"Okay, Sully, the guys who protect the violin travel with no bodyguards or anything. They're strictly old men. Huh, kinda like you."

Sully only glared. Drake continued, "All we have to do is slip in before the concert and get the violin. Sully?"

Sully had been staring at some young college girls walking by. Drake gave him a shove. "Dammit, Sully, pay attention. Listen, you're in the getaway car. Once I have the violin, we need to be gone. This is easy, but we can't afford to make mistakes. I'm not rotting in prison again, all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Nate, I gotcha." Sully had resumed staring. Drake sighed. "This is what happens when you team up with a dirty old man," he muttered to himself.

Nate checked his watch. It read 6:45. The concert didn't start until half past 7, and he knew that the violin is only taken out fifteen minutes before the beginning as a security measure. That gave him exactly a half hour. "Here goes nothing," Drake said, a little rusty after months of no adventure.

He decided the best route to take, after studying the theater's layout, was to cut through the maintenance room in the basement, and head up to first floor, where a service elevator lied. He would take that elevator to the second floor, where the violin and its unimposing professorial escorts awaited. Then, it would be a simple matter of stealth, and he would weave his way to the room, take out the old men, extract the violin from its case, put it in his bag, jump down a few ledges, and voila. As the bastard Harry Flynn would say, "Bob's your uncle."

After hiding in the luggage compartment of the plane for four hours (Drake nearly broke his leg while sneaking on board, he was lucky there wasn't much security at the small airport), Drake feared his body wouldn't be able to carry on.

The plan went excellently. But, as always, there was a problem. When he approached the room containing the mysterious violin, Drake found two police offers, fully armed with bullet proof vests and handguns. He ducked behind a large cart in the hallway, trying to concoct a plan. There was no way he could take out two policemen at once, but if he could isolate one and use his radio to make a fake distress call, he could peel off some guards to another location. Fortunately, one of the policemen starting walking toward him. Perfect.

When the policeman was two feet way, Drake lurched out, grabbed the poor officer's shirt, and slammed his head against the wall furtively. The policeman was instantly concussed and he lied on the floor unconscious. Drake tried to find a radio, but there was nothing but a nightstick. Of course. Had needed to revert to be Plan B - but as always, he didn't have one.

Drake grabbed the nightstick and threw it into the middle of the hall way as a distraction. In previous firefights he'd used live grenades, but, eh, this wasn't exactly "desperate times," as Chloe put it. The policeman, confused, instantly panicked and looked around for his partner. When his head was turned away, Drake sprung into action, jumping on his back and grabbing his neck. It was a matter of seconds. Drake situated the body behind the cart.

"Okay," Drake mumbled. The door was locked. He peered through a small glass opening and found four suited men around a table. They had gray hair, skinny arms, and spoke German. Drake suddenly remembered the skeleton of the Nazi officer he had found in the submarine lodged in mountain. He shuddered and tried to move those thoughts away.

Cracking his knuckles, Drake prepared himself for action. Grabbing his trusty piece of wire, Drake unlocked the door and barged in.

"No, Mozart would not have composed a piece in A minor–"

"Why not? How could this work not be by Mozart– ah!"

The four men exclaimed. Their eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. There was no movement in the room. The silence was, well, awkward.

"Please, sir, don't, err, kill us," one of the men meekly spoke.

Drake coolly closed the door and locked it behind him. He folded his arms imposingly. Not exactly the largest or scariest man in the business, he was proud to have finally scared somebody into submission without a fight. "Just the violin."

One of the men pointed to a case on a table. "Over there, sir," the man said. His lip was quivering like a child.

Drake took two steps forward and suddenly there was a sonorous crash. The glass of the window had been smashed, and someone, their face hidden by the shadow, had barged in. Drake pulled out his switchblade and pointed. "Hey, man, I don't want any trouble..."

Two of the four men had practically fainted.

"Drake?" the shadow voice asked.

Perplexed, Drake noticed familiarity in the voice, and remarked, "Chloe?"

The figure stepped forward. It indeed was the Australian treasure-hunting femme fatale. Boy, did he remember her. That was years ago. How could she find him? Drake was stunned. "What are you, uh, what are you doing here, Chloe?"

"I have the same question!" Chloe replied, a silver handgun in her grip. She raised the gun toward Drake.

"Hey, hey, I don't want any trouble." Drake's heart was pounding. Was she going to kill him? Impossible, he thought. Chloe and he, well, they had history, but they weren't enemies. In fact, they had cooperated and collaborated on a variety of occasions, oftentimes getting stuck in hairy situations. He continued, "What the hell ya doing here anyway?"

"I'm working for someone." Chloe pointed the gun towards the men and demanded, "Violin?" She proceeded to advance toward the sacred instrument when Drake blocked her path.

"Thanks for the immense detail, Frazer. Our clients can't possibly be wanting the same thing."

"You mean to say your client wants some violin, too?"

"Yeah. Why the hell else would I leave prison and come to Boston, of all places?"

"You were in prison?"

"Yeah, that stuff later," Drake dodged, trying to evade her cunning scrutiny. "Who are you working for?"

"That's confidential, my friend," Chloe responded. Only a few feet away from him, she pointed her gun at Drake and said coldly, "I need you to move, or I will pull the trigger." Sure, she had loved him a few years ago. But that was it. He'd married Elena, he'd moved, and she was left with no one. Just memories of a man whom she thought loved her back. No doubt, she was definitely still bitter. She had tried to suppress it while in England and Syria a few years ago, but the feelings bounced back. And as they did, so did her anger.

Drake sensed something suspicious. Mozart's violin was prized, surely, but it was merely an instrument. Unless Sully's contact or Chloe's client happened to be music aficionados, there had to be something more significant about the violin.

"Hey, relax, okay?" Drake raised his hands. "You don't think there's anything fishy about this, do you?"

Chloe was in the process of dismantling the violin's case when she took a pause. Drake was intuitive, and even if he had been a moron, his gut was usually always right. It wouldn't hurt to hear him out, her heart told her. Her mind tried to shove him away, she even considered shooting him right then and there. Damn human emotion, she thought. "What are you thinking?"

"It's a violin. It's a piece of wood. No two clients would want the same piece of wood unless they're classical music fans, the violin has more to it than what we can see, or our clients are the same guy."

Chloe decided to take a leap of faith. You're not supposed to reveal the identity of your client to anyone, as per protocol, but her mind wasn't in control anymore. Her heart was. "Some Italian guy, his name is Paul, he's situated somewhere here"–she gestured towards the window–"in this city. Now, I'm Australian, I don't know Boston. Who's your's?"

Drake stared at a spot on ground.

"I hate it when he does this," Chloe remarked, and rubbed her eyes. "Who's the client, Drake?"

"Same guy."