Page 16 of Ash Storm

Ash

If Ash was ever stranded on a desert island, he’d choose to have Rogue with him—assuming said desert island came with an internet connection.

The man was an absolute wizard with computers.

Either that, or people were really stupid with their passwords, since that’s how Rogue seemed to find out half of the things he did.

Ash didn’t have many passwords left—that was one of the things to be said for prison, it was a great way to simplify one’s life—but he made a mental note to look at them and update them all sometime soon.

“You really found a way in for both of us?”

“Thorne’s the one we need to thank in this case,” Rogue said humbly. “One of Afsan’s fighters was stopped at the airport by Turkish customs this morning. Not to worry, the unfortunate misunderstanding will be straightened out and he’ll be released in a few days, but it’ll be too late for him to travel on to Afsan’s place by then.”

“How does that help us?”

“From what we know of him, Afsan is not a man who likes change,” Dark said. “We can assume the number of fights has been planned in advance, and he’s down one fighter now.”

“That’s where I come in. I’ve created a profile for you. The Roman Stallion,” Rogue said, smiling.

“Tell me you’re fucking kidding me,” Ash growled.

“Nope. It’s a good name. And isn’t your mother Italian?”

“Yeah. She’s Italian,” Ash sighed. He’d gotten his dark hair and tanned skin from her. And, luckily, he did speak Italian fluently enough to fool anyone who didn’t actually come from Italy.

“As I was saying, I’ve created a profile for you, one that will hopefully be attractive enough to catch Afsan’s attention. You’ve just wrapped up a fight in Cyprus, so you’re conveniently in the area already. The ferry runs three times daily. I already checked. I’m ready to make a booking for you as soon as Afsan’s people make contact with your manager.”

“My manager …”

“That would be me,” Slate said, a burner phone held loosely in his hand.

“And as my manager, you couldn’t come up with a better name?”

“Think of it as an artistic name,” Slate said, laughing.

“I might even let you keep the name afterwards,” Rogue jabbed. A smile played on his lips.

“Fine. Fine,” Ash said, giving up. If it got him into that house, they could call him whatever they wanted.

Griffin walked into the room, looking somehow … different. He’d cut his dark blond hair and done something to it to make it smoother.

So that’s where he’s been all morning.

Ash looked down at the man’s hands. His nails had been buffed to a shine.

Ash smiled.

“I guess that answers my next question.”

“Griffin is going in as Gregory Adair,” Rogue said. “Youngest heir to a sausage meat empire that he and his siblings are quickly dilapidating.”

“And how the hell did you manage to score an invitation for him?”

Rogue shook his head. “I can’t take any credit for that, either. Reynolds identified one of the guests and put some pressure on him. The gentleman in question didn’t want his unsavory hobby coming out, so he was happy to help.”

Ash wondered about Reynolds again, and about the astonishing power the man wielded. He was pretty sure Reynolds could have ordered a team of SEALs into Istanbul to rescue his niece.

So why get us to go in instead?