“How dare you—” Malnikov started, his face flushing.

“How much?” Cloud screamed, interrupting Malnikov before he could finish his sentence. Cloud raised his index finger and pointed it at Malnikov’s reddening face.

Malnikov sat back. His nostrils flared. His teeth flashed. He had a murderous look in his eyes, as if he was debating in his head whether to kill Cloud right then and there.

The door burst open. One of the gunmen stepped inside and trained the submachine gun on Cloud.

Malnikov held up his hand and shot his guard a look. “Get the fuck out!” he barked.

After the door shut, he turned back to Cloud. For a few moments, Malnikov was silent. He tried to cool off and regain his composure. He knew he needed to be rational, especially now.

*   *   *

Malnikov’s life, thanks to his father, was already one of privilege. It was his father who spent two decades fighting for control of organized crime in Russia. Alexei Malnikov was the recipient of a generation’s worth of blackmail, bribery, extortion, and murder. When Yuri Malnikov was arrested, Alexei became the boss of the Russian underworld. That was when he moved to acquire his nuclear leverage.

Three weeks before, after more than two years of bribes, threats, and more bribes, Malnikov had finally succeeded in pressuring a corrupt Ukrainian general named Bokolov into selling him a stolen 1953 Soviet-made thirty-kiloton nuclear bomb. Malnikov had bought it in order to create leverage for himself. It was an insurance policy, which he intended to use only if he was ever incarcerated by FSB or a foreign law enforcement agency, as his father had been the year before. Yuri Malnikov had been arrested on his yacht off the coast of Florida by the FBI and was now confined within the Colorado prison called ADX Florence, aka Supermax, where he would likely spend the rest of his life.

But Alexei Malnikov was wrong. Very wrong. It took less than one day for him to regret the move. He hated the nuke and wished he’d never bought it. The leverage he thought he would garner by owning it was soon replaced by paranoia.

Malnikov, who moved more heroin than any other mobster on the face of the earth, had let hubris take over. Not content with the money, the unfettered access to women, luxury homes, art, rare wines, and whatever else a black AmEx could buy, he somehow came to think possession of the bomb would insulate him from the one thing every mobster feared: the lawman. But he miscalculated. When you tried to buy or—God forbid—own a nuclear weapon, you were no longer fucking with the lawman. You were fucking with nations.

Malnikov had made a grave error and wanted desperately to get rid of it.

There were the jihadists. Already a representative from ISIS had made entreaties through an affiliate in Chechnya. Hezbollah would not be far behind. How ISIS knew about the nuclear device he didn’t know, but it scared him to his core. Eventually, if he was unwilling to sell, the day would come when the towel heads would send a suicide bomber to the nightclub or his home.

But the jihadists were not what worried Malnikov most. It was America, specifically the CIA.

His drugs and other vices were not a top priority of the CIA. They had bigger fish to fry. The nuclear bomb made him one of those bigger fish, and being a target of the CIA was the last thing he needed. If Langley suspected he possessed the bomb, his Russian ass could end up in a Guantánamo Bay sweatbox for the next decade. Unless the Americans decided to simply kill him and be done with it.

It was time to move the fucking nuke. And it was Cloud who held the key.

He took a deep breath and looked at Cloud.

“Let’s calm down a little,” suggested Malnikov. “We’re on the same page.”

Malnikov felt Cloud’s eyes on him. The genius computer hacker was either oblivious of the risk of owning the bomb, or he simply didn’t give a fuck.

Malnikov, like everyone who came into contact with Cloud, feared him. He was flamboyant, ruthless, and creepy. It was rumored that he’d helped manipulate U.S. air traffic control systems in the days leading up to 9/11, participating in the greatest terror attack in American history.

If he crossed Cloud, Cloud could do a great deal of damage, and very, very quickly. In Cloud’s hands, computers were weapons.

Malnikov took another sip of vodka, then glanced in Cloud’s direction.

“One hundred million dollars,” said Malnikov.

Cloud was silent. His eyes looked like a calculator as they blinked and darted about, his brain conducting calculations in his head. After more than half a minute, his eyes shot to Malnikov.

“One hundred million?” Cloud asked. “That sounds reasonable.”

Cloud leaned toward Malnikov, his hand outstretched.

“Good,” said Malnikov, smiling, relieved.

“When will you be wiring me the money?” asked Cloud.

Malnikov did a double take.

“What did you say?”

“When will you wire me the money?” Cloud repeated, an innocent smile on his face.

Malnikov stood up from the sofa. He took two steps, raised his arm, and started to swing at Cloud.

Cloud held up his hand, interrupting Malnikov.

“I assume it will come from your account in the Guernsey Islands?” continued Cloud, just before Malnikov struck him.

Malnikov caught himself, stopping his swing just inches from Cloud’s cheek.

“In fact, I took the liberty of taking the first fifty million before coming over,” said Cloud. “You know, these encryption keys are very difficult to penetrate these days. It took me nearly ten minutes to get inside the bank. They really are becoming much more sophisticated with these firewalls and other accoutrements.”

Malnikov stared at Cloud, his mouth agape, then staggered to his desk. He typed into his laptop, frantically signing into his bank account. After nearly a minute, he looked up at Cloud.

“What have you done?” he whispered, hatred in his voice.

Malnikov reached to the gun on top of his desk. He lifted it, chambered a round, then pointed it at Cloud.

Cloud stood up, clutching his crystal highball glass, staring back at Malnikov, then at the muzzle of the pistol. Cloud’s smile abruptly vanished. He shook his head.

“What am I going to do with you, Alexei?” asked Cloud empathetically. “You don’t seem to understand, do you?”

Cloud swigged the last of the vodka, paused a half second, then dropped the glass to the concrete floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Malnikov moved around the desk and stepped in front of Cloud. He was half a foot taller than Cloud and dramatically wider. He could’ve broken Cloud in half with his bare hands. Any other man, and he would have. Malnikov moved the muzzle of the gun to within an inch of Cloud’s right eye.

“I want every cent of my money back, you little fuck!” Malnikov seethed. “As for the nuclear bomb, you can fuck yourself in the ass. Look into that muzzle, you little nerd, because it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”

Cloud’s demeanor remained placid, even dismissive.

“Who do you think had your father thrown in jail?” asked Cloud. “The most powerful mobster in Russia, perhaps the world, and I had him set up, then chopped down like a weed. It was so easy I found myself laughing afterward. He will never leave the U.S. prison, not for the rest of his life.”

Malnikov’s mouth opened in shock and disbelief. He reached for his chest.

“Why…?”

“Why? Because I knew your father would never be stupid enough to acquire a nuclear bomb, and you would.”

Malnikov tried to speak, but couldn’t.

“If you want me to take the bomb, you will pay me, Alexei. If you complain, I’ll drain the rest of the account. Delivery of the nuclear device will be to a dock in Sevastopol tonight, at midnight.”

“I don’t even understand what you’re threatening,” whispered Malnikov, his hand shaking. “I don’t have the time to get it to Sevastopol by tonight.”