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“You think there’s a better term?”
“How about human beings?”
She ignores me. “The more innocent, the higher the price tag. Not that immoral bastards like yourself don’t go for a pretty penny, but the way we make the most money here is with innocents.”
“Does it bother you?” I ask, curious.
She shrugs. “I can’t afford to feel bad for them, and it’s been a long time since empathy was in my repertoire of emotion. They were all stupid enough to get caught, and this is life. They pay the price.”
“Savage.”
Her jaw tightens. “I was stupid enough once, too.”
I think back to what I know of her childhood, of the years following her sixteenth birthday when she disappeared completely before resurfacing years later as Ginger Russell instead of Galina Pashkina. Maybe I was wrong about my assumptions of where she spent those years. From that comment, I can’t help but wonder if she had her own stint with traffickers. Not that it makes a difference, but interesting if true.
“What does this have to do with the contract?”
“I’m just getting to that. What do you know about organ transplants? More specifically, the need for them in countries around the world?” she asks.
I sit forward, putting my elbows on my knees.
“Not much, but a bit,” I tell her. “I’ve done enough black-market jobs for organs before. Always tight timelines and schedules, obviously. Not my usual bag, but I’ve been around that block a few times. What about it?”
She nods. “Okay. And what if there was more than one organ? What if there were dozens, needing to be collected on a specific schedule and timeline, all at once from different people? Not only that, but specific people, organs, blood types … you get the picture.”
I sit back in the chair, considering my response. “Then that would be a bigger job than I’ve done.”
She nods again, and it's then I notice the thrum of anticipation coursing under her skin. The glow to her face as she speaks about her contract, her job.Something she actually cares about, I muse.
“It’s a bigger job than anyone’s done,” she admits. “And it’s a job I’ve signed on for. If we can pull it off….”
She trails off. I wave a hand to encourage her to continue.
“If we can pull it off, it’ll mean the start of a transition to organs, instead of live donors and humans purchased purely for slaughter. They’ll be used to save others, if nothing else. Not just innocents. There are some … political angles, too. If we do it, it’ll mean an opportunity for legitimacy. Some higher up people willing to give us a real shot if we can prove ourselves here. We still wouldn’t be, on paper, a legitimate agency, but we would be supplying large amounts of organs to people who can protect us. A way into the grey, at least.”
“We?” I inquire, and she turns to me, holding her hands up.
“All of it,” she answers. “CASH-ULTY, me, Kris. It’s all the same.”
I nod thoughtfully, processing this before speaking.
“And pretty boy? What is he to you?”
Mirth sparkles in her eyes. “Jealous, Sin? I didn’t think you were the type, not that you have any rights.”
I fold my arms over my chest before demanding, “Who is he to you?”
She looks at me a beat, presumably noting the seriousness on my face, at the question. I may be her fucking lapdog for now, but that doesn’t happen without a measure of trust. I need to know who I’m working with. Even though I know his past, I need to hear it from her. To know she trusts me.
“My brother,” she finally admits. “We built this thing together. I run it, he is in charge of security.”
At least she admitted it.
“And you think he’s doing a good job?” I can’t resist, and her lips tighten.
“Enough of this,” she says sharply, sitting up tall and straightening the papers in front of her. “Whatever I decide to get you to do around here, it won’t be this shit. So, kindly fuck off.”
My mouth curves up, but I don’t say anything else, leaning back in my chair. The expression on my face, my posture, it all shows a man who is laid back, content with riling the woman in front of him. Inside, though the wheels are turning rapidly.
