Free Black Widow by Cliff Ryder Page A

their skills, contacts, and a lot of Russian hardware with them. "Keep your hands to yourself. This jacket is Italian. Very expensive."
    The man reached the third-floor landing. Plastic cuffs bound his hands behind his back. He was of medium height, overweight and in his early forties. Black curls framed his swarthy face. Despite the ill treatment, he still smiled and acted like he was a prince.
    "Mr. Ivanov," Taburova greeted him. Ivanov came to a stop in front of Taburova.
    "Not exactly the welcome I was expecting," Ivanov responded, drawing himself up to his full height and trying to look composed while one of the men held a pistol to his temple, "but I can work with this."
    "Good," Taburova said. "So can I."
    "I have to tell you," Ivanov said, "this kind of behavior isn't going to reduce the price of those weapons you want."
    "I know that." Taburova stared at the man. "You and your partner, Pasternak, have remained adamant in that matter."
    Ivanov grinned. "It is — how do the Americans put it? — the price of doing business, yes?"
    "Yes. But you changed the price of those weapons after our negotiations ended."
    The chill in Taburova's words chipped some of the confidence from IvanoVs face. The black-market weapons dealer swallowed hard. "Things have changed."
    "No. Only the price."
    "We are being fair."
    "I disagree."
    "The market has changed. The weapons you have offered to buy could be sold somewhere else. You could make a profit simply by turning around and selling them for more than we're charging you."
    "I'm not going to do that. Just as I'm not going to agree to this new price."
    "That's too bad."
    Taburova scowled at the man and reined in his anger. "We had a deal."
    "The price increase is only a little. What you want is very expensive to begin with."
    "I'm willing to pay a fair price."
    Ivanov shrugged expansively. The lines of the expensive Italian jacket automatically fell back into place. "I'm afraid you're going to have to pay our price."
    Taburova nodded to the man holding the pistol to the arms dealer's head. Without hesitation, the man shot Ivanov.
    A surprised look filled IvanoVs face as the bullet cored through his brain behind his eyes. The dead man dropped to the floor and kicked spasmodically for a short time.
    While he waited for the nerve spasms to pass, Taburova plucked IvanoVs phone from inside his jacket and punched in the number he had for Anton Pasternak. The phone rang only once at the other end.
    "Emile, did you get the price we wanted from those rebels?" a calm voice asked.
    "No," Taburova answered. "We're going to renegotiate the deal."
    Pasternak was silent for a brief time. "No, we're not. Our price is fair. We have a profit margin that must be met."
    "The nature of your business is that you don't always know your clientele. Unfortunately they often get to know you."
    "Put Emile on the phone."
    "Your friend can't come to the phone, I'm afraid."
    "Then I'm going to hang up and he'll walk away."
    "He's not going to walk anywhere." Taburova gestured to the corpse on the floor.
    His bodyguards picked up the dead man and carried him to the window. At Taburova's direction, they threw their burden through the window. The corpse toppled silently through the darkness, arms and legs flopping. The body struck the pavement only a few feet from the car. One of the bodyguards tossed a flare toward the ground.
    When the flare went off, the bright light scraped the shadows from the body and revealed the dead man lying on the ground. One of his arms was bent impossibly behind him.
    "Are you still there?" Taburova asked.
    "No," the man whispered. He jerked the car into gear and sped forward, narrowly avoiding his dead business partner.
    "I want my weapons," Taburova said. "If I don't have them soon, you're a dead man."
    The driver made no reply. The car shot through the narrow streets and banged off a wall in a shower of sparks before it disappeared.
    Taburova pocketed the phone.
    "Sir," one of the