Page 104 of Gilded Saint

A successful strategist deals in solid business fundamentals. But some mergers and deals need greasing. Moscow rules apply. Old-fashionedkompromatsboast a high success rate, especially among politicians. Even so, all the world’s problems can’t be solved with talk. No, sometimes people need to die.

I check my wrist, wondering how much longer the priest will jabber.

Chapter35

Thirteen Days Earlier

Sam; aka Leo; aka Saint

“What the hell do you mean, she’s dead?”

It’s a good thing Jack Sullivan is thousands of miles away, speaking on video, because if he was in the room with me, I might kill him with my bare hands.

“They called off the rescue. You’re both presumed dead.”

“Why the fuck would they call off the search?”

“You don’t keep up with the weather, do you?”

It’s nighttime, and we’re in international waters. A trawler pulled us from the river and took us out into the ocean, where we transferred to a yacht.

Willow’s washing the Thames off her in an onboard suite.

“What weather?” We’re tossing about. Waves are high. It’s raining.

“A cyclone’s about to hit. It’s one reason we moved up the timeline. They won’t risk rescuers. They’ll assume your bodies washed out to sea, and a search for the wreck—and, well, your bodies—will resume after the storm passes.”

“Well, they’re gonna find her alive. Let’s come up with a story. Plant someone to say he found her and she’s okay. Amnesia. Doesn’t know what happened. You can find her in a day or two.”

“I thought you were on board with this plan.” Jack’s warning me. I hear it, and he is my superior, but he’s also the guy who got me into this mess.

“With my extraction? Yes. Willow wasn’t supposed to be a part of it. She’s supposed to be a widow.”

“The extraction plans were for both of you.”

Nomad is the walking dead.

“If that wasn’t your plan, why was she with you?”

Dammit. Why was she with me? “Ashraf Cohen parked outside. He tailed us.”

There’s no way I’d leave Willow with an ex-Mossad assassin hunting her. Not to mention, the fucking Italian mafia, but we lost them. But Cohen…he found us. We’d lost him, and he found us.

I stretch my jaw, as it’s tight from the pull of the regulator, and pinch my nose, reliving the shit storm from this half-baked, rushed-as-fuck plan.

“Saint. Do you read? Saint? Respond. Over.”

Fuck the CIA.

Fuck this whole goddamn operation.

“Awaiting instructions. Over.”

If this shit goes FUBAR, these bags will provide some air. Not much.

“Copy. Three minutes out. Stay with the vehicle,” the operator said.

“Have you ever dived?”

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