Ramsey Hale is dead. I muttered under my breathe.
I lose myself in work for a while, long enough for the sun to march across the sky and settle down beneath the horizon.
It's only when a calendar reminder dings on my computer that I look up from the papers scattered across my desk.
INVESTOR WINE TASTING AT CORUSCANT in 60 minutes.
"Blyat'," I snarl—then I blink. I haven't cursed in Russian in almost a decade. I thought I'd purged myself of that habit. Grimacing, I snatch up the phone and dial Patricia.
She answers immediately. "Yes, sir?"
"Two things. First, make sure my uninvited guest has left the building. I don't want anyone to talk to him—just make sure he gets the fuck out of here. Second, what's this item on my calendar? I don't remember putting that there."
