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I took the phone in his hand.
"Have you thought about my offer?"
"We have two men who are perfect for the job. Both come from the butt crack of your country's military."
I bared my teeth, which was the closest I'd come to smiling today. "You're kidding me?"
"Not really," the voice deadpanned.
"I could give you an entire history lesson on people who have defected because of your treatment toward them, but we are both busy men, and we have a business to finish. Would you like their details?"
"Fire away."
"The top operative is Omar Wazir. He is from your town. Yes, I have done my research."
I bit back my question. Even with all I'd hoped, getting someone who was from this town was a tad too lucky.
One of the reasons I hadn't gone for an American assassin was I didn't trust them to not get carried away by their brawny egos and find a way to run a background check on me.
I'd already trusted the three Ex-SEALs, and they had given menothing.But we'd get to that later. "Is this the same Omar Wazir from the Kandar incident?"
"Yes," the voice replied without hesitating. "We have him on our team for a number of contractual jobs. He either works solo or with a partner."
"I'm assuming you think this job merits a partner."
"Yes. He's already in Oakmont." The speaker's replies came in staccato, clipped phrases. "We sent him there a month ago on unrelated business."
"What business?"
"One that has absolutely nothing to do with you."
This was the second time in the day I'd had to clamp down on my words. I wouldn't bother if it were anyone else, but I'd read what Wazir had done. He was good. No. He was great.
"Who is the other man?"
"An ex-SEAL."
"What?" Even I couldn't hide the surprise in my voice. "What about their call to duty and all the stuff with the oath and the pledge and the shit?"
"No call is big enough once a man's ego has been reduced to ash. We will send you their files.
"Once you have given your confirmation, Omar will contact you and fix a meeting. Go unarmed.
"Don't try any of your American tricks because he has been around enough of you to know."
"Very well, then."
The line clicked. I returned the phone to Clive, who continued regarding me stoically. "Sir, Mr. Baker is on the line. You should probably take the call."
Clive never made statements that begin with "you should," not unless he felt something could hurt or help me. It could be because I'd avoided his call the last five times.
James Baker was an Insta-verified influencer, a self-professed food critic and creator, and an insufferable twenty-something-year-old with a mouth as big as his man-boobs.
But I was on a roll with handling difficult calls today—I just had to keep the flow going.
"James," I said, raising the pitch of my voice to sound like an affable Southern dad proud of his son for learning to man the barbecue.
"Hey, Montgomery, my brother!"
