Page 33 of Gilded Saint

“Why the hell?—”

“Not in my group. We have employees who are free to talk about what they do. That’s most of them, you know.”

“Those exist on our end, too.” Of course, when I get burned—and I often think in terms of when, not if—the CIA will claim I don’t work for them. There will be no star on a wall for me. Which is fine. The Navy already honored my memory. “Keep her safe.”

I look him straight in the eyes, but the women I’m thinking of are my sisters, Sage and Sloane.

“What about your new wife? You keeping her safe?”

“She’s got security.” He nods, judgment clear. “For the last fucking time, it’s an arrangement.” I married the woman with my cover name. Tristan the wandering nomad should be very much aware of that fact.

“I’ll keep you apprised of any further developments with your in-laws.”

“For fuck’s sake. They won’t come after her. Her father blessed the fucking union.” The subtle, disagreeing eyebrow raise irks me. “What else do you have?”

“Are you going to the tech conference in Abu Dhabi?”

“Leave tomorrow.” I’d like to connect with the journalist before I go, but that’s looking unlikely.

“When you go, I’d be interested in a list of attendees. Specifically, in the back rooms.”

“I’m there to cut some off-the-book arms deals. I won’t recognize any new players in the cybercrime arena. It’s not my area.” I let out a sigh and stare wistfully at my almost empty crystal glass. “When I return, I’ll be heading to the States.”

“Oh? Bringing the bride home?”

“Nick’s interested in what’s happening in the US market.”

“Huh. So, you’re going to bring your arrangement home to meet the family? And she’s going to live in your home, and never pick up that you’re not exactly who you say you are? Is that wise?”

“No.” It’s dumb as all fuck. But we’ll make it work.

“You’re done, aren’t you? You’ve got no more fucks to give.”

“That’s about the truth of it.” I knock back my drink.

“What’s the exit strategy?”

“That’s an excellent question. When in Texas, I plan on telling them it’s time to hatch the plan. Overdue, actually.” The week away did nothing to ease my shit mood. Tristan’s right. I’m disengaged and apathetic. That gets dangerous quick.

“I’ll get a jump on it.”

“Much appreciated.” Of course, the Interpol officer who’s become my friend has no issues with ending the op. But my gut tells me the guys back home may push for more.What we’re getting from you is invaluable. Something’s afoot. We still need you in place. Just a little longer.I can hear Jack now.

Chapter13

Willow

Moody, dark shades swirl on the canvas. It’s not as structured as a Mark Rothko piece, but melancholy is undeniably present in the hues. Long gone are the reds, oranges, and yellows. My mood, and my art, contrast with the bright blue sky I’m told I should take advantage of outside.

A rapping on the wall snags my attention. A young man with shaggy, loose, dark curls and a paint-splattered smock stands in the doorway.

“Sorry to disturb you. I work a couple of rooms down. Thought I’d stop by and introduce myself. I’m Geoff.”

I’m in the co-op space, in the small room Leo rented. I’ve been working here for almost two weeks but have yet to meet anyone. Most tenants work with their doors closed, or perhaps the others use their space at odd hours.

“Oh, hi. I’m Willow. You’re an artist in the co-op, too?” Saying the wordtoothrills, because yes, I am an artist. It would be better if I were an artist earning an income, but baby steps.

“Landscapes.”

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