I headed out of the hotel, keys to the AMG One spinning around my finger, riding that very specific satisfaction that came from turning a rival into an employee and queuing up an international news disaster scheduled to detonate in six hours.
Good fucking day so far.
I slid into the driver's seat and brought the engine to life, the sound vibrating straight through reason and into instinct, the kind of mechanical growl that reminded you physics was more of a suggestion than a rule if you had enough money and poor impulse control.
Now all I had to do was wait on IHIN's timeline. Six hours until the story broke. Six hours until the world found out Dmitri had died mysteriously in CIA custody and international relations got very fucking complicated very fucking fast.
