Ricochet.

February of 1993.

Moscow.

Spies spend a lot of time training to be on either side of a bad situation. I knew how to cause chaos, how to flush people into the open, how to lie and manipulate my way into the lives of strangers – but each skill had its opposite. I could put my charges in fortified locations, assess situations for vulnerabilities, and protect assets on the move. It was the brighter, more hopeful part of my job.

Saving lives. Protecting people.

I had a job like that in Moscow in 1993.

I stood by the wrought iron gates of a playground, arms crossed, nose numb from the cold. Half of my focus was dedicated to a three-year-old girl currently climbing onto the slide, and the other half was constantly scanning for threats. Her father, Winston Perry, had a vague job under the guise of a diplomat, which meant he was probably involved in something secretive. Denis said the plan was to kidnap the girl, to ransom her, so I didn't have to worry about snipers.

It was the people passing by, the dark coats, the tucked hoods, that earned my attention. It only took a moment for a kid to go missing in a public place like this. I was trying to blend into the background, to be just another person enjoying the park on a rare sunny day, but staying still was slowly numbing my entire body.

Emma had no pity for me.

She was the nanny, a young woman who agreed to come overseas to continue caring for the girl, Sophia, when the Perrys were relocated a couple of years ago. I had been suddenly assigned to the family this morning, and she was not a fan of me following her around all day. Wherever the kid went, I went. And I rarely spoke, giving the impression of a brainless government agent. Just a little muscle to intimidate would-be attackers.

Half an hour into the visit, Emma strolled over to stand beside me, mimicking my posture. "Why are you really here? Did someone threaten Sophia?"

I said nothing, giving her a quick glance. She looked suspicious.

"I think I have a right to know," she said.

Honesty was not always the best policy.

"No. But politics are heating up over here," I said.

She considered that, clearly not buying it. "How long are you going to be stalking us?"

"It's not up to me."

"Is anything up to you? Do you have to call your boss when you take a shit?"

She was very unlike her boss. Winston was upstanding and proper, the perfect candidate to kiss asses all day – but Emma was just a nanny, just a second mom to a kid who barely had a first mom. It seemed neglecting their kids was a trend among politicians. Sons and daughters were more like trophies to march around in public, to smile for photos with. And at home, caring for them was someone else's responsibility.

I said, "No, I keep a log."

She almost smiled, turning back to watch Sophia wander around under the play structure. "Let me know if you experience any more independent thoughts. I'll have to report it."

I liked her. Getting insulted was better than the monotony of interacting with a diplomat. Emma was a curiosity. It was brave for her to pack up and move overseas just to mother this kid. I wondered if there was nothing back home for her, or if the situation back home was far worse.

XxXxX

A few days of monotony was kind of nice. I received periodic reports from Card detailing enemy movements, a few threat assessments, likely culprits of this future crime. It seemed whoever was scoping out this family was losing interest, perhaps because of the added security.

I had proposed hanging around a little longer, not particularly worried they would go through with their plans but yearning for a little more peace in Moscow.

"Wow you are awful at this game," Emma said, flaring her cards so I could see her full house.

She was great at poker.

"I let you win," I said, folding, letting her rake my money across the table and into her lap.

She took another sip of her beer, sat back in her chair. "Yeah, sure, whatever helps your ego."

A little shuffle in the hall caught our attention.

Emma smiled, "Sounds like Sophia is up again."

I dealt the cards while she went to see the kid. Sophia was up all hours of the night, every night, often interrupting their card games. Emma said she had nightmares. I wondered what kind of nightmares a three-year-old would have – particularly one that seemed to be living the perfect life. She had a mansion, a nanny whose entire life was dedicated to her, all the food and toys she could ever want. Something had to be missing. Perhaps her parents.

When Emma returned, she sorted her cards halfheartedly.

I said, "Everything okay?"

"Bad dreams," Emma said simply, "Same as every night."

"Does she ever tell you what they're about?"

Emma shook her head, drew a card. "Your turn."

It had only been half an hour when another bump came from the hallway. But this bump was louder, heavier, and it made every hair on my neck stand up.

I was on my feet in an instant, gun out, finger to my lips to stop Emma from saying anything. Her eyes were wide, apprehensive. I went straight for the hallway, silent, quick, gun raised, listening to little taps, slides, wood moving around. Diagnostic signs of someone using an alternative door.

Sophia had the room at the end of the hall, furthest from the front door. I was there in twenty seconds, maybe less. I hesitated, listened, confirmed where I thought the targets were, and then kicked the door in, cutting on the blinding light at the tip of my gun. Essential for home invasions.

A single attacker was standing there, stunned, and he had no chance to get his gun, or grab the kid, or do anything, really. I had already shot him. The moment the door opened, I put two in his chest. He fell backward out of the window. Sophia started screaming from the bed. I rounded, feeling a presence behind me, nearly shooting Emma as she pushed past to get to the kid.

There were more people in the house.

Footsteps, shouting. Russian, heavy eastern accents. At least three of them, all coming from the front of the house.

"Outside," I whispered, grabbing Emma and shoving her toward the window. I lifted her, dumping them both out before they had a chance to get their bearings. I went after them, yanking her upright and dragging her around the corner of the house.

It was cold out. Cold. A sudden wind whipped the heat from us.

I took them around to the east side of the house, into the garden shed, where a lot of Sophia's outdoor toys were stored.

"No, don't leave!" Emma said, grabbing me as I tried to leave them there.

I pulled away, "I have to find them before they find you."

"No, please," she pleaded.

Her terror was palpable. I shook her off, letting my training kick in and push away the empathy. It was a critical skill. Emotions made you weak, gave your enemies pressure points. The best warriors could shut down the fear and get the job done in any circumstance.

I sprinted the short length from the garden shed to the back wall of the house. They had found the window by now, the body, and definitely come this way. I had to draw them off.

I fired in the direction we had come from.

Someone returned fire.

Perfect.

I broke a window, got back into the house. It was not a long fight, but the spray of bullets lit up the night. The bullets ricocheted against the house, breaking windows, shredding curtains. I killed all three inside, found that they had split up, used my only advantage – I knew the layout. Circling hallways, rooms with multiple doors. In the dark, in the cold.

A few beats in silence.

I caught my breath, checked myself. No wounds. Four dead guys. It was silent in the yard. I was careful on my way back to the shed, listening, but the danger seemed to have passed.

Until I opened the door.

Emma was on the ground, dead.

She had a wound in her neck, a ricochet, maybe.

The kid was alive, crying, holding her arms out to me.

I picked her up numbly, painfully aware that nothing could be done for Emma. Her eyes were empty, cold, and she was completely still. She had bled out in seconds.

It was done, then.

Mission accomplished.

XxXxX

"A ricochet?"

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the paper. It was my handwriting, explaining what had happened in Moscow. I filled it with tactical details, described each shot I took at the attackers, where their bodies fell. I described the hallways, the time, the sounds, their accents. And when it came to the garden shed, I spared the details. I wasn't sure why. A civilian casualty from a ricochet. End.

"You did good, sport," Card said, sitting back in his chair, folding his hands on his stomach. "We relocated the family, for the time being. It's unfortunate about the nanny, but it could have been a lot worse, if more of the staff had been home."

It could have been a lot worse.

Story of my life.

"I'm sending you on a recon mission," Card said. "Easy stuff. I need your sharp eyes and ears on this one. And you could use a break."

"When do I leave?"

"When do you want to leave?"

I looked at the clock. It had been four hours since I got off the plane from Moscow. "Now."

Card considered me for a while before he finally said, "Okay. I can do that."