Chapter 12
Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint
The clay disk hurtles through the air, and a shot shatters the quiet a second before the ceramic explodes into fragments.
The subtle purr of an engine passes down the trail. I lift my binoculars and peer through the trees, confirming the occupant.
I’ve spent the last week at Tristan Voignier’s private estate, out of the public eye. Needing a place to decompress, Tristan, or Nomad on covert channels, offered a place off the beaten path and far away from surveillance. The official story is that I’m ensconced in my flat in a state of matrimonial bliss.
Nick spent the past week in Greece shoring up relationships with a couple of syndicate power players. He believes I’m following up with the journalist who broke the story about the drug bust before anyone else. The story hit the wire too early for her to have not had an inside source. Of course, I’m not following up with the journalist because I already know exactly how she ended up with her intel.
The vehicle stops in front of the nearby guesthouse. The door to the Land Rover opens, and Tristan steps out of the vehicle as I pull up on my ATV.
“Dapper as ever,” I comment, smiling. He’s my Interpol contact, and technically he’s my handler, but he’s a friend by lieu of being the only person outside of the States who knows my true identity.
If it weren’t for the situation, we’d probably never hit it off. The Brit dresses like a tool. Tapered trousers, glossy pointed dress shoes, three-piece toppers. Today he’s wearing plaid tapered trousers, a turtleneck sweater, and hunting boots. It’s about as casual as I’ve ever seen him.
“How’s married life?”
I ignore his dig and lead the way inside the guesthouse, a cabin on his gated estate.
“Care for a drink?” I counter.
“Lucia’s back at the main house. Told her I needed to check on the property. She’ll suspect something if I come back smelling like alcohol.”
“Right.” I set the crystal lid on the decanter.
“Do the accommodations meet your needs?”
“Yes. I appreciate the breather.”
“Not a problem. By my count, you haven’t had a holiday in close to five years. I’d say you’re due.” He shoves his hand in his pockets. “So, what’ve you got for me?”
“Nothing new.”
“You spent a weekend partying so hard with the mafia that you came home with a wife and nothing else?”
“I didn’t say I got nothing. I said nothing new.” Fuckwad. “Titan Shipping is legit, but they are transitioning into the gray.”
“Transitioning how? Siding with Russia?”
“I don’t know about siding. I’d say profiting from. It’s the same old story. The Lupi Grigi have a complex mix of legitimate and illegitimate businesses. Real estate, supermarkets, hotels. The normal mix. I heard them talk about all of it. Drugs and arms are their two illegal businesses. That and corruption… If you want to catch them, I’d say accounting is the way to go, but…these guys are expert money launderers.” Not that any of this is news to him. “One guy, a mouthy foot soldier type, told me there’s a new guy who’s pissing them off. An Italian man of Argentinian descent who mostly lives in Spain. He imports bananas from Ecuador and owns sports centers in Marbella and Granada. Plus bars and restaurants all over. He’s infringing on their territory.”
“He’s infringing on the Lupi Grigi?”
“That’s the story.”
“He won’t live long enough for us to look into him. What’s his name?”
“Fernando Cavenaghi. You going to pursue him?”
“Me? Unlikely. But the Europol commissioner is on record saying that organized crime is the biggest threat to the European Union. I’ll pass it on. Someone will do something.”
There’s nothing to act on. I’ve been doing this for five years. If the powers that be find the relay of intel valuable, so be it.
“You got the update with their exploration into submersibles?” I ask.
He nods. “Longer we carry sanctions, the more attractive profiting from them becomes. What does Ivanov believe you’ve been doing for this past week?”
“Nick thinks I’m looking for the BBC journalist. Which I have been doing remotely. She hasn’t shown up in the London feed. She didn’t go missing, did she?” He tilts his head thoughtfully in a way that doesn’t sit well. “We fed her that story to catch those fucks. For fucking sure, we protected her. Right?”
“Haven’t heard anything, but I’ll check around.” Tristan pulls out his mobile and taps away on it, likely adding something like check the morgues for journalist to his to-do list. “In other news, sources say Leandro went ballistic when he discovered you snapped up the young bird he had an eye on."
“Ballistic?”
“Lost it. Set loose an assault rifle at the hotel. Two employees died. I’m not clear if that was intentional or if they caught stray fire.”
The memory of him holding Lucia against a wall flashes, as does my anger.
“Piece of work, that one. Quite mad,” Tristan says.
“Assume he’s still on the loose? Didn’t get into any trouble?”
“You mean with the authorities?” Tristan scoffs. “Massimo owns them. The fact a suite at the Regis getting shot to bits isn’t all over the telly is proof he owns the journalists too. But, bright spot, my source says Massimo is calming Leandro.”
“How?”
“Drugs?” He shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. My money is on anything other than the psychiatrist he needs.”
“I suppose every family needs a member who will kill, no questions asked.”
“Kill and derive enjoyment from it. He’s a sick fuck. I recommend you stay away from Italy.”
“No plans to return. But now you see why I helped her out.”
Tristan places his weight on the back of the sofa, leaning onto it. From his perch, he looks down at me, and I know damn well he’s about to dig.
“There’s nothing to it.” I hold up a hand before he can start. “She was being forced to marry Leandro, and that hotel incident is not an outlier.”
“How did you end up?—”
“It’s a crazy story.” He folds his hands, waiting. “She reminded me of…” I stop myself from saying my sisters, because while Tristan knows my real name, mentioning my family out loud is an unnecessary risk. You never know who’s listening. The risk is minimal, but it’s never nonexistent.
“A little birdy you wanted to shag?” he supplies.
“Fuck off.” My grip on the glass tightens and I have half a mind to hurl it at Tristan’s head.
The pisser is, he’s not far off. I can’t get that vision of her in her skimpy sexy-as-fuck white lingerie out of my head, and that’s problematic. She’s way too young, and aside from the matter of age, she doesn’t know who I am and never will.
Tristan’s right. I want to fuck her and walk away. But I can’t fuck her and walk away because she lives with me now. When she reminded me of my sisters, the attraction was negligible. Throw in lingerie and put her on the no-touch list, and suddenly I’m fucking obsessed.
“Eye-opening news. Your betrothal, that is. Doesn’t seem having her move in with you was the brightest. To do so, I assumed there had to be something…”
“There’s nothing.” I slam the bourbon back and lean into the burn. “Bad decision making at its finest.”
“You may end up caring for her.” I give him a sharp look that informs him exactly how wrong he is. “Never know. I didn’t anticipate Lucia…and look at us now.”
“Parents? Well, you see, when you don’t use a condom?—”
“Sod off.” He rubs his hand briskly over the back of his head and mutters, “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s a miracle I haven’t cocked it up.”
“I won’t bother asking how you think you’d do that.” You never really know someone, but what I know of the man I called Nomad for years, and more recently Tristan, he’s a decent guy. I expect he’s a devoted husband and father.
“Well, as long as she trusts me, I suppose I won’t. It’s a fine line to walk. Deciding what I can tell her and what I can’t.”
“And I’m on the side of the no-tell line?” I study him, hoping he’s smart enough to keep his loved ones out of the bullshit world we live in. Sure, we mostly interact with educated, affluent business executives. But those men met success by leveraging a subcurrent of thugs and killers.
I’m way past giving a shit about my life. It’s a fucking miracle I haven’t been burned yet. But I take seriously the risk of burning the innocent.
“That you are. You shan’t meet Lucia.”
“Good. Keep your loved ones safe.”
“She works for us. She’s aware enough.” His expression goes blank. Unreadable.
“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.