Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"It's show time."

Jumping off the couch at the quiet baritone, I circle around to the bank of screens right as Whitlock slides through the adjoining suite door. He's across the room in a handful of brisk strides, and after snapping his laptop into the dock, his fingers fly across the keyboard. A few seconds later, the monitors blink to life.

Silent as a church mouse, Alice trails in a beat later and plops down in the chair next to Jasper. As we watch Aronov and his guards file through the ornate mahogany entry door of McCarty and Alice's target residence, she spins halfway around and shoots me a wide, Cheshire Cat grin.

"Hundred bucks says the library," she says, and when she bumps the man beside her, I don't miss the tiny smile that plays across Whitlock's lips as he continues to work.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"You'll see." She wags her brows and then nods to Whitlock. "Go ahead, cowboy, flip it over."

With a couple of keystrokes, the black and white checkerboard foyer on the center screen vanishes, and a palatial Victorian gentleman's room appears in its place. Rich, burled wood panels and dark oil paintings cover the walls. In the center, facing a large, intricately tiled fireplace, deep-cushioned sofas and chairs sit on top of strikingly complex parquet flooring. A massive, floor-to-ceiling bookcase occupies the far wall, filled with antique leather-bound books with gilded bindings. Twin, low-hanging chandeliers and coordinating table lamps cast the room in a warm, umber glow.

It's the poster child for heavy, masculine opulence, and it's not lost on me that Aronov's suffocating tastes run a solid one-hundred and eighty degrees away from Masen's light and modern bolt hole near Stephansplatz.

I'll take the bolt hole any day.

Dressed in his usual bespoke charcoal suit, Aronov crosses the room and parks in a leather armchair facing the entry. Unlike the congenial, flirtatious mask he wears with Rosalie and me, today his angled features are flinty and harsh, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that he's not a happy man.

"This isn't going to be pretty." Leaning back against the couch, I cross my arms over my chest as I watch Aronov's long, elegant fingers slowly curl around the armrests. "He's fucking pissed. Do we know who's he's meeting with?"

"We do," Whitlock replies, simultaneously pulling up a headshot of a man with a dark beard and matching short-cropped hair. Ash smudges his temples, putting him somewhere in his mid to late fifties. Stress lines crisscross his forehead, and a long, jagged scar cuts down his left cheek. "Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Ahmad Taeb."

"That's the arms dealer from before? The one Platt's been tracking?" I ask, studying the pale, almost eerie, gray-green eyes staring out of the screen.

"The very same. He's on a handful of Wanted lists, and Platt's people pin him as an ex-Quds Force commander. According to Dayan, it looks like he's still acting on their behalf." Whitlock grimaces. "I don't need to tell you who he's been shopping for."

"Wonderful." I peer down at Alice, where she's chewing on her thumbnail, and then back at the screens.

Aronov's guards take position against the walls. Two of them – Dmitri and Feliks – I recognize from the opera, as well as the past three nights of showy dinners and pricey drinks. Those two stand on either side of the entry in a display of casual idleness, but their features give them away. They're cold and hard, and the wary tension radiating throughout the room makes them twitchy.

A few moments later, Masen strolls in, hands in his pockets and clad in his signature uniform of dark-on-dark. Without saying a word, he targets the chair to Aronov's right and settles into a lazy sprawl. Unlike his boss and his men, Masen is a man untouched, silent and calm, completely unperturbed by the surroundings or the currents thickening the air.

If anything, he just looks bored.

But I know better than that.

Never mind the guards and the small arsenals slung across their chests. As I watch him hook an ankle over the opposite knee and slowly peruse the entry and the line of windows along the opposite wall, it's obvious that Masen's the dangerous one in this room.

Alice leans forward on her elbows. "Think Taeb is going to make it out of there?"

Whitlock and I answer in unison. "No."

On the screen, Aronov checks his wrist – by the face and fine leather band, yet another ridiculously expensive Patek Phillipe – and then looks over to Masen. "Chto Sasha skazal?"

"Yemu plevat'," Masen drawls, and a ghost of a smile teases his lips when he shrugs. "Yest' drugiye kliyenty, kotoryye budut platit' i u kotorykh ne budet problem."

"Khorosho."

Alice glances back at me. "What are they talking about?"

"I'm not sure," I tell her, watching Masen tuck his phone into the inside breast pocket of his leather jacket. "Aronov is asking about Sasha – Markovsky, I'm assuming – and Masen just told him Sasha doesn't give a shit and that there's other clients who'll pay and won't be a problem."

"Well, that doesn't sound good for our dealer, now does it?"

Before we can continue, right as the antique clock on the wall chimes ten, a trio of men walk into the room. Judging by the grizzled beards and dark-eyed glowers, the pair of bodyguards trailing Taeb are seasoned pros, but their gait and posture are off. Their movements are choppy and nervous, and the second they clear the entry and clock Aronov's men lining the walls, they might as well be fresh-faced recruits on their first field trip outside the wire.

"Mr. Taeb," Aronov purrs as he stands and extends his hand in greeting. Smiling that slick, oily smile of his, he motions to the couch beside him. "Thank you for joining us on such short notice."

Taeb's pale gaze laps the room, skipping over the guards, only to pause and narrow on Masen, before finally returning to Aronov. "Mr. Aronov," he says in heavily accented English. He ducks his head once in polite deference. "I was not expecting you personally."

"But of course." Aronov's smile widens, flashing the other man a row of pearly teeth. "I always make time for friends and clients such as yourself."

Aronov subtly taps his finger against the armrest of his chair to signal a black-suited attendant stationed by the door. Quick and efficient, the younger man sets out a traditional Persian spread of spiced black tea and pours from an ornate porcelain kettle into small, transparent estekan cups and saucers.

When the server offers Masen, uncaring of social niceties, he just waves him off, and I almost laugh at Aronov's split-second scowl.

"Maintaining relationships is so very important in our business," Aronov continues, eying Taeb over the delicate rim of his glass. He inhales a deep breath of aromatic steam and sighs before taking a sip. "Would you not agree?"

Taeb flinches. "Yes, certainly."

"Please, my friend," Aronov says, motioning to the service on the table. "Enjoy your tea."

In front of me, Alice lets out a low, almost-approving whistle. "Look at the body language. Listen to the pitch of his voice. That motherfucker's good," she mutters, glancing back at me. "He's like a cat toying with a mouse… B, Aronov's enjoying this."

"I know." My lips mash together. "What do you make of Masen?"

Alice shakes her head. "No clue, other than he's not really enthused about being there and he clearly gives no fucks if anyone knows it."

Whitlock looks over, but Alice bumps him again and answers before he can even open his mouth to ask. "Sure, the attitude might be annoying, but it's also probably why Aronov likes him." She taps her bottom lip. "He sees Masen as, if not an equal, close enough to it to keep around."

"Plus," I add. "He's very good at what he does."

One slim shoulder lifts, and Alice grins. "Well, there's that, too."

The next few minutes drag by in polite, stilted conversation before Aronov finally places his empty glass on the table beside him. He stares at the Iranian over steepled fingers.

"Now, Mr. Taeb," he says, utterly calm and low enough that Whitlock has to crank the amplification on the microphones. "I understand that you have some… concerns about the shipments."

"Your price is too high." Taeb's voice is loud and firm, but when he settles his cup on its saucer, his fingers give him away. They tremble, ever so slightly, just enough that the glass rattles in the silence.

Aronov's brows climb his forehead. "I must confess that I am confused." He draws out the words, and his head tilts as though he were genuinely intrigued. "The price was clear from the beginning. If the terms were not to your liking, why are such things surfacing only now?" His eyes turn dark and predatory, and he once again grips the armrests of his chair. Even with the distance and camera angle, I can see his knuckles stretch white.

"We–"

"After all," Aronov cuts in, almost crooning. "Half the inventory has been delivered, and it is my understanding that your… clients already have them in their possession." That smooth singsong turns gravelly, and Aronov's accent loses its aristocratic refinement. "In fact, Mr. Taeb, three days ago, I watched my rockets explode on the evening news."

Taeb jerks in his seat, but I'll give him credit. The man has a spine, and he fires back almost immediately. "Now that we have seen the weapons in action… it is clear they are inferior."

Aronov's jaw ticks. "You insult me."

"My apologies," Taeb says. His throat bobs beneath the collar of his oxford. "It is not my intention to offend."

The smile Aronov gives the other man is positively menacing. "Yet you have offended… spectacularly."

As the two men on the screen position and posture, I whisper to Whitlock. "Think there's any truth to what he's saying? That Aronov's selling second rate product?"

"No," Jasper murmurs back. "They probably thought they could coerce a lower price once they took possession. Standard procedure in the region. Saw that shit all the time back when I was working the Middle East desk." Shaking his head, Whitlock looks at the arms dealer with something almost akin to pity. "Taeb's minders set him up to take the hit once they realized Aronov doesn't fuck around like that."

"He's an idiot."

"Tell me about it."

Taeb's eyes flit to Masen and then back to Aronov. His lips curve. "I hear rumors that you have had some challenges with the Americans."

Aronov stills. "How interesting. Where might you have heard this rumor?"

"Come now, Mr. Aronov, we all have our sources." Taeb chuckles, but beneath the put-on show of humor and swagger, there's the unmistakable mark of fear.

I've heard it enough. It sounds like razor blades.

Taeb's forehead gleams with a heavy sheen of sweat. "I understand that they have sent several operatives against you."

"Yes, it is possible that we entertained some… unexpected visitors," Aronov replies, slick and smooth, as he crosses a leg over the opposite knee. "I assure you that their stay was brief, and of course, we made certain to return them to their rightful handlers, along with an appropriate message."

"I–"

"Did your rumors tell you this?" Aronov growls, low, threatening, and eerily cold. "Did they tell you how we desecrated their bodies while they still breathed? How they screamed and begged for death? Did your rumors and sources tell you how we broke them and took their tongues and later their heads?"

A shudder rolls down Taeb's frame before he can stop it. He swallows again but doesn't take the bait. Instead, squaring his shoulders, the arms dealer glares at Aronov and says something that grabs every thread of my attention. "I have also heard other rumors that your visitors were due to a hit you took out on Esme Platt's husband."

Masen's eyes flicker.

It's slight, an almost non-existent tell that only a handful of people would ever catch. I only see it because, not kidding, my stare is about to burn a hole through the screen. Without conscious direction, I grip the cushion against my back.

Waving a dismissive hand, Aronov laughs, and it's the quiet, chilling laugh of a psychopath. "Why would I do such a thing?" he asks. "If that were true, purposefully targeting the family of a very senior CIA official and a respected operative in his own right… that would be either very stupid, or very bold, do you not think?"

Taeb wipes his palms across his pant legs. "So, Carlisle Cullen is indeed dead then?"

A muscle jumps in Masen's cheek, another minute break in the passively bored facade.

"Come on," Whitlock mutters as he splits the screens, zooming in on each man. "Keep going. Tell us what we need to know."

When Aronov shoots the Iranian another one of those oily smiles, Taeb presses. "Do you not fear further retaliation? Do you actually believe that Platt will let you be?" He folds his hands neatly in his lap. "It would be such a shame for certain information to make it to their ears…" He shrugs. "But perhaps we could come to an understanding…"

Aronov arches a brow. "What kind of understanding would you propose?"

Taeb smiles. "Perhaps you would consider a… price adjustment for the order and for future arrangements. These are substantial transactions, and we have many, many opportunities to deploy your weapons."

"Fucking A," Alice mumbles, scrubbing her face. "He's stupid, but he's got balls."

Aronov throws his head back in moment of true amusement. "Mr. Taeb, I can assure you that the American CIA is of no concern whatsoever to me." Glancing over to Masen, he downright purrs. "Edward, what do you say? You know them better than I do, after all."

"No, they're of no consequence." The look Masen levels Taeb is flat and disinterested, just like his tone. He's so convincing that I almost miss the flickering flame of anger still in his eyes. "If Esme Platt or the CIA sends anyone else, they'll be dealt with, just like all the others."

A chill races down my spine.

"Now, unfortunately, I do have another meeting to attend," Aronov says as he stands. As he extends his hand to Taeb again, that congenial mask slides back into place, and he once more oozes charismatic charm and affability. "Perhaps we can work out a small… discount… just as friends." He gives the other man a friendly wink and then gestures to Masen. "My associate here will handle any further negotiations."

Without waiting for Taeb's response, Aronov steps toward the door. Halfway there, the rap of his heels ceases as he pauses. He turns back to Masen, and the curl of his lips is bone-chilling.

"Edward," he says, low and deathly cold. "Ubey yego."

Shit.

Aronov's men fall in behind him as he exits the room and then the residence itself. The moment the front door thumps shut, reverberating through the villa, Masen stands and walks over to a small, discreet wet bar hidden inside one of the wall panels. He grabs one of the crystal decanters and pours two fingers of what looks to be Scotch into a matching glass before offering the same to the man on the couch. "Care for something a little stronger than tea?"

Taeb shakes his head. The folded hands in his lap dry wash in nervous agitation. "Thank you, but I prefer to keep my wits."

A soft laugh spills off Masen's lips. "Then you shouldn't have come here today." He takes a drink, wincing at the burn. "You shouldn't have tried to renegotiate your contract."

Taeb's responding smile is as dry as the desert. "Mr. Masen, I think we both know that was not my decision to make." When Masen doesn't reply, Taeb continues. "You and I, we understand how the world works."

"Yes, we do." Leaning back against the wall panel, Masen studies the other man. His features betray absolutely nothing, yet I, as well as Taeb, know exactly what's coming next. "And your bosses made a grave mistake… one that Aro is willing to forgive once there has been recompense."

As Taeb opens his mouth to reply, Masen slugs back the rest of his Scotch. Crystal clatters against the bar as he slams down the glass. In a smooth, lightning-fast move, he reaches inside his leather jacket and whips out a sleek, black Glock, fitted with a modified cylindrical suppressor.

Masen's so quick that Taeb's guards don't even have time to blink.

Two pops shatter the silence.

There's a beat of mute surprise, and then crimson blooms appear dead center in each of their chests. As if in slow motion, one of the guards manages to lift his weapon, but another shot rips through the air and shreds his heart. The guard stumbles back and slides down the wall, leaving behind twin red streaks. Pools of blood seep onto the parquet flooring.

Masen spares Taeb a final, almost-bored glance before tapping him square between the eyes.

"Fuck, that's one cold son of a bitch," Whitlock says, as we watch Masen snap a photo of Taeb's body and type out a quick text. "Motherfucker's fast, too." He shoots me an inscrutable look. "As fast as you."

I give him a bland smile at the compliment and then peek down to Alice, who's studying Masen like he's some kind of perfect puzzle.

"What did you pick up from all that?" I ask, shoving away from the couch to pace the room. "Did I hear what I think I heard? Or rather, what I didn't hear?"

Alice's dark eyes churn and spark. "I think Masen has secrets."

"And?"

"I think Carlisle Cullen is still alive."

.

.

.

Notes:

Russian (transliterated):

Chto Sasha skazal?: What did Sasha say?

Yemu plevat': He doesn't care / he doesn't give a shit

Yest' drugiye kliyenty, kotoryye budut platit' i u kotorykh ne budet problem: There are other clients who will pay and who won't be a problem

Khorosho: Good

Ubey yego: Kill him

Glossary:

Quds Force: branch of Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) that specializes in unconventional warfare and intelligence operations. The organization is responsible for extraterritorial operations and supports non-state actors in many countries, including Hezbollah, Hamas, Yemeni Houthis, and Shia militias in Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan. The United States and other countries have designated the IRGC and Quds Force as a Foreign Terrorist Organization

Estekan: small, transparent glasses used to serve (mostly) black tea in Iran. Tea is kind of a big deal in Iran, and Iranian tea culture is heavily influenced by the Russian and Central Asian tea cultures.