The Russian-accented voice called out to Alex in the apartment as she lifted a cold beer from the counter to take a swig. She'd first laughed when she first met her "partner" in crime. Honestly, who expects to actually meet a Russian arms-dealer like you see in the movies? Now, however, after nearly a year of business with the man he had become one of her closest friends.
The man in question, by the name of Nikolai Arsov, came out rocking his usual attire of black jeans and a very form fitting black muscle shirt that accented that wonderfully fit body of his that Alex sometimes caught herself staring at for too long at any one time.
"How the hell do you even know they'll make the delivery on time, Nik?" She questioned him. Her eyebrows furrowed.
"Not to worry about. They get 10 percent of what we get when we sell the guns to the drug dealers and gangs. If they get it to us on time."
"10 percent isn't that much..."
"With what the drug dealers especially are paying? They won't want to miss out on that kind of money. They'll probably just use it to funnel guns from Chechnya."
"Fair enough," Alex paused for a moment to check her watch. "Sorry to cut it short Nik, but I have to run."
"Not a problem," Nikolai's reply came out rushed as Alex walked up to give him a quick farewell hug and bolted out the door.
--
Alex paused in the doorway before heading out on the street. Making sure that nobody could see her, Alex opened up her cross-strap shoulder bag and drew out what was one of her actual legal handguns. Making sure it was still on safety and fully loaded, she slipped the small firearm back into her bag, closing the zipper and heading out the door.
The young woman was dressed in a lighter blue pair of jean shorts with a loose-fitting grey crop-top that exposed very little above her navel. The outfit was complete by a black cross-strap shoulder bag, a pair of brown-lensed gold-framed Aviator sunglasses, and a pair of DC black and white Hi-tops.
Overall the look gave her the air of youthfulness that many would have said belonged to her. Youthfulness she felt was long gone considering her work with many members of the criminal underworld of the Big Apple. Not to mention making her look incredibly sexy, too. She walked down the sidewalk to her car, a red 2013 Audi R8 that had been a gift from Nikolai. She liked the car, but it was nothing compared to her ever-beloved bike that was sitting locked-up tight in a garage owned by Nikolai. The man did a lot for her, so much that she could never repay him for. But as she sat in the drivers seat staring at a two-week old crack along the bottom of her windshield courtesy of a rock from the top of an SUV on the George Washington bridge, she didn't think he'd be able to fix that for her.
So she did what she was able to in that moment. The glove compartment was opened and sifted through until the woman produced a card with a name and number on it, given to her by a trusted acquaintance when he'd seen the crack in her windshield. Of course, the name wasn't particularly for the auto service but for far more illegal endeavors, but she'd think that the Spitz Rollins listed on the impromptu card would appreciate the extra business. She dialed the number on her smartphone, the words "Money is money," running through her mind.