Page 8 of Power's Fall

Franco wasn’t sure who said it first because multiple people muttered the curse at the same time.

“The resort—remodeled, updated, and under a different name—has been reopened. Three members of my territory, all Turkish citizens, went to the resort recently and when they returned, received a blackmail letter. They elected not to pay because they are powerful. Safe enough because of that. Plus, they could claim the photo was manipulated.”

“So the blackmailer, either first or second generation, is still at the resort and looking for trinities.” Sophia spoke slowly, clearly thinking it through.

“There’s more,” Hande said again.

Eric folded his arms on the table and dropped his head onto them. That elicited a small chuckle from almost everyone that faded quickly when Hande spoke.

“When they didn’t pay, the blackmailer sent the demand to me.”

It took a minute for the ramifications to process, but once they did, there was a collective inhale.

“The blackmailer knows about the Masters’ Admiralty,” Colum said solemnly. “Knows not just that the society exists but about the structure and leadership. They knew their victims were members of the Ottoman territory, as well as who the Ottoman admiral is and how to contact her.” Colum gestured at Hande.

“We’re working on it,” Hande said quickly. “But none of my current security officers speak fluent Russian.”

“It sounds like this is a good first task,” Juliette said before Hande could counter. “But maybe not for the full MPF. Our member, the victim’s great-nephew, wants to be a part of any investigation,” Juliette cut in.

“Does he speak Russian?” Nikolett countered.

“No.”

Nikolett frowned. “Sending an American into Crimea right now is a bad idea.”

A few people stiffened, but Franco just smiled at his wife, who furrowed her brow in mock confusion. “Is it? Why? Please explain it to me. Possibly using small words.”

Nikolett’s gaze narrowed.

“Our man can go in on an academic visa,” Devon said. “There are sites in Crimea that relate to his field of study.”

“You want to send an academic to investigate?” Antonio asked in disbelief.

Arthur laughed softly, surprising everyone. “I’ll tell James you said that. And Karl.”

Antonio winced. “Please forget I said that.”

Franco wondered who James and Karl were. He would ask Colum about it later.

“He’s not unprepared for something like this. The academic we want to send in is retired Lieutenant Commander Montana Kingston, formerly of theUSS Monterey, a Florida-class sub,” Devon said in a flat voice.

Eric and Sophia exchanged a glance.

“There’s no such thing as a Florida-class submarine,” Sophia said slowly.

Devon just smiled. If his former employer knew he’d just casually name-dropped the top-secret submarine Montana had served on, Devon’s ass would be in Guantanamo Bay.

“Bloody hell.” Arthur tapped the fingers of his prosthetic hand on the table.

“So your man is skilled and dangerous.” Eric sat back.

“He’s a member of our strike team,” Devon agreed.

They actually called the group of former military badasses turned nerds the Warrior Scholars, but when compared to something like the “Spartan Guard,” the name didn’t sound all that cool or dangerous. “Strike team” was a better way to describe them in this situation.

The Warrior Scholars were all attending graduate school in Boston and lived in a shared house owned by the Trinity Masters. When Juliette needed something taken care of, the Warrior Scholars were who she sent.

When Montana came to them with evidence of what his great-uncle had been going through for half his life, he’d looked ready to either cry or murder someone. Montana wanted revenge for his family.

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