Page 43 of Emerald

Before I can consider what a terrible idea it is to tell her anything, I’m opening my mouth and spilling it all out.

I tell Sloane about Remizov, about how he’s been expanding his empire in St. Petersburg, and how he seems to have the police and the politicians in his pocket. And then, though I can’t believe I’m admitting it, I tell her what happened to Karol, and that it’s my fault. I tell her I’ve been outmaneuvered and outsmarted.

It’s insane for me to admit any of this. Forget about safety or prudence—I want to impress Sloane. I don’t want to show her my weakness and failure.

But I tell her everything.

Because she’s a professional.

She knows that in our world, things go wrong.

She knows better than anyone that it’s kill or be killed, every day.

And that’s why I want her advice.

When I finish speaking, she lays there quietly for a minute, pondering over everything I’ve said.

If she were a normal person, she’d probably try to say something comforting, like it wasn’t my fault that Karol got caught, even though we’d both know that was bullshit.

But Sloane is not a normal person.

She says, “The box at the gate was bait. The guns in the warehouse are bait as well.”

“I know that,” I say.

“But you still want them back.”

“Sure. If I can get them.”

“Well, take a page out of Remizov’s book. Capture a couple of his men. Make them get the guns for you.”

I consider this. It’s not a terrible idea. If Remizov has some trap in place—like some of Utkin’s officers waiting to arrest me—then it’s his goons that will get pinched, not mine.

“Not a bad idea,” I say. “What about Remizov himself?”

“That’s a trickier problem. You don’t know where he lives? He doesn’t have a monastery of his own?” she asks with a teasing edge to her tone.

“Not that I’ve found.”

“Does he have a mother or brother he loves?”

“Not that I know of.”

“A girlfriend?”

“If he has a girlfriend, I doubt he gives a fuck about her. He strikes me as a bit of a sociopath.”

“Hmm. Retaliation is going to be tricky then. It’s easiest to get people at home.”

“That’s true,” I say to Sloane. “As long as you don’t come clomping into their room so loud that you wake them up.”

“Oh, shut up!” she says. “You’re the first person that ever woke up. You’ve got a guilty conscience—or the ears of a bat. Now do you want my help or not?”

“I do,” I tell her, with a pretend expression of contrition.

I can’t help teasing her, but I’m being sincere. I want to hear what she thinks.

“You’re used to being the strongest person in a fight,” she tells me. “That’s why you want to attack him head-on.”

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