“To avoid exposure he’d stayed loose, well back from Combs, not making contact with any of the people his adversary had visited. Now his target was safely ensconced in an executive suite at the Ritz-Carlton—five hundred U.S. dollars a night, which raised a whole host of questions considering Combs’ government salary—the reservation confirmed for the next ten days. To add a further insult, Combs was currently lying in the hotel’s spa having the kinks in his fifty-eight-year-old back worked out.Be... patient.That’s what he’d told himself for the past eight years.But it was hard.Wyatt had been known within the intelligence community as a man of few words. He spoke sparingly, on purpose, which many times forced others to talk too much. Silence was an acquired art he’d mastered, and he knew what they’d called him behind his back.The Sphinx.But he hadn’t cared.And it mattered no longer.His twenty-year career as an intelligence operative had ended eight years ago.Thanks to Christopher Combs and Cotton Malone.The latter brought the charges against him, which the former had assured would be quashed, calling the administrative hearing a mere formality.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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