Page 41 of Dirty Damage

“Here’s the crown jewel.” I bring up a ghosted overlay of invisible signals. “Complete surveillance cloak. We can see everything, but they can’t see us. Not even a whisper of an electronic signature.”

“It’s an invisible fortress.” He barks out a laugh, rubbing at his gray beard. “Governments would kill for this tech, Oleg.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” I clap him on the shoulder. “The question is, will they pay for it instead?”

I turn to look out over the bow, where the horizon stretches endless and blue.

Like possibilities.

Like power.

The salt spray hits the windows as we crest a wave, and I smile.

Everything’s falling into place.

Well, almost everything. Sutton hasn’t signed yet, but she will. I have no doubt.

Leaving Kon to steer the yacht out into deeper ocean, I head to the upper deck, where I find Artem with his head hanging over the railing.

“Looking a little queasy there, brother.” I smirk as he lets out a moan.

“F-fuck you,” he manages through a burp. “Tell your asshole captain to stop hitting every goddamn wave.”

“We’re on the ocean. Where exactly do you want him to steer?”

The yacht cuts through another swell, sending spray across the polished teak deck. Artem makes a sound like he’s dying.

“Forgot your Dramamine?”

“Took it.” He spits into the waves. “Threw it up before it could stick. Some fucking notice would have been nice before dragging me out here. Why couldn’t we do this on dry land?”

I lean against the railing, letting the wind blast away the lingering humidity. Below us, the hull cleaves through the water.

“Had to get Kon’s opinion on the tech. Can’t exactly demo a marine surveillance system from your living room.”

“How about…” Another heroic burp. “How ‘bout you invent something for seasickness instead? Now, that’s a billion-dollar idea.”

“Only for pansy little lightweights like you. Not a clientele I’m interested in.”

“Bastard.”

I turn my face into the wind, letting it scour away thoughts of the coming storm.

But even the ocean’s clarity can’t quite settle the restlessness under my skin.

Artem notices. Of course he does.

Even half-dead from motion sickness, the observant fuck doesn’t miss a thing.

“Spill it,” he groans, sliding down to sit on the deck. “What’s really going on? You didn’t drag us out here just to watch Kon drool over your new toys.”

If it were anyone else questioning me, they’d be testing the water temperature personally. But Artem has earned the right to push.

“I’m taking Boris down,” I say finally. “By year’s end, I’ll bepakhanof the Pavlov Bratva. And married.”

He dry heaves into a handkerchief before responding. “About fucking time.”

“That’s it?” I turn to him. “No questions? No reservations? No declarations that I’ve lost my mind?”

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