Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"How's your headache?"

Rosalie's head pops up right as I slip through the door.

"All better," she says. Sprawled out on one of the leather couches facing the massive medieval stone fireplace in the center of our private sitting room, Rosalie chucks her laptop over to the cushion beside her and grins. "Absolutely nothing lingering."

"You're kidding." Cocking a brow, I cross the room, padding over the plush Persian rug topping the pristine and – what looks to be – perfectly restored original stone floor. "Nothing?"

"Nope, I checked everywhere. Twice." When I slump down on the matching couch across from hers and kick my feet up onto the antique, rough-cut coffee table between us, Rosalie shakes her head, like she can't believe it herself. "Either that motherfucker's arrogant or stupid."

We look at each other for a heartbeat before saying in unison, "Arrogant."

I laugh and then proceed to tell her about the drop point and my illuminating conversations over breakfast.

"Fuck, that guy's disgusting," she says, wrinkling her nose as she pulls her hair up into a messy ponytail. I don't say a word about her being in one of McCarty's ratty t-shirts, and instead busy myself loosening and untying my running shoes. "Seriously, I can't wait until we take his ass out and get the hell out of here."

In a move that would give Emmett a stroke if he were here, I toss my shoes and socks over by the wall and angle to face the fire. I don't know how long it's been going, but the flames roar inside the hearth, and the heat pouring out feels like a dream as it washes over my sore muscles. "So, what you're saying is you'd rather be beating the shit out of Stanley and Mallory."

"Any day." Rosalie flashes me another beatific smile. "Think they miss me?"

"Doubtful. McCarty has Weber handling the physical routines while we're all out, and she's way nicer than you." I snort. "Oh, but apparently, when she's bored, Spooky's continuing their psychological training herself… virtually." An involuntary shudder rolls down my spine, a reaction that has absolutely nothing to do with the cooler temperature of the room behind me. "I don't think I want to know what she has them doing."

"Shit." Rosalie makes an ugly face. "She's a scary little woman, you know that? Have you read her files? Like what she used to do back in the interrogation units?"

I nod, because I have read those files and I've seen her operate in person – on and off the books. Rosalie's not lying. Alice can be downright terrifying, honestly more than me sometimes. See, with me, there's an end – a bullet or broken neck or a little C4 under your car. But with Spooky… she'll just turn your brain inside out, extract what she wants, and then, smiling all the while, leave you stewing in madness.

I almost feel sorry for those damned recruits.

Rosalie gives herself her own little shake, and that ugly expression abruptly vanishes, morphing into something a little more serious. Her voice drops, too. "So, what about Masen?"

I arch against the cushions, stretching my back until the vertebrae crunch and crack, and shrug. "What about him?"

"Think he suspects?"

"Probably…" I say, grimacing. "Masen's not an idiot and he's been trained the same as us." I stretch again and then scrub my face in agitation. Dried sweat and grit from my run turn my skin tacky, reminding me all over again just how much I need a shower. "I'm sure he knows something is up, but I don't think he's put all the pieces together. He's sent out a couple of feelers, but he's still throwing off too many conflicting signals."

Across the table, Rosalie's quiet for a moment before finally blowing out a long, slow breath. "Maybe we should tell him. See how he responds."

"Not yet." Staring at the flickering red and yellow blaze, I shake my head. "Not until I get a better feel for what's really going on with him." A large, charred log at the bottom of the stack crackles and splits, sending a spray of sparking embers upward into the higher flames. "When we're alone, he acts like he wants to be the good guy, but… I watched him execute Taeb and his men. All it took was a single command from Aronov. No hesitation. No remorse. Ice runs through that man's veins."

Rosalie scoffs. "Right, like you can talk."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, but she's not exactly wrong. "I still don't know what role he had in taking out those CIA operatives." I look over to Rosalie. "But he definitely knows something about Cullen, that's for damned sure. I'd like to know what that is."

"You think Masen has him tucked away somewhere?"

"Who, Cullen?"

Rosalie hums an affirmative.

"Maybe?" Lips mashing, I sort through all the little tells and hints. I swear I'm the one that's going to end up with a migraine from all this. "Or maybe Aronov's holding onto Cullen as leverage. Or one of Aronov's buddies is doing it for him… Who knows." I give her a bland smile. "That's why we're here."

"Shit." Rosalie lets out a low whistle and then shoots me a pointed look. "Maybe Masen's just setting up to take Aronov's whole operation down. That'd explain some things."

I hope so, but all I say is a quiet, "We'll see," and then swap topics before she dives into all the other shit I really don't want to talk about. "What do you think about the drop?"

Smirking at my pitiable lack of subtlety, Rosalie grabs her laptop, taps in a quick search, and then spins the screen around. "Tonight is going to be absolute dog shit, weather-wise. Front's coming through. Temps are going to drop at least twenty degrees. Freezing rain, sleet, low visibility." She gifts me a wide, toothy, taunting grin. "In other words, perfect."

My head thumps against the rolled armrest. "Wonderful," I say, sighing more to myself than her. "Just fucking wonderful."

Rosalie's shoulders shake in undisguised amusement. The woman knows how much I hate the cold. "You want me to go?"

"No," I answer, tsking and rolling my eyes. "You need to make an appearance with Aronov. Keep that asshole busy."

"Ugh."

Normally, it'd be my turn to smirk, but I don't blame her. Aronov makes my skin crawl. "Tell me about it."

Sagging deeper in the cushions, she glances over and wrinkles her nose. "I really hope I don't have to fuck him. I'd probably puke… Or murder him the second he whipped out his cock."

"Well, that's one plan, I suppose..." My tone is as dry as a desert, but when she scowls, my lips twitch before I can stop them. "But no, I don't want it to come to that either," I say and then wave at the over-sized olive drab tee. "And I'm sure McCarty doesn't want it to."

Without warning, a down-stuffed, silk pillow with pretty little tassels flies at my head. "Fuck you, Swan."

The clock chimes nine right as I give the windowsill, frame, and nearby walls a final once-over, searching for any hint of alarm or motion detection. Just like Rosalie said, there's absolutely nothing. The room is clean, something neither of us expected.

Frankly, it's more than a little suspicious, but every time I look around, my radar pings for a different reason. It's this tiny tingle in the back of my head that says Masen had something to do with this. I don't know how, or why, and maybe it's just wishful thinking, but I'd bet my last paycheck on it.

Either way, I need to move.

With a quick zip of my jacket, I pull my balaclava down, tug on a pair of gloves, and ease out of the window onto the narrow stone shelf two feet below the sill. The thing is no more than a foot wide, and at three stories off the ground, it's a precarious perch, especially in the dark and with tonight's wind, but that's what sticky shoes and training are for. Worrying about falling is a waste of time.

Low and silent, I creep like a black-on-black shadow along the ledge toward the western corner fifty yards away. There's a minor hole in their grid there, where the angles of the cameras don't quite overlap. Once the sleet and freezing rain really start coming down, the cameras won't matter at all, especially with the darkness of the compound, but for now, I need to avoid them. Right along that corner edge, a heavy, black iron gutter leads all the way down to the gardens and mazes.

It's a slow, halting trek along my little ledge. Halfway there, right as I'm ducking under another pair of windows, a lamp comes to life inside the room, and its soft, warm light shines like a beacon through the glass. I scramble left and plaster myself against the rough stone bricks, just in time to avoid the outward swing of the casement style window.

Men's voices, quiet, deep, and in rapid-fire Russian, filter out. The whipping wind muffles the conversation, but I pick out a word or two and hear enough to know that one of them is Aronov's Dmitri. Without warning, a calloused hand breaks the plane of the window, coming far too close for comfort, to flick the glowing butt of a cigarette.

Fuck.

It takes them a solid five minutes to move on, and for the entirety of that time, I don't move an inch. No, instead, I just freeze my ass off and try to avoid the curls of pungent smoke from Dmitri's hand-rolled cigarettes. I'm just grateful they're not puffing cigars. Those things reek and take for-fucking-ever to burn down.

My muscles uncoil when the window finally clicks shut. A beat later, the light vanishes, and with no more than a single, slow breath of relief, I start moving again, not stopping until I'm right at my target corner. Stealing a fast glance at the dark ground below, I grab the gutter and give it a hard tug, just to test the bolts holding it to the stone. The thing doesn't even rattle, and as I swing out, plant my feet, and lean back, I throw up a quick prayer of thanks to the artisans of old.

With the grip of my gloves, the sturdiness of the iron, and the coarseness of the stone beneath my shoes, the descent feels like child's play - just quick little ropeless rappel walk down. Climbing back up will be another story, especially with gear, but I figure as long as I can get back before the gutter's layered in ice, I'll be fine.

My soles hit the grass with a muted thud, and I immediately dart into the shadows behind the closest line of hedges. Taking a second to adjust my mental map, I peek over the top, watching for the guards and especially those damned dogs. Those Malinois are the last thing I want to deal with tonight. They're loud, and their teeth hurt like a bitch.

But more importantly, I like dogs, even grumpy dogs, far more than I like their handlers, and I have absolutely zero desire to hurt one just for doing its fucking job.

The guards… they're another story.

As quiet as a church mouse, I drop low and thread between the rows of tall winter hedges in a slow, winding, circuitous path through the maze of bushes and sculpted tress, avoiding the spiderweb of cameras and motion equipment I tagged just this morning.

Three rows deep, gravel crunches.

Like on the ledge, I instantly freeze, holding my breath as I stare through the sparser branches at the bottom of the bushes and watch a pair of black combat boots slowly meander toward me. Angled down in a low ready, the barrel of a brand spanking new A-545 rifle glints in the dark. On instinct, my muscles flex and loosen. My heart rate slows to a steady thump, readying for the strike as I simultaneously sink even lower to the ground and hug tight against the hedge.

A young, dark-haired guard stops right on the other side.

His gear clanks in the silence as he brushes up against the prickly leaves and branches. I feel him more than I see him as he scans the gardens over the top of the hedge line.

All that motherfucker has to do is lean forward, just a little, and look down, and my night's going to get a lot more interesting.

Listening, I track his movements.

He steps left, then right, and then he turns back. He's right on top of me again and surveying the grounds.

Just when I think I'm going to have to either take him out or retreat back to our rooms, his radio bleats out a pulse of static, followed by a low baritone growling in Russian. "Oleg, gde ty?"

Tsking under his breath, Oleg angles toward one of the buildings in the distance and taps the mike clipped to his tactical vest. "V labirinte."

"Tashchi svoyu zadnitsu syuda."

"Da, da, khorosho," Oleg says back and then spits over the bushes, barely missing me.I almost laugh when he mutters a low, grumbled, "Mudak."

Assholes, they may be, but I'm with his comrades; I'm all for this kid getting his ass back to wherever he's stationed.

Oleg paces behind the hedges, like some primitive part of his hindbrain knows I'm there, but after another thirty seconds of electrified tension, where the cool air ghosting across my skin feels like it's sparking, right on the verge of combustion, he finally clucks his tongue and moves on. Still tucked in my tiny ball, I watch him through the branches as he ambles back toward the north side of the house, following the same gravel path through the lines of hedges.

My back hits the perimeter wall ten minutes later, and with a quick glimpse at my wrist to time the guards, I slink toward the gates. Like they should be, the massive wrought iron affair stands closed, but there's a hinged walkthrough on the left-hand side sitting ajar. Either Aronov's guards are lazy, or their night rounds include an exterior patrol.

I hope they're just lazy.

But… fifteen yards. That's all I need to clear before I'm out.

And I may not have another chance to get to that drop point if I don't get my ass out there tonight.

Creeping toward the walkthrough, I pick up a pair of guards in the distance, crossing the lawn between the guard shack and the main house. A ninety-pound ball of fur and teeth walks between them, and even though I'm downwind and nearly seventy-five yards away, I shoot behind a stone pillar and go as still as death itself. I stay there, barely breathing, until the guards and their canine friend slip through a heavy wooden door leading into one of the adjacent buildings.

"Okay, Swan, let's go," I whisper to myself, and with one last lightning-quick scan of the compound, I suck in a deep breath and pop out from behind the pillar. I dash across those last remaining yards to the narrow opening of the walkthrough. As soon as my shoe hits stone, I lay on the speed, whipping around the metal latticework to target the darkness and shadows of the exterior wall.

Instead of taking the paved drive, I jump the waist-high ditch on the side of the road and enter the fields. Sneaking between the long lines of dormant vines, beneath the moonlit sky, I move from row to row to row in a random zigzag pattern, following the map of cameras and alarms I memorized on my run this morning. Here and there, vines snag my jacket, but I don't slow down, not until I hit the line of tall, skinny cypresses.

Even though my watch says only thirty minutes pass, it feels like it takes forever to cross the vineyard and reach that ramshackle building tucked in the middle of Aronov's olive grove. But as I slowly circle the trunk of one of the larger trees and duck beneath one of its sweeping boughs, I grin.

It's deathly quiet out here, and with the soft, foggy glow of the moon behind the low-slung clouds, there's just enough light to make out the shape of the crumpled roofline and the black mouth of the vacant door.

I prowl to the doorway, pausing low and tight against the adjacent wall to scan the immediate area. Looking out into the dark, I see nothing more than dancing shadows. Gusts of wind rustle the trees, and somewhere in the distance, I pick up the low rumble of an engine, but hollow and muffled, it's barely more than an echo.

Dropping to a knee, I peer into the hollowed-out building. With the caved in roof, the moonlight filters in, illuminating the cobblestone floor. Antique steel and wooden farm implements hang from the crumbling walls. Broken ladders lay across the floor, and in the corner, sits an ancient manually driven olive press, complete with a pair of enormous stone grinding wheels and lever.

Bingo.

I ease through the open door and cross the stone floor in a handful of quick strides, aiming for the wheels and the screw press a dozen feet away.

When I peek around the press, another grin curves my lips. "Thank you, McCarty," I whisper, instantly locating the all-too-familiar outline of a black, heavy denier pack and matching compact rifle case.

Kneeling, I target the pack and unzip the outer compartment to find my Glock, already fitted with BSA's latest and greatest experimental suppressor. Coupled with my subsonic rounds, this thing'll fire barely above a whisper. Not wasting any time, I grab a magazine, pop it into the well, and slip the weapon under my jacket into the back waistband of my leggings. "Better."

I check my wrist again, cursing under my breath when I see it's almost ten. But about the time I go to shoulder my pack and rifle, the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

Every cell in by body stills.

Almost as if in slow motion, I catch a whiff of a light, musky male aftershave on the breeze, right as a twig snaps just outside the door. Silently, never looking away from the empty door, I lower my gear back to the stone floor and reach behind me to grab my Glock. I pull my weapon out, aiming chest-high at the door.

"Kto zdes'?" a man abruptly yells, and I piece the voice with the same blond gate guard from this morning.

I don't respond. Instead, as soon as I eye the reflection off his carbine as it edges around the doorframe, I spin on my heel and throw myself behind the grinding wheels.

Mother. Fucker.

There's no possible way this is ending well, not when Masen's Andrey spots my gear on the floor and bellows another garbled command for me to show myself in Russian.

Of course, I don't.

I'm not stupid.

I throw a handful of pebbles across the room to draw his eyes and cover my movement and then belly crawl from the grinding stones to the press. As soon as I hit the press, in a single, whip-quick move, I vault up and sprint to a wide, two-by-two column in the center of the room.

The blond is fast, but like Masen told him just this morning, there's no way he's catching me. Before he can grab his radio, I bolt from behind the column and rush him.

His eyes boggle with instant shock and panic.

Lowering my shoulder, I slam into him, knocking us both into the wall in a spray of debris and rocky shards. The guard lets out a strangled cry as his head pops against the stone, and I use that split second of pain and confusion to snatch the barrel of his rifle and twist it out of his grip. His rifle sling swivels and catches around his neck like a noose, and I use it as a pivot, swinging around behind him and choking him with the wide canvas strap.

A hard, meaty fist glances off my shoulder, and I kick his legs out from under him. When he goes to punch me again, I take his rifle and spin it like a corkscrew, cinching the strap tighter and tighter around his throat.

"Vy odin?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Because if he wasn't alone, I'd already be dead.

Or at least a lot less alive.

"Da," Andrey answers, sputtering and gasping for air. I yank his mike off his vest and throw it into the corner of the room. His arms flail, trying to grab me, but on his knees and slowly choking out, he's hitting nothing but air.

"Vy lzhete mne." I spin his rifle again, cranking down on the strap as it turns, and then ram the pretty, new suppressed barrel of my Glock into the soft tissue directly beneath his chin.

Andrey hacks out a panicked, "Net! Ya ne lgu! Ya klyanus'."

Goddamnit.

I want to kick myself for this shit.

I should have known better.

What a fucking disaster.

"Alright," I say, slowly easing off the tension. "Where's the other guards? Where's the dogs?" I ram my knee into his kidney, earning a low, wheezy groan of pain. "Gde ostal'nyye okhranniki? Sobaki?"

"Ikh zdes' net. Oni na territorii kompleksa…" The guard's eyes roll up, trying to find me, and his voice goes soft and pleading. "Nezachem ubivat' menya."

That's where you're wrong, buddy. We can't afford loose strings right now.

Plus, judging by the telltale images stamped on his knuckles and glinting in the moonlight, Andrey here has done his fair share of evil.

Not to mention the fact that his hand's slowly creeping down to his ankle, to the matte black combat knife sticking out of his boot.

I give the guy a small, sad smile, and like the cold-blooded executioner I am, I pull my trigger and take his ass out.

Whitlock's going to give me so much shit for this.

.

.

.

Notes:

Russian (transliterated):

Oleg, gde ty: Oleg, where are you

V labirinte: In the maze (or labyrinth)

Tashchi svoyu zadnitsu syuda: Get your ass back here

Da, da, khorosho: Yeah, yeah, okay

Mudak: Asshole

Vy odin: Are you alone?

Da: Yes

Vy lzhete mne: You're lying to me

Net! Ya ne lgu! Ya klyanus': No! I'm not lying! I swear it

Gde ostal'nyye okhranniki? Sobaki: Where are the other guards? The dogs?

Ikh zdes' net. Oni na territorii kompleksa: They're not here. They're at the compound.

Nezachem ubivat' menya: There is no need to kill me.

Glossary:

A-545: a modernized variant of the AEK-971 assault rifle, which is currently manufactured by Degtyaryov Plant (one of the most important weapons producers in Russia). It's chambered 5.45x39mm or 7.62x39mm. The weapon is used by Spetznaz and some Airborne personnel

Suppressor: also known as a silencer. This is a handy little device that you attach to a rifle or a pistol to reduce the sound the weapon makes when it fires. Despite what Hollywood wants you to believe, a suppressor alone won't make your weapon silent (usually will take you down to roughly the decibel level of a vacuum). For real silence, you need special subsonic ammo.

Subsonic ammunition: is ammunition that operates at velocities below the speed of sound. This avoids the supersonic shockwave or crack of a supersonic bullet, which, particularly for suppressed firearms, influences the loudness of the shot. In some specific weapon/suppressor/subsonic ammo combinations, you can achieve a shot that's very close to silent.