The name A. Volkov hung in the salt-laden air of the cockpit like a curse. It was a name that belonged to the dead, a name etched into a headstone in a Chicago cemetery that Roman had visited every year with a bouquet of black roses and a heart full of manufactured grief.
Roman’s hands tightened on the steering wheel of the interceptor until the leather groaned. The muscles in his jaw were corded like steel cables, and his eyes—usually so cold and calculating—were now filled with a turbulent, raw agony. He didn't look at the GPS ping; he looked at the horizon, where the dark silhouette of a massive, silent yacht sat anchored like a predator in the moonlight.
"He told me the ship was sold to the Greeks for scrap," Roman whispered, his voice a jagged edge of a sound. "Marcello said he used
