to provide protection in case of invasion.”
“Let me guess. If India refuses on the grounds of worker-safety protocols, they can’t piss off the Russians by agreeing to provide security forces to protect the production facilities.”
“You are very smart, Mr. Edgerton.”
I curse and send Hopper a look. He nods.
Turning back to the woman, I ask, “So all of this has been about keeping the polymer out of Russian hands?”
“Simple answer: yes. More nuanced answer: yes, and I enjoy fucking the Russian government in the ass. Also, if we can keep Dr. Laghari alive while doing so, that would make my sister very happy.”
“Your sister?”
She smiles, and I curse under my breath, immediately recognizing the similarities to Mads’ favorite barista.
“Cat?” I verify.
Olga smiles. “It was clever what you did with the skinny man. Cat texted me the second she saw that horrible jacket from across the street.”
I remind myself to thank Luca for letting us use Holden as a stand-in.
“We still don’t know what agency you’re from,” Hopper notes.
Olga taps her finger to her mouth, thinking about it, then holds up the peace sign before slightly angling it. On the inside of her pointer finger is a small tattoo, an abstract line drawing of a skull with a sunflower bursting through it.
“You’re NB?” I ask, referring to a Ukrainian black ops organization, loosely translated as Seeds of the Motherland. It’s newer, almost entirely female, and very dangerous.
She stays quiet.
“Can I assume Cat has the same tattoo on her finger?”
Still silent, she winks at me.
“Who knows you’re here?”
“Just Cat. No one else.”
