Nasir, Jawahir
Nasir, JawahirCapital city
Capital cityAnderson Coldhouse slowly wiped the rag over the Sig Sauer M17 9mm Luger and ignored the three men at the kitchen table who were quietly playing their game of cards.
His mind wandered, and his fingers flexed as he simmered in a familiar rage. Colin was in Moscow with Bronislav, answering for their failure to start a war between Simdan and Jawahir.
It wasn’t Anderson’s fault. It was that b***h Aimee Wheels’ fault. She was supposed to be dead. His hand shook, and he clenched his fist.
His cell phone lit up. It was Colin. He reached for it, answering it on the second ring.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I have a job for you,” Colin said, his voice cold.
Anderson had a sudden desire to empty his gun into the men at the table. Bran,
