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“What is that?”
“The decisions you make are the best ones given the circumstances of the situation you’re in. There is a positive byproduct that comes with second-guessing, feeling regret, questioning yourself or your actions; it will help you make the same decisions in the future with less hesitation.”
“Insightful.”
Saylor smiled. “Or full of shit.”
“Insightful,” he repeated, laughing.
When Monk picked up the breakfast tray, Saylor stuck her head out of the bathroom door. “I know doing dishes relaxes you, but showering with you relaxes me.”
He smiled, set the tray back on the bed, and padded into the bathroom to join her, grateful that she so often told him what she wanted rather than expecting him to guess.
“WHERE ARE YOU HEADED?” Onyx asked three weeks later when they’d finished their hotwash of the final Petrov op.
Monk checked the time. “I’ll find a place to crash and catch a flight in the morning.”
“To?” Onyx asked, looking down on him. Monk wasn’t short by anyone’s yard stick, yet Onyx was taller than him. How a six-feet-six guy ever piloted the fighter jets Onyx had was something Monk hadn’t ever been able to wrap his head around.
“Oregon.”
“We’re scheduled to fly out at zero six hundred.”
Monk’s primary concern had been getting the earliest flight out he could, but there wasn’t a commercial flight leaving that early. “Roger that. I’ll fly out with you.”
“I’m headed up to the plane now if you want to catch a ride.”
“I need sleep.”
Onyx rolled his eyes. “Shit, I shoulda thought of that too since I’m flyin’ the aircraft tomorrow.”
Monk shook his head. Yeah, obviously the man needed sleep as much as he did, if not more. “Yeah, I’ll go. Thanks.”
The two went back into the main room of Doc and Merrigan Butler’s house, which also served as K19 headquarters and where those who had been part of the op were gathered. Monk had to admit, it was probably the nicest house he’d ever been in. Although from what he’d seen, all four of the founding K19 partners had pretty nice digs; Gunner owned his own fucking island.
“Any word on Alegria?” Onyx asked after reporting that he and Monk were headed to the airfield.
“Still in surgery,” Doc answered. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“THIS WAS A ROUGH ONE,” said Onyx once they were on their way to the airfield just north, in Santa Barbara.
Monk nodded. It had taken agents and officers from three international intelligence agencies to join ranks to take down one man, Makar Petrov—aka Conor McNamara—father to Razor’s wife, Ava, her twin sister, Aine, and as they’d learned tonight, Raketa Ivashov. The man had intended to kill all three of his offspring in order to get his hands on trust funds worth millions of dollars that he’d set up in each of their names years prior.
The CIA, working in conjunction with K19, along with MI6 and the most unlikely of the trio—United Russia—joined forces to assassinate Petrov.
In the course of the op, Alegria, who was one of K19’s regular pilots and who Onyx had been flying with for years, was shot. As Doc had told them, she was in surgery, her condition unknown.
In addition to holding a hostage at gunpoint, Petrov had set up explosive devices in the area surrounding his hideout, and Onyx, a bomb expert as well as a pilot, had been called upon to diffuse them.
“I should’ve asked if you wanted me to drive,” muttered Monk, feeling like an asshole for telling Onyx that he needed rest.
“We’re good. The airfield is only another ten minutes away.”
“Where do you sleep?”
Onyx laughed. “You think the only people who use those privacy cabins are the senior partners?”
“Who’s your co-pilot tomorrow?”
