Page 83 of Gilded Saint

“We translated the data. Nothing will trace to you.”

“Good,” I say, but it’s bullshit. The bust will trace to me simply because I am one of the few with access. I rap my knuckles against the table as a topic transition. I have a flight out of Heathrow and little time. “Tensions between the syndicate and Lupi Grigi are a live wire. Ironically, it mostly has to do with my arrangement.”

“Your illegal nuptials?”

“It’s a clusterfuck. Falcon plans on taking out theIrina. So leave that one alone.”

“If Falcon takes them out, I doubt the paper trail will lead to a prison sentence.”

“Correct.” The former capo who pissed off Nick will never get out of prison alive. “But that’s not the goal this time around.”

Nomad raises one smooth eyebrow, asking for an explanation.

“He’s hoping the Russians get pissed at their incompetence. Wants to weaken the wolves. Replace the head of the pack. He doesn’t take kindly to them drugging his sister. He’s cutting them where it hurts the most. Speaking their language.”

“Might they pull out?” He’s asking if the Lupi Grigi, the gray wolves, will break ties with the syndicate.

“And be at odds with every other family? Put themselves in unhindered competition against every single South American cartel?” He blinks comprehension. “But it’ll likely get nasty. If you get wind they’re looking to buy from another source, I’d appreciate the heads up.”

“Are you being targeted?”

“Possibly.” A memory of Willow being held at gunpoint hits with the force of an adrenaline injection, and my fingers curl into a fist.

“You think it’s time to eject? Might look mafia-related. It’s been, what…three years?”

“Five.” I grit the answer out, annoyed my half-cocked so-called handler can’t keep up.

My gaze roams the flat white ceiling. This addition to St. Martin-in-the-Fields has little character. We could be sitting in a conference room with a glass window overlooking an interior courtyard in any building in America.

“You’re going to bust all five ships. Well, four, minus theIrina?” My request for confirmation is born partially out of a need to know the plan, but also because I’ve been on too many ops where they sat on the intel.

“Algeciraswas pulled by the Japanese last night. Hasn’t hit the news yet.”

“That’s fast.”

“Exited international waters first.”

Normally, matters like this are handled more delicately. We’ve tracked shipments via satellite and let land forces take over. We’ve even let shipments change hands successfully and busted storage locations a month after delivery. And sometimes, if the exchange met G8 purposes, we let them be.

“What’s going on?”

“China’s on the move.”

“Edging toward a world war.” It’s a statement. It’s the fear that led me to sacrifice everything five years ago. The CIA determined the syndicate pulled strings across eight sectors and every developed nation. And I had the opportunity to join them. I consider recent meetings and communications. “Work hasn’t ticked up. There’s nothing to indicate?—”

“You didn’t negotiate these.” He points to his phone and the packing list I sent him.

He’s right. That product is being moved by Lupi Grigi ships, and yet the syndicate had no purchasing role. At least, I didn’t.

“You’ve had a proper good time. If you want to teach the masterclass, you’ve got to know when to call it.”

“Know when to fold ’em?” I ask, correcting the Swiss Brit.

“Keen on poker?” he asks, clearly not getting me.

“Kenny Rogers.” I scratch my head, digging into the areas where the hat band holds firmly. “Kenny Rogers is as American as apple pie.”

“Is that right? I’m not sure I’d recognize the chap.”

---