But I doubt I’ll live another two. This life I lead isn’t made for longevity.
Though that’s what I thought over twenty years ago when I first started out, back when the Grayson in my life was a grizzled old handler named Howard who used to tell rambling nonsensical anecdotes about the 1984 Olympics. He died of cirrhosis.
Helluva way to go. I’d take a bullet over that misery any day.
In a lower, more controlled tone, Grayson says, “I never would’ve approved of the idea of picking her up in the first place, but you didn’t tell me.”
“It was Diego’s idea. He didn’t tell you because he knew you wouldn’t have approved. I agreed with that decision.”
“Great. So you’ve gone rogue now, too?”
“Don’t be so bloody dramatic. Your permission isn’t required.”
“But my knowledge is. You have to keep
