Everything else was the same. The sniper’s cool ability to wait out the prey. Planned routes in and out. A stable platform. And—above all—the right equipment.

He lay it all out beside him on the tarp on the floor.

Thermography infrared scope and night-vision scope with germanium lenses. Plenty of ammo. Once he had Drake in his sights, he would lay down withering fire. Two weeks’ worth of energy bars, bottles of Evian he’d found in the pantry and four empty water bottles for when it came back out again. BlackBerry.

He looked around and dragged the sofa cushion seats onto the tarp, blessing the decorator who’d opted for the cheapest solution. Down-filled cushions would have been impossible to use as a platform—too soft. The hard, flat foam-rubber rectangles covered with fabric were perfect.

The distance to the window was crucial. The outside windows were lightly reflective. Not as much as Drake’s windows—which were basically mirrors and showed absolutely nothing of what was inside—but enough so that he didn’t have to position himself at the back of the room in trapped shadow, as he had in Chechnya. In one ruin of a building in Grozny with a southern exposure, he’d had to position himself a room away from the window and bore an aperture through an internal wall for the rifle muzzle. It wouldn’t be necessary here. Even looking straight out, Drake wouldn’t see anything. He would also be used to seeing the drapes of this apartment open, since it was rarely inhabited.

Shooting through glass was always a problem. It was best to shoot in a straight line. The glass in this apartment was only laminated. The powerful bullets would sail through without deflection. Drake’s windows would be a bitch to shoot through, but with the thermal imager to give away position, and his.50-cal bullets, there was no doubt in Rutskoi’s mind that one of his bullets would catch Drake.

One bullet was enough.

He had boxes of ammo, including incendiary rounds, enough to fucking blow up the room if he had to. Once he started, he wasn’t going to let Drake out of the room and he wasn’t going to stop until Drake was dead.

Rutskoi settled onto the tarp, slightly to the left of his line of fire, bracing himself over the tripod, letting bone, not muscle, take the weight of his body. His cheek found the familiar position against the exact same point on the stock weld, as always. He was prepared to wait in this position for as long as it took.

As he assumed the position that would give him maximum comfort over what might be a long period of time, while at the same time assuring maximum accuracy, he felt himself disappear, sinking and floating at the same time, cut off from the world, his entire being narrowed down to his finger on the trigger and eye on the scope.

It was the closest thing he knew to happiness.

This is where he belonged, he realized in a sudden rush of insight. This is what he was born for—the hunt. And what greater, more exciting hunt, than that of man?

How wrong he had been to want to go into business with Drake. Rutskoi wasn’t a businessman, not even close. Drake knew his guns but his real genius was in moneymaking. Drake would have made a fortune from whatever it was he decided to sell. Cars, real estate, stocks. It just happened that he’d started business in a godforsaken part of the world where weapons were the main commodity.

What the hell had Rutskoi been thinking? He’d been so eager to get out of the Russian army and out of Russia, he’d somehow convinced himself he was a businessman. Wrong. He was a hunter. That was his nature.

And—he finally understood—that was his future.

A 10-million-dollar contract would never come again, because there would never again be a target like Drake, not in this lifetime. Drake was an outlier, a black swan. Like Tamerlane or Alexander or Napoleon. His like would not come again for another hundred years.

But the world was full of targets. Thousands of them. Millions. Men standing in your way, blocking the path upward, men with knowledge that could hurt you, men who betrayed you, men who’d killed and needed killing in turn. The world was full of them and full of their enemies.

The world was not full of men with Rutskoi’s skill set. He was a genius with a rifle, and was one of the few military snipers who could take his skills out of the armed forces and not go insane. Hired killers were often unbalanced, a step shy of madness, highly unreliable, blunt tools.

Not Rutskoi. He was as sane as could be. Not a coldhearted killer, but a technician with a highly prized skill, which he was going to start selling very dearly to the highest bidder.

Once he took Drake down, Rutskoi would invest part of his 10 million dollars in a new identity and a luxurious home base, far from prying eyes, and send out the word that he was available, for a fee. Success and discretion guaranteed.

As his body settled on the carpet, his entire being settled into this new plan. It felt utterly right, as right as the rifle in his hands, his cheek at the spot weld, his eye on the scope. This was his destiny; he just hadn’t realized it before.

His sights settled on the mirrored surface of the floor-to-ceiling window of Drake’s living room, where they would remain until the end.

Once Drake stepped foot into his living room, he wasn’t leaving it alive.

November 22

Grace set up in the library. God knows there was enough room for her.

The light streaming in through a whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows put her own small skylight to shame. Drake’s home was an environment she found conducive to work. Some invisible hand always lit a fire for her. The room was beautiful and utterly quiet. No one disturbed her. When she remembered to eat, there was always a trolley outside the door with delicious food.

She worked like a woman possessed. The violence of the attack at Harold’s gallery, the burning flare of sexual heat between her and Drake, the blossoming of tender feelings for him—all these things made their way from her soul through her fingers and onto canvas.

She lost herself totally in her work, at times stopping when she noticed her back aching, to discover she’d been painting for eight solid hours.

Drake secluded himself in his study all day, doing whatever mysterious things he did.

The day before, an elderly man had come and with quiet efficiency set up a makeshift yet highly professional photographic studio where she was working. He had a selection of wigs and glasses and was very adept at makeup. He must have taken a hundred photographs of her, in every possible permutation, some in which she barely recognized herself. Blonde Grace, brunette Grace, old Grace, studious Grace, slutty Grace…

Drake sat watching, impassive, as she changed personas, then quietly walked out the door with the man and didn’t come back to her until nightfall.

Each evening, he apologized for spending time away from her until she finally had to put her finger over his mouth and tell him to hush.

The truth was, she didn’t mind spending time alone. She was used to it, used to being able to dedicate herself wholeheartedly to her painting without distractions. And Drake was a huge distraction, in every way.

When he came to her, he filled her entire mental horizon. Everything was forgotten in his presence, as if he were this huge magnet that pulled everything in her to him.

The sex was almost frighteningly intense. She’d dreamed about someday finding a man she could be with, but in her daydreams, sex wasn’t that much a part of it. Truth was, the daydreams were puerile, like toothpaste ads, two people running in slow motion toward each other in a sunny field. Nothing like the dark, powerful, frightening, almost visceral tug between her and Drake. The sex in her fantasy—like those movie trailers for all ages—was bland and pleasant. Utterly unlike the mind-altering experience it was with Drake. Something that turned her inside out, turned her into a woman she barely recognized.