Maximum Exposure by Alison Kent - Smithson Group SG-5 10 - Maximum Exposure

somehow, or else Bebé’s rats had followed him home. He’d never told anyone where he lived. Not that the apartment would give anything away, but no. It had never been part of his cover.
    Tomás shook off whatever he was thinking and turned. The light from the desk lamp reflected off the lightning-bolt scar bisecting his jugular. His black eyes gleamed. “It’s happening Friday.”
    Friday. Christ. Today was Tuesday. Roman swallowed, his mind racing. He had to get to his team. They were good to go. They’d been waiting for this. But the more advance notice, the better.
    “What do you mean, Friday? I can’t be ready Friday.” Roland started to pace. “We’ve got a new collection going on display. I’ll be swamped getting set up for the arrival. You should have told me before today. It just can’t be done on such short notice—”
    Tomás stepped into Roman’s space, wrapped a hand around his windpipe, and squeezed. “What can’t be done is you getting away with running your cocksucking mouth, you got it?”
    Roman nodded, his Roland eyes wide with fear, his Roland grip weak on the other man’s wrist.
    “Good.” Tomás shoved him away. “Now, the collection you’ll be waiting on will be carefully secured to avoid any damage in transit. And I know how you feel about damage in transit, so you’re going to check each and every package with a fine-tooth comb, got it?”
    Another nod while Roman did the mental math. Livia had mentioned the designer’s living-room studio in his home in Little Havana. Carmen had asked Penny to schedule the delivery. He’d heard them talking on his way to the boss’s office on Monday.
    He’d go in early tomorrow, get the address. Tonight he’d arrange for one of his team to drop in and shop as soon as the boutique opened. He’d hand it off then.
    “What am I supposed to do with the boxes after we unpack the collection? It’ll be obvious the pieces aren’t all that’s inside. And getting the items out on display is our highest priority.”
    “Fuck your fucking collection.” This time Tomás used a switchblade for emphasis, nicking the tip of Roman’s chin. “The contents you need to worry about will look like foam packing bricks. You make sure to stack them nice and neat to be used again, comprende ?”
    Roman comprended all right, calculating the size of the shipping boxes the boutique was expecting and how much heroin could be safely squirreled away inside. “When will the…bricks be picked up?”
    “Don’t worry your fuzzy little head about that,” Tomás said, taking another look around and shaking his head before making his way to the door.
    “You’re not leaving them there. Not for anyone to find.”
    Tomás stopped, cocked his head, and glanced back but didn’t turn. “Are you telling me what I’m doing again? Why you telling me what I’m doing again, Green? Didn’t we have this conversation already? Do you want I take off more of your chin?”
    Roman kept silent, his alter ego too cowed to argue and he himself too busy ticking off all the things he needed to do.
    “I’m going now, Green. Don’t fuck up on Friday, or it’ll be the last fucking of any kind you do.” No one might have witnessed his arrival, but the entire complex heard Tomás slam the door and leave.
    Holding his T-shirt to his chin, Roman secured the locks, secured his gun, dropped into his industrial task chair, rolled up to his functional desk, and booted up the state-of-the-art computer.
    “What?” he barked when his cell phone rang.
    “That sort of greeting is not going to win you many friends or go far in making sure you keep the ones you have.”
    “Jodi.” He collapsed against the back of the chair. “I don’t have time to talk. Can’t this wait?”
    “I don’t think so, no. It’s about Thursday.”
    “What about Thursday?” He dropped the shirt, held the phone between his ear and shoulder, launched the innocuous-looking software program that would connect