Page 64

Fuck.

Heath was still settled into his chair across the room, arms crossed across his chest. “I’m not convinced.”

“I don’t need you to be convinced tonight,” Arlo said. “You just need to keep an open mind.”

“My mind is open. But my bullshit detector is also open.”

“Heath.” Arlo’s voice carried a rare edge. “We’ve been looking for the right person for months. Someone who’s smart, experienced, and comfortable with doing what needs to be done. He’s sitting right here.”

Cassandra shifted slightly across his feet. It had to be so fucking uncomfortable. What was all this costing her?

Not just the humiliation but to lie there and breathe and not react while a man with a friendly face talked about selling kids like it was a franchise opportunity. To hear him call the man she’d kissed a couple hours ago the “right person” to help them.

She said this was just roles. But she couldn’t be thinking that now. Not after what he’d said, what he was making her do. She had to hate him.

Ryder pulled himself back to the mission at hand. Her hating him was no more than he deserved.

“Talk me through the operation of the special product,” Ryder said. Calm. Professional. “We all know what we’re talking about here, and yeah, I don’t give a shit what we’re delivering as long as I get paid. What does the operation look like?”

Arlo glanced at Heath, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

“We don’t handle the acquisition. That’s a separate outfit. They assemble the product and deliver to our staging area outside Laredo. A man named Marcos runs that end. Once the product arrives at staging, we take possession.”

“How many products per shipment?”

“Depends. Six to eight per shipment. Sometimes more if the demand is high.”

Six to eight each time. Ryder’s jaw tightened a fraction, and he forced it to release. His hands stayed loose, resting on his thighs.

“Once we’ve got them, I handle the matching,” Arlo continued. “Every client has specifications. Age, appearance, temperament. Some want quiet. Some want other qualities. Point is, I match product to client so the premium holds. Happy clients come back. Happy clients refer.”

He was describing children the way a rancher described livestock. Sorting by traits. Matching to buyers. Repeat business.

“And transport?”

“That’s the critical window. Staging to handoff, about fourteen hours on the road.” Arlo was fully in his element now. Hands moving, voice animated, the pitch of a man who loved his work. “During those fourteen hours, the product is sometimes…uncooperative. Crying, fighting, shutting down. The younger product especially.”

Ryder breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth and kept his face impassive. It might have been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Leaping across the room and strangling Arlo wouldn’t do anything but get him and Cassie killed.

“We need someone riding along who can manage the product,” Arlo continued. “Move them quietly while keeping them in the condition the client specified⁠—”

“Without leaving marks,” Ryder finished for him.

“Now you’re getting it. Clients pay for a certain standard. If the product shows up damaged or marked up, we lose that client permanently.” Arlo pointed at him. “That’s where you come in. Anybody can use force. Keeping control without visible damage requires a specific kind of skill, and we know you’ve got it.”

A specific kind of skill. The kind that came from sitting across from captive human beings and learning exactly how much pressure to apply and exactly where so that nothing showed afterward.

Arlo was right. Ryder had years of practice. Years of getting good at something nobody should be good at.

“So you understand what we’re talking about,” Heath said from his chair. Not a question.

Yeah, fuckface. I understand you’re the worst scum on the planet. “I understand.”

“And you’re comfortable with it.”

Ryder looked at him. Held the gaze. “I’m comfortable with making money. Whatever the product is.”

Heath studied him for a long beat. This was it. Either Heath bought it or he didn’t.