Ironically, with sex-life out of the equation, Ryan and I made great allies. We arrived to Sochi without any trouble from the customs, American authorities, Russians or the mafia.

This isn't enough proof of our mettle for our Russian liaison Gleb Paliashvili.

"You better be that good," he repeats ad nauseam while we're planning our op.

"We are," I say for the third time, and a crease deepens between my brows. My word--a Nazarevich's word!--isn't sufficient to shut Gleb's neurotic giggles.

Gleb's appearance matches his reedy laughter: a tiny man with shifting oily eyes, bad breath and a wispy beard. Shorties can be ridiculously strong. Some of them can cross the Death Valley on half-a-cracker and a sip of water. Gleb ain't one of those.

He's a crook not a gangster, a middleman who pitched against Tangorello for reasons he won't disclose.

Ryan spent his every waking minute since we'd landed in Sochi trying to worm the truth out of Gleb. If he succeeded, he didn't share his mark's secrets with me.

One thing is clear, however. Gleb has something vital riding on this deal, or his slouching back would have disappeared in the distance already like a billowing sail on the ocean.

He sticks around though, and thank goodness. We need him to lead us across the neurotically defended Russian border to a location Ryan forbids me to disclose. There, we'll be in the thick of a broiling conflict. The entire Caucuses region is rife with them, and that's just how we like it (again, Ryan's words, not mine).

"We are that good," I say again, and Gleb giggles. "We'll see, we'll see."

The man is an idiot.

The plan Gleb sold us on is mad enough to succeed, and I feel good about it today.

I enjoy the view through the scope of my rifle. It has to rank among the most beautiful ones in the world, for sure.

Before me, the deeply cut valley makes a turn around a sheer beige cliff, skirted by scree. It's the last week of February, so no tropical extravaganza in every shade of green yet. It's just uniform saturated color, pregnant with things to come.

The clearing to the side hides a burned-out carcass of a mansion. At a guess, someone got rich fast, then died before the buildings were finished. Ruins like that litter these mountains from the ancient times to the decadent era of the post-Soviet hangover.

I don't know if the helipad was part of the original design, or the new management hastily bulldozed it from the debris, but the chopper with the Tangorellos' goods sits there. The guards are what you'd expect them to be in a place like this: brutal, with nothing to sell besides ferocity. Luckily for them, there is no demand for soldiers overburdened with intellect or sensitivity. Never was. Never will be.

I shift in my hiding spot, rub my hands for warmth, then sight down the barrel again. Left, then right... One frustrated sigh after another steams chilly air. I shouldn't fret about not finding Ryan among our enemies. It means all is well.

I peer through the scope again.

No sign of Ryan by the helipad.

Fuck.

I'd give half of this purported treasure for the two-way radio to hear Ryan scold me in the ear-piece right fucking now. 'Naz,′ he'd say in his typical even tone, 'Naz, what are you doing? We can't risk an intercept.'

Yes, yes, yes, fucking yes! Scali is not a fool, and this Gleb? I trust him as far as I can throw him. And still I'd give Nazarevich's treasure to talk to him right now or even just hear his voice.

I rub fatigue out of my eyes, ordering myself to put my big girl panties on and survive five minutes without Ryan. Really, why shouldn't I? We've stayed remarkably civil and productive since I've told him to recycle his white knight armor. He did. And now I secretly moon over him in the middle of an ambush. More fool I am!

There!

Movement.

Something darker among the rocks.

I squint, and... Yes, that's Ryan, crawling toward the chopper. I whistle appreciatively. So far he lives up to the FBI's reputation.

We're on.

Taking down the first mark is easy for me, because the guards don't expect sniper fire. Four of them are playing cards. Now, their cards have one extra red suit. Hearts, spades, splotches of blood.

The mountain air is so crystalline, it makes shooting the men surreal. I have to compensate for elevation and for thinner air, but it's more than that. My targets appear closer than they should be. Their desperate twitching after the pop in my ear is right fucking here.

Alive. Twitch. Dead.

I don't let that distract me from moving the rifle on its tripod and squeezing the trigger every time I get my shot. The more I pick out before they take cover, the easier Ryan's job is.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him roll inside the chopper, his own handgun drawn.

Yes, Gleb, he's that good.

Not all my shots are kills, but it's enough to keep them pinned down while Ryan takes over the shop. Besides, I need messengers. Let some live.

The chopper's blades whirl—slowly at first, then faster, until they become a blur.

I make an exception for the guard, who is either stupider or braver than the rest. He tries to dive for the chopper and dies trying. The good news must be trickling to Luca.

Someone is killing us, boss. What the fuck?

The chopper lifts in the air with all the grace of a winged hippo. There is some serious ammo in its belly, the payment requested by the warlord-of-the-month for my rightfully stolen goods.

I don't have time to study the chopper's flight—we're only thirty percent into the gig. I fold the tripod and drag my bike out of some soggy shrub. Below, at the burned-out villa, the survivors rush like fire-maddened ants. Some of them have the presence of mind to study the heights through binoculars, looking for me.

Adrenalin pumps through my veins, adding to the lightheaded feeling from the mountain air and the early hour. With a pleasant foreboding, I loosen the Sig in its holster, but tighten the helmet's strap. Visor slips down. Come at me, assholes, I mean business!

The engine roars as I point the metal beast downhill from my improvised nest. Each bump tosses me up on the leather saddle, but the wind beats me down in the exhilarating battle of the opposing forces.

In the distance, the chopper silhouettes against the cliff. It goes around it, disappears from my shaking field of vision. My stomach squeezes in anticipation of the inevitable. Come on, Ryan, come on...

The explosion rocks the mountains used to such ungodly booms. And just like that, someone's short of a chopper full of weapons.

It's my turn to shine. I send the bike almost into a freefall, without concern for anything but maximum speed and staying alive. The dirt and gravel fly from under the thick wheels of the bike as I race past the helipad.

A semiautomatic round rips a furrow a split second before the front wheel tears over it. They have the bikes too, so the shooter is right on my ass.

I charge forward, turning in the saddle with a prayer for luck and pump the trigger once, twice... enough to spook the pursuer. I don't have the shot to kill him, and I'm not charging Lady Luck with something as trivial as this kill.

I need to lose him, that's all.

Ryan will walk to the meet-point once he parachutes down from the crash site. He counts on me to be there before them.

It's all his fault that I have to play this game of cat-and-mouse. Gleb and I wanted him to hijack the chopper, not fly it into the cliff. Then he'd have a perfect getaway vehicle, and I could have wheeled away from the fight.

Alas, our ex-FBI refused to deliver the state-of-the-art weaponry into anyone's hands in this region.

"My love," I argued, "my love, they manage just fine with the WW2-era rifles. If they don't have that, they grab knives. Bows and arrows. Rocks. Killing humans ain't high-tech."

But did he listen? Does he ever listen?!

So, here I am, miraculously still astride my bike. The engine roars again, as I give it the gas. My pursuer loses his nerves and flies up the slope of a small gully. Were he the hero of this drama, he'd reach the top... but he doesn't. His nervy stunt puts him fully in my view.

I pump the trigger again. He is a big guy, so his dead arms open up to an impressive span, as the bike stalls in its ascent, no longer driven. After one more yard under its own momentum, it succumbs to gravity and falls backward in a beautiful arch. The body just thumps face down into the scree. Don't fuck with gravity, children. Never-ever fuck with gravity!

I ride as if the hounds of hell—or, worse, humans—are chasing me to get to Ryan.

By now, the survivors are fanning out, starting their ATVs and bikes, searching, searching... Good thing we're in the mountains that have hid various fugitives since the dawn of time. I really would hate to die when we're this close to fucking up Luca's day.