Vladimir leaned forward. “Never dilute vodka. Is sin.

Okay, I’ve got the hidden microphones with GPS here,” Agent Bounter said. “Let’s get one on you.”

“Now, sir?”


“The Russians are on the radar. It’s time.”

As Bounter turned to pick up the tiny button-size microphone, Grant clenched his hands into fists, his anticipation building.

It’s time.

Her recoil confirmed the disgust Grant felt inside. Who was he kidding, trying to put Vladimir and Andrei behind bars? He was no different from his father. Then he remembered Sophie’s words.

“You’re not like them. You’re my McSailor.”

A soft touch made him smile, thinking of Bonnie, before he realized it was Innochka’s hand stroking his face. The touch of a mobster’s girlfriend. He leaped back, still crouched on his feet.

Grant glanced down at his khaki jacket. Since he’d slipped on the US Navy uniform in Agent Bounter’s office, he’d felt a confident swagger possess him. His spine lengthened, and his shoulders retracted. He should’ve been wearing this every day, not the stupid dress shirt and slacks of a lounge singer.

Um, h-h-hi,” Sophie stammered, closing the door behind her. Meeting her gaze were crystal eyes like blue shards of glass.

Sometimes I feel like a normal person. Sometimes I forget I’m on parole, that I’m not really free.