S.A.S.
“Alright. Who are we punching and how many atmospheres down?”
Jack gave him the shape of it—PX-5, the ghost-stamped pills, the murdered politicians, the Saudi shell that vanished, the casino offshore, the sniper with a dead file and living aim. Fish listened, face shuttered, the lazy beach grin sheathing a blade.
“Supply chain uses water,” he said when Jack finished. “Always does if they’re smart. No roads, no eyes. You’ll need a hull that doesn’t look like a hull, quiet props, and someone who can read a thermocline like a palm.” He tapped the map in his head. “And you’ll need someone who can blow a gate without waking the neighbours.”
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