The bag of drugs felt heavy in my hand, not because of the weight, but because of the filth inside.
I tossed it onto the glass table in the VIP suite. It landed with a heavy thud next to Nathaniel's whiskey glass.
"Delivery complete," I said. "Minus the surcharge."
Nathaniel opened the bag. He glanced at the white powder, then nodded. He looked pleased. Like a child who just got the toy he wanted.
"And the bikers?" he asked.
"Recovering. Or filing for disability."
"Excellent." Nathaniel stood up. He walked over to the window that overlooked the empty Lounge. "You've proven you can handle street trash, Abel. But the gala… the gala requires a different caliber of security."
He gestured to the door.
Three men walked in.
They weren't Adrian's thugs. They weren't bikers in leather vests. These men wore tactical gray fatigues. They moved with the silent, predatory grace of trained killers. No wasted movement. No breathing sounds.
Mercenaries.
