“His nickname. Call sign, really. From the Special Forces. He and Wren are experts on the dark web. And…well, finding information. About anything.”
“You can just call us geniuses,” Rip says. On the tablet, his name precedes the transcription. “Because we have a line on Volkov.”
Sloane sits up so quickly, her knee bangs into the table, and the thin flute glass with her sparkling cider threatens to tip over until I steady it. “What? Where is he?”
“Well, his money is in Milan, Italy. Three days ago. We have a facial recognition match to the last known photo of the asshole outside of the Banco di Milano,” Ripper says, and the tablet screen splits in two with a grainy photo of Volkov on the street in the sun.
Sloane covers her mouth with her hand. We’re close enough, I know she made a noise, and from the look on her face, it wasn’t a good one. “A little warning next time,” I snap and drape my right arm around her shoulders. “Sweetheart, breathe for me, okay.”
She nods and turns away from the screen. “That’s him. He’s bigger. Older, but…shit.”
“Take the photo down. Now.” Sloane doesn’t need to spend another second looking at that piece of shit, and the screen shifts back to transcription only. “Any idea what he’s been doing for the past three days?”
“No.” This from Austin. “He disappeared in a sea of people at a piazza two blocks from the bank. We’re watching the airports in Zurich and Milan, but he coulddriveto Zurich in a little over three hours.”
Not helping, Pritchard.
With every word, Sloane’s expression shutters further, and soon, I don’t know if I’ll be able to reach her.
“We have the gala in three hours. You have control of the hotel security cameras, right?”
“Affirmative. And Wren’s facial recognition program will send an alert to your phone and watch if any of Volkov’s known associates—or Volkov himself—show up,” Austin says. “Dax worked some of his magic with the local police, and if you needanything, ask for Officer Eric Keller.”
After Austin rattles off the number, Sloane and I both save the number to our phones.
“One piece of good news.” Ripper’s words scroll across the screen. “The guy who broke into your house, Sloane? He’s in custody, and he’s talking.”
“Talking?” she asks, reaching for my hand. Her fingers flutter, and her lips press together, then purse before she clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Yep,” Austin replies. “We sent Inara and Graham—they work with Ripper out in Seattle—to find the asswipe andpersuadehim to forget where you lived.”
Sloane shoots me a confused look, and I squeeze her hand. “I’ll explain later.”
“Well, they found him. Breaking into a surf shop in Coronado. He was all too happy to tell the District Attorney everything he knew about Volkov in exchange for the DA’s office ‘losing’ one of his previous strikes. The plea deal still sends him to prison for two years, but that’s a hell of a lot less than the twenty-five to life he would have earned.”
The screen splits again, and the right side cycles through half a dozen camera feeds. “Got the travel arrangements and security system taken care of too,” Ripper adds. “E-tickets, schematics and instructions were sent to both of your phones. The system’s armed, so make sure you know how it works before you try to unlock the front door.”
“Will do. Thanks. How’s Wren feeling?” Second Sight’s hacker—or genius, per Ripper’s earlier declaration—handed most of this case to Ripper after another wicked bout of morning sickness, and when I messaged Dax yesterday, he was worried.
“Better,” Ripper replies. “Ryker finally found the right combo of ice cream, potato chips, and oddly…spinach.”
“So the kid is going to be Popeye?” Ryker McCabe is close to seven feet tall, and while I’ve never met the man, his reputation in the intelligence community is fucking terrifying.
On screen, the wordlaughterappears after Ripper’s name. “Maybe. Except they’re having a girl.”
Austin joins in with the laughter. “I can’t wait to see McCabe try to figure out how to hold a newborn. Might have to fly out to Seattle for that. Listen, Griff? You and Sloane have fun tonight. We’re doing everything we can on our end. If we get any updates, we’ll let you know.”
We say our goodbyes, and I wrap my arm around Sloane’s waist and hold her close. “They’re the best in the world, sweetheart.We’rethe best in the world.”
Even though I’m not sure I should lump myself into that category any longer, I do it for Sloane, and in her gaze, I find such unwavering confidence that I vow to put my issues aside and be the man she thinks I am.
* * *
“Can I try…being on top?”Sloane asks, her eyes half-hooded after the climax I wrung from her body only a few minutes ago.
Smiling, I roll onto my back, cup the back of her neck, and pull her close for a tender kiss. “You can have whatever you want, sweetheart.”
She chews on her lip for a moment, clearly nervous. “You’ll tell me if I’m not doing it right?”
