Page 2 of Snow

“What can I say, Andre. It gets easier with each load,” Brett replied, his voice laced with an air of arrogance.

“I’m assuming there were no issues with the handoff,” Andre asked, his French accent smooth and refined.

“My dear friend, I feel insulted that you even asked that,” Brett said, pretending to be offended by Andre’s comment.

Andre barked out a deep laugh. “I would never insult you, friend, unless you cross me. Then, I would do more than insult you.”

Brett grinned even though Andre couldn’t see him. Brett wasn’t stupid enough to betray the hand that practically feeds him.

Andre Matisse wasn’t a man to mess with. He was a broker in black-market arms deals.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Andre. As soon as the funds from this shipment hit the account, I’ll move it to your shell account.”

“Thank you. And how is our other investment coming along?”

Brett’s lips curled into a thin smile as he kept his eyes on the black water below. Andre was the person fronting the money for the secret project Brett was working on.

“It’s nearing completion. I have a few tweaks to make. I hope to conduct the final test this coming week.”

“Really?” Andre’s voice was a mix of uncertainty and surprise.

Brett leaned against the railing. “I’m serious. The test I ran a few weeks ago went well overall. There was just a slight hiccup with the release mechanism.”

“Hiccup?” Andre questioned.

“There was a delay longer than I liked between activating the sequence and the actual device releasing from the UUV. A few seconds may not sound like much, but for the product we plan to market, timing matters. I need the response to be immediate, predictable, and clean.”

“I agree. We can’t afford to market a half-assed product,” Andre said firmly. The people buying from us will be paying a small fortune for this technology and will expect perfection.”

“I hope to have good news for you within the week.”

“Very good. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

Brett ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He stood there leaning against the rail as he stared out over the open sea. His empire was growing right under the noses of the people he worked for. But soon he would have something far more valuable and destructive. Once buyers got word of the device he created, he would be raking in millions of dollars.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. For now, the darkness was still keeping his secrets.

CHAPTER TWO

Nova Hart pivoted on her bare foot, throwing a hard, fast jab into Joaquin’s mitt. He barely managed to block it before she shifted and twisted her body into a lightning-quick roundhouse kick that knocked him off balance.

“Holy hell, Nova!” Joaquin, her friend and kickboxing trainer, barked out as he regained his footing and blocked her next strike. “Are you trying to kill me today or what?”

Nova smirked, the corners of her lips tugging upward. She wore black spandex shorts that hugged her curves and a cropped lilac tank. The fabric was darkened with sweat from the intense workout. Her long, dark, curly hair was pulled back in a messy braid, though a few loose strands stuck to her forehead; she barely noticed. She was too locked in, focused on her fists and feet hitting their targets.

“Maybe if you didn’t leave yourself wide open, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to strike,” she teased, sending another vicious kick toward his side.

He blocked it, barely. “Jesus, you’re fast,” Joaquin grunted, and then laughed.

Nova bounced lightly on her toes, feeling the burn in her legs and the satisfying tightness of exertion in her arms. Sweat clung to her skin. Her body moved like a machine—focused, powerful, and alive.

This was where she belonged, here in the kickboxing ring, where she could be herself. Not sitting behind some polished mahogany desk, buried in boring corporate contracts filled with legal jargon that nobody really understood, and where her father barked orders and expected obedience.

But here in the ring, with her gloves up and her blood pumping, she could fight back, even if it was only against a punching bag or Joaquin, and not yet against the man who kept trying to script her entire life.

She threw another jab, followed by a front kick.

Joaquin dropped his pads and threw his hands up in surrender as he backed away. “Alright, I concede. I can’t keep up with you today,” he panted and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.