"You and your fucking ethics," Will muttered. "Why can't you be a cutthroat spy boss who takes out anyone who gets in your way? Really, what kind of shop are we running if you won't put an end to Renner based on the fact he tapped your apartment? His testicles should be in a waffle iron right now."
"My mother would quit," I said, laughing. "She'd hop in that little red Beetle and drive on up to D.C. to spit nails in person."
Will knew that Mom didn't love the lethal nature of our covert operations, or the collateral damage we were willing to accept on certain missions. She was far,farremoved from the raw details, but she had a good idea what was involved. That was why she preferred booking me on protection consults, like the one I was taking in Texas. She found that work safer for all involved, and somehow less morally bankrupt. It wasn't.
"And we know the entire operation will collapse without Mama Trish," he replied. "But hey—if she came up here, she'd probably chew you out and then feed us. That wouldn't be terrible. I could really go for some of her sweet potato pie."
"You're such an asshole." I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. "Wait. Where's your brother these days? He could get us some off-the-record intel about assets on the ground in Venezuela, and whatever's in the air about Renner."
Will's younger brother Wes was a Navy SEAL turned deep cover CIA operative, and he knew everyone and everything in the international intelligence communities. I hadn't seen him in two or three years, but knew he'd been involved in several complex situations overseas.
"Haven't heard from him in a couple of months," Will said. "He's got his hands full with Russia, but I doubt there are more than fifteen people outside this room who know he's on the Agency's payroll."
"There's no way that could turn problematic," I said, cynicism dripping from every word. I supported dark missions where appropriate, but I was also in favor of tidy exfiltration strategies when it was time to get the fuck out of those missions. Most deep cover agents were left to their own devices.
Will grimaced. "I've told him as much. Not that it did any good," he replied. "You know how he is."
Wes Halsted was to the covert services what Pete "Maverick" Mitchell was to the Navy andTop Gun. He skated on the razor's edge of mortal danger, and did it all with a shit-eating grin.
"My brother aside, we should have enough contacts at the Agency to call in a favor or two without issue. Why not do that?" Will asked.
Because I want to keep this quiet. Because I don't want the entire Beltway knowing I've lost control of my shop.
"Forget I brought it up." I blew out a breath and laced my fingers behind my head. "I'm getting to the bottom of this."
Will regarded me for a moment, his expression hiding none of his disbelief. "And when you arrive at the bottom?"
I didn't respond immediately. It wasn't because I was still working on the end game. No, I knew heads would roll. It was only a matter of which heads and how soon. "I'll get the house in order."
He twisted his wedding band around his finger, nodding. "Keep me in the loop on this, Kaisall," he said, his voice heavy with warning.
"When I have information to share, you'll be the first I call."
Will slapped his thighs and stood. "Let's hit the water. I need to get in a couple of miles. Think you can handle that, or should we grab Abby's water wings?"
"Fuck you," I yelled after him.
