So here was a Serge Blansky, booking a room in Lido di Ostia at a fancy five-star hotel that was just Drake’s style, and buying a Lamborghini from a local dealer. How many Blanskys had that kind of money?

Rutskoi had kept the hotel under surveillance from a hundred yards away, but somehow Drake came and went right under his nose, because he never saw him come and never saw him go. Rutskoi was very aware of the fact that a surveillance op like this required a team of five or six men operating around the clock, but he was alone. Deal with it, he told himself.

Good luck came in the form of an SMS sent to his cell phone from Terabyte.

Subject hired 150-foot yacht from company at Lido di Ostia. Name of yacht “Bella Mia.” Pays €10,000 per day for hire.

Rutskoi had raced to the marina, and there she was, half a kilometer out—150 meters of sleek white hull with brass so brightly polished it hurt his eyes through the binoculars. Bella Mia was written in cursive script on the hull.

There was no time to assemble a team of divers, Drake could disappear at any moment. And in any case, Rutskoi worked alone. He found a quiet spot far from the marina and settled in to observe. Drake wasn’t in the hotel room, he was on his yacht; Rutskoi would bet the $10 million on it.

Probably fucking the woman right this instant.

That’s right, Drake, Rutskoi thought, as he kept the yacht in the lens of his binoculars, enjoy the pussy while you can.

It was dark now. An hour ago, at sunset, all the internal lights of the yacht had lit up. Oh yeah, Drake was on the yacht.

Rutskoi had night-vision capability and could see on deck as clearly as if it were noon. The decks were deserted. It was entirely possible that—in a fit of testosterone-induced madness—Drake had dismissed the crew.

Rutskoi pulled out a set of oars and began rowing clumsily toward the left-hand side of the ship. Port side, apparently, it was called. Though it was dark and he’d carefully dressed in non-reflective clothing, he was aware of his vulnerability as he quietly, slowly rowed his way toward the yacht. If there were guards on board, all it would take was a casual look over the railing with night vision and he was a dead man walking. Dead man rowing, actually.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he pulled up beside the bow. He reached out a hand to touch the sleek wood, still warm from the day’s sun. He’d pulled up next to a rope ladder. This was more like it. Rutskoi was agile and athletic. He tied the boat to the rope ladder and then climbed the ladder like a monkey, happy to get off the small, rocking boat onto the much more stable yacht.

He climbed carefully, utterly without noise. He had a Glock 17, which a former Spetsnaz officer living in Rome had given him, together with the night-vision goggles. A cold gun, no identifying marks. He had three magazines in case the yacht was heavily guarded, but he thought not. Peering carefully over the gunwale with his night-vision goggles, he saw that the deck was still deserted. No guards.

Drake felt safe, running away with his mistress. Not expecting the trouble that was right now slowly rolling over onto the deck.

Rutskoi also had half a pound of C-4 if the gun didn’t work out, together with detonators and a timer. Set the timer, get in the small boat, fire up the outboard and watch from a safe distance as the fucking yacht blew right out of the water.

Rutskoi stood carefully and slowly from a crouch, tensing when he heard voices. A woman’s light trill of laughter, the deeper tones of a man. Music. All belowdecks.

Belowdecks was very good because it gave Rutskoi all the advantages of high ground, room for maneuver and surprise.

Quietly, Rutskoi followed the sounds of music and laughter. Noiselessly descending the shallow steps, he felt alive, on the hunt.

This was going to be much easier than he thought. So far he’d seen no one. It seemed that the only people on board were the woman and Drake, whose voice he recognized as he approached the closed door of the salon.

No guards, music, the woman. Drake thought himself safe, had abandoned all caution.

Oh yeah, love turned men into fools.

Rutskoi eased closer to the door, placed a listening device against the shiny wood. It piped sound into an earpiece.

The same as before, only startlingly clear. Background music and Drake talking to a woman. Relaxed voice. His defenses were down.

The door was a sliding one. Rutskoi checked it, ever so carefully, moving it by a hair.

It was unlocked.

God, Drake deserved to die.

Rutskoi toggled the door a little to get a feeling for how much strength it would take to slide it open, fit his hand into the space between the door and the jamb and crouched down.

If this had been a dynamic entry with his men, he’d have arranged for a four-man unit. Two high, two low. Two right, two left.

But he was alone, so he went in low. If Drake had a weapon close at hand—and however insanely besotted he was, Rutskoi found it hard to believe that Drake wouldn’t have a weapon close by—he’d automatically aim for the head.

Rutskoi gave the door a hard shove to the left and moved through the opening swiftly, gun in a two-handed grip, ready for anything, and found…

Nothing.

The room was empty. Large, beautifully appointed and…empty.

Yet Drake was still talking, music still playing.

What the fuck?

The music and the woman’s voice cut off abruptly. “So, it is you, Rutskoi,” Drake’s voice said, and Rutskoi whirled, seeing no one, just the back of an open laptop on the table. “I guessed as much.”

Rutskoi rounded the table.

Shit! Drake’s face filled the screen. Fucker was somewhere else. With a webcam.

It was a trap.

“Ah, Rutskoi,” Drake said softly. “You disappoint me.”

Ten million dollars, slipping through his fingers. Rutskoi could feel it, like sand. His only hope was to rattle Drake, somehow scare him into making a mistake.

He leaned forward into the screen, staring into the tiny webcam attached to the cover. “You got away this time, Drake,” he growled, “but I’ll get you eventually. You and that bitch with you. You can count on it.” He slapped his Glock for emphasis.

Drake didn’t reply, but pulled out a cell phone. He punched in a number.

Who the fuck was he calling?

Something started beeping. A big metal box on a counter. With—Christ! — a small LED display, counting down. 10, 9, 8, 7…

Rutskoi leaped, slapped the laptop off the table.

…6, 5, 4, 3…

“Drake,” he screamed. “Son of a bitch! I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”

“I think not, Rutskoi,” Drake replied softly.

Rutskoi’s world exploded in a fiery ball of white heat.

The sounds of the explosion carried to the city center of Rome.