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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"Okay, now, what the fuck is going on?"

Waiting for Whitlock to come back, I glance at Rosalie through the mirror and signal her to do a final check of the hallway outside. As she pops her head out the door, I step out of my stupidly high heels and sink my aching toes into the plush piling of the ornate Persian rug.

I swear, after this is over, I'm never wearing heels again.

Regardless, while I've been in my fair share of fancy women's lounges and facilities, this one is something else altogether. As large as any living room or formal parlor, it's another museum in and of itself. Original frescoes cover the walls and the high, arced ceiling above. The scenes here are dainty and distinctly feminine, too, each meticulously restored and framed by elaborate ivory paneling and woodwork. Rare floral silk and brocade-covered antiques sit on top of intricate, hand-laid parquet flooring, all warmly lit by the stunning crystal waterfall chandelier suspended in the center.

Rosalie hits the lock – just in case – and crosses the room to join me. Being the genteel lady she is, she hikes up her skirt, plops down on one of the elegant settees, and kicks her feet up on a gilt and marble table.

McCarty would give me so much crap for that, but as soon as I start to tease her, Whitlock whispers in my ear.

"Spooky and Em just made it to that shed outside the compound," he says, curt and all business. In the background, I pick up keys clacking a mile a minute. "Seth and Leah are still ten minutes out." He pauses for a second, I'm assuming to listen to something coming in from the other feed. "They're saying with the wind direction, they'll approach via the stables to the north."

I was wondering who Eli would send.

It's surprising and maybe a little flattering that he'd loan me two of his star pupils. While official kill counts are never, ever discussed, I suspect Leah's rival my own, and the last time I ran into her slim and quietly unobtrusive partner, Seth had just finished burying a knife through the back of some jackass terrorist's skull.

So, yeah, they're a more than welcome surprise.

Then again, maybe they're not so surprising after all. Eli knows Platt's going to owe him personally for this, and that's no small thing in our corner of the world.

My lips curve.

See, Aronov just thinks he's ruthless.

That fucker's got nothing on El'azar Dayan.

Leaning against the arm of the armchair opposite Rosalie, I tip my head back and study the idyllic scene painted on the ceiling above. "How's it looking?"

Whitlock tsks at something before replying. "With this shitty ass weather, satellites are useless. Em's sending up a drone to do a final scope of the compound before they go in."

"Good." I nod absently and close my eyes, picturing the layout of the courtyard and the meandering patrol patterns through the gardens that Aronov's guards always seem to follow. "That'll flush out those Malinois if they're out, too."

"Exactly, and don't worry, everyone's been briefed on Markovsky's pet marksman, Oleg. They know to steer clear of him," he says, keys still clacking away. "And you, don't forget that I will not be able to keep up with you and them. Once they start their approach, I'll have to mute you, so you and Rose'll be on your own for a few hours."

Rosalie rolls her eyes. "No fucking shit."

My shoulders shake, stretching the delicate fabric of my dress. "Ignore her," I say, laughing harder when she flips me off. "Aronov just pissed her off when we came in."

"I'll show that motherfucker arm candy." Rosalie shoots me a hateful glare – the kind that'd make any recruit run home crying – and this time, she flips off the door leading out into the hall. "I'll arm candy his ass into next fucking week."

"Stop," I tell her, patting my bottom lids before my mascara smudges. While nothing on this planet is more entertaining than Rosalie Hale going off on some sexist asshole, now's not the time. "So, what's our surprise?"

"I'm pretty sure Tarkhan-Ali Basayev, aka Ali, is about to crash your party."

Rosalie's glare turns into a scowl. "Excuse you?"

Whitlock huffs out a loud, annoyed breath. "A few minutes ago, a notification came in from that camera Masen left outside that house across town where Koshmarin met him."

"Damn it," I mutter, shoving off the couch to pace the rug. "How do you know he's coming here?"

"I checked the recording. Camera picked him up, along with two no-neck bruisers and someone else I couldn't make out, getting into the car," he says. "I was able to track them through the city's security network, but the feed cut out completely a few blocks away from Aronov's property."

"Cut out?"

"Most likely by design." Pausing again, Whitlock hums. "Considering his myriad business activities and the elusive nature of some of his clientele, Aronov probably had his people pay the city to have all his properties blacked out."

It takes me a second to register everything Whitlock is telling me. "Wait, Aronov's property? He didn't rent this place?"

"No," Whitlock says, and this time, I hear the telltale shuffle of paper. "Building you're in is registered to a private entity out of Jersey. Took some digging behind a firewall, but it turns out, it's just another one of his subsidiaries, buried three levels deep under MirProm. Supposedly headed by some dead uncle of his."

Rosalie snorts and grabs a handful of jewel-colored candies from a crystal dish on the table beside her. "Explains why that fucker's so nonchalant about who's here and what's going on." Popping a candy in her mouth, she flicks the wrapper at me, missing by a mile. "And you're sure Ali's coming here? Why? I thought Koshmarin was dealing with him on the down low."

I'm pretty sure I can hear Whitlock's eyes rolling.

"I know you people think I'm omniscient, which, okay, I get, but I don't actually know everything." He snaps that out, and when he catches me snickering, Whitlock grumbles something very impolite under his breath. "Look, I'm as sure as I can be considering I'm sitting in a fucking hotel room trying to keep track of two completely different objectives and four people who rarely, if ever, cooperate." He makes another aggravated noise before coming back, this time almost cheerfully. "But I guess you'll know for sure soon enough, now, won't you?"

"Ohhh, someone's pissy tonight," Rosalie says, damned near crooning. Grinning at me, her blue eyes spark with mischief, and I know that whatever's about to come out of her mouth isn't going to be good. "Did Spooky shoot you down or something?"

I clap a hand over my mouth.

"Fuck you, Hale," he mutters, then adds with a tired, resigned sigh, "Be careful and at least try not to die tonight, okay? I've got enough shit to deal with."

Rosalie shoots me a knowing wink. "Yeah, yeah, we love you, too, asshole."

A few minutes later, after downing half the candy bowl, Rosalie puts herself back together and slips out of the room to find Masen. Giving her a head start, I take the time to fix my hair, pinning and repinning a few misbehaving strands. Between Aronov's constant touches and the silkiness from whatever treatment Bianca's salon put in it, I know I'm fighting a losing battle, but it's as good an excuse as any for being gone.

Giving myself a final, critical once over in the mirror, I cram my toes back into my ridiculous heels, throw on a polite, bland smile, and step out into the hall. Like the walk over, the hallway is pleasantly dimmed and vacant, quiet but for the distant, muffled rumble of the crowd out in the ballroom and the occasional metallic clank of silverware against fine bone china.

Without warning, a deep, chuckling baritone filters out from the perpendicular hall ahead. On instinct, I slow my approach and let the wide center carpet mute my footfalls. The man says something else – some blend of heavily accented English mixed with a few words of broken Russian – and then I catch the rustle of fabric, followed by the telltale smack of flesh hitting flesh.

Damn it.

My fists automatically ball, and as I creep around the corner, it takes everything I have to still when I spot the familiar outline of sleazy, slimy Dobroshi dragging one of Kaius' girls by the elbow. Oblivious to my presence, they're a solid twenty yards away. But even from here, I can tell the girl is strikingly beautiful. Tall, leggy, and with long, wavy hair the color of autumn leaves, she's maybe eighteen. But like Snegurochka, she's got the moves and demeanor of someone far, far older.

The girl says something, and Dobroshi abruptly slams her against the wall. One tattooed hand grips her by the throat while the other reaches for his zipper as he simultaneously assaults her with his mouth.

My heart hammers an angry, violent rhythm, but in the split second I debate how to stop this bullshit without giving myself away, the girl lets out a peal of sensual, soprano laughter, and she rubs herself suggestively against his thigh. Long, manicured fingernails scrape down his chest to his waist and belt buckle as she purrs something else in his ear, and before I can blink, Dobroshi yanks her off the wall and shoves her through an open door. He grins a nasty, lascivious grin before following her inside and then thumps the door shut behind them.

I fucking hate this place.

I hate everything about it.

Propping myself against the wall, I suck in a handful of slow, grounding breaths to calm the furious pounding in my chest. For just a second, I close my eyes, imagining that I'm somewhere – anywhere – else, but then with a hard internal shake, I push off the wall, square my shoulders, and plaster back on my bland, bored smile.

And I pretend like all of this is absolutely normal.

Just like I pretend I don't notice my internal radar lighting off like an air raid siren. Or the sudden pulse of electrified energy approaching from behind me.

Without turning, I reach for the corner, supporting myself like I need it for balance, and act like I'm adjusting one of my heels. Fiddling with the tip, I make a pouty, frustrated noise as I silently count down the soft pads of leather soles hitting the carpet.

By the time he's ten feet away, I can smell him. A wave of expensive cigar smoke and cognac billows out in front of him and washes over me. There's something else in there, too. I inhale again, and this time, I pick out the distinct metallic tang of old gunpowder buried under the cloying musk of an exotic male cologne. It's an unmistakable combination, common to a very particular cross-section of men inhabiting a small handful of regions throughout the world.

I guess Whitlock was right after all.

"Privyet printsessa."

On cue, I startle and stiffen as a heavy, calloused hand slides around my waist and flattens over my lower abdomen. Another wave of cigar smoke and cognac hits my nose right as a thick, wiry beard scratches my neck and cheek.

Without a hint of hesitation, Basayev – aka Koshamarin's Ali – runs his nose up and down my face, from my chin to my hairline. He sniffs me like a fucking dog, letting out a low groan that makes my stomach threaten to revolt, and then purrs in my ear, "Ty – prelestnaya malen'kaya shtuchka."

Seriously?

This guy is unreal, yet another asshole with no concept of boundaries or appropriate behavior. And I'm going to kill every last one of them, if for no reason other than principle alone. I'll enjoy it, too.

But alas, not yet.

Instead of doing what I really want to do, I play my part. Jerking and squirming against the unexpected hold, I let out a hoarse, terrified yelp. "Wha– oh, my God, let me go!"

A hand clamps over my mouth, reeking of smoke and alcohol, and his grip on my waist tightens. He spins me around, and I wince when my spine pops against the edge of the corner.

"American?" Basayev asks. Unlike Aronov's light, sophisticated lilt, this one's accent is thick and heavy, and he spits the words like an insult. "You are American?"

Like a good little actress, my eyes widen into saucers as I take in the dark-haired, dark-eyed man trapping me against the wall. While dressed for the occasion, it's obvious Basayev's wide, muscled frame is far more at home in fatigues and rougher surroundings. His beard, peppered with gray, hangs long and unkempt, and like Dobroshi and Koshmarin, I spy thick lines of black ink peeking out from his collar.

"Yes. Yes, I am," I whisper, breathless and panicky, when he finally removes his hand. I nod for emphasis, and in response, his cheeks spread into a vicious, chilling smile that might as well be knives carving into my skin.

"You must be brunette girl Kaius told me so much about." Basayev grabs me by the chin and pinches, turning my face back and forth like I'm some kind of livestock up for inspection. "Isabella, yes?"

I nod again, this time frantically.

When I twist in a half-hearted attempt to evade him, Basayev laughs, and his hold on my waist loosens, only to slide up my ribcage. I freeze as his gaze falls to the low neckline of my dress, and then I force a shudder when he licks his lips.

"Kaius' description was poor one." Leaning into me, he rumbles another low laugh as his hands start roaming. "I will tell him I accept this gift."

Really?

Fucking really?

"Look, I– I think there's been a mix-up," I say, letting my voice bleat and stutter. I even manage a little wetness along the bottom line of my eyelids. Still squirming, I fight against his hold, just enough to make it believable, but when he palms my breast and squeezes, no joke, I nearly take his goddamned head off. It takes every bit of self-control I have to pull my punch and just smack at his biceps like the trinket he thinks me to be. "You don't understand! I'm– I'm not… with Kaius. I'm with–"

"Otpusti yeyo."

The hand on my breast drops like a rock.

For a second, Basayev stills, too. Before he looks away from me, a thick vein pulses in his broad, tanned forehead, and cords of lean muscle borne of decades on the battlefield flex beneath his suit. When I tug my arm out of his grasp, one corner of his mouth pulls up into a sardonic smile, and his gaze takes on a lazy, feline quality that belies the tension crawling through his limbs.

"Sasha," Basayev drawls, still smirking as he glances at Markovsky. While he doesn't let me go completely, when he catches the flatness in the other man's expression, at least he has the courtesy to loosen his grip and take a half step back. "Davno ya ne videl tvoyego urodlivogo litsa."

Cool and calm as ever, Markovsky's pale gray eyes flit to mine. "Ali, I would strongly suggest that you release her."

Basayev laughs low and deep, and his meaty fingers again find my chin. Squeezing hard enough I'll probably bruise by tomorrow, he tilts my face toward Markovsky and cocks an arrogant brow. "I zachem mne eto delat'?"

Stepping closer, Markovsky nods at me. "Do you know who she is?"

"I know she is pretty little suchka. Have you claimed this one already?" His fingertips trail down to my throat, pressing into my windpipe hard enough to make me swallow. "Nu, Didima bol'she ne… udovletvoryayet tebya?"

Oh, that's just not smart.

I'm pretty sure everyone knows Markovsky's wife and family are off-limits.

This motherfucker is just asking for it.

Markovsky's expression sharpens, and his quiet reply cracks like a bullwhip in the silence of the hallway. "Isabella belongs to Mikhail."

Before Basayev can register the statement, Markovsky's lips curl into the barest hint of a dark, anticipatory smile. It's the same pleased, amused smile you see right before the axe murderer cuts your head off and bathes in your blood.

"I ty dolzhen znat', chto on planiruyet zhenit'sya na ney."

Fuck.

You know, it's one thing to guess Aronov's thinking long-term, but hearing it spoken out loud is so much worse.

Jesus, this is getting fucking messy.

The color drains from Basayev's face, and his hands fly off me so fast I almost laugh. "No Kayus skazal…"

"If I were you," Markovsky cuts in, low and threatening. "I would be less concerned about Kaius and more about what she will tell Mikhail." Before Basayev can counter, Markovsky holds a hand out to me, and his voice and features lose some of their harshness. "Now, come with me, Bella. I will escort you back to party."

Playing the damsel, I dart under Basayev's frozen arm and bolt across the carpet to slip my hand through Markovsky's politely offered elbow. Without another word, or even so much as a backward glance at the other man, he turns us around and begins to lead me back toward the soft roar of the ballroom.

Seemingly used to women in stupid heels – or maybe Markovsky just thinks I need a minute – we take our time, too. Midway, I peer over my shoulder to Basayev, where he remains motionless by the corner, blanched white and staring at Markovsky with what I can only call fury cut by a hefty dose of slack-jawed fear. His mouth claps shut when he sees me watching. Fists clenching by his side, he abruptly spins on his heel and barks out an angry, pissed-off order I can't make out to the pair of beefy, black-suited bruisers positioned twenty yards away.

My fingers clench around Markovsky's forearm when I look forward once more, and I exhale a slow, shaky breath. "Wow… Thank you for that."

Not answering at first, my rescuer keeps his silver-gray eyes trained in front of us. They're intense and watchful, however, and there's no doubt that he's picking up every single signal and tell I'm throwing off. "There is no need to thank me for this, especially since Feliks should have been waiting in hall for you," he finally says. His mouth flattens into a hard, unforgiving line. "But I must ask you, why did you not…"

"Damage him?"

Markovsky looks at me then, studying me in a way that reminds me all over again just what he does and what he knows. His chin dips once in curt affirmation.

"That guy, Ali or whatever you called him… He came up behind me and surprised me. Scared the shit out of me at first," I say, shrugging, and then my nose crinkles into a grimace. "But to be honest? I also really like this dress. I didn't want to mess it up unless I had to."

That hard, no-nonsense line cracks, and Markovsky lets out something between a snort and a huff. "Zhenshchiny…"

"But okay, fine, if you hadn't come along…" My shoulders roll again, and I put on my best innocent face as I wave a haphazard hand. "Let's just say he wouldn't be fathering any children any time soon."

That reluctant smile turns into a rare, full-on grin, and Markovsky's eyes dance. "Such a pity," he murmurs, and his whole body shakes with silent laughter. "I would pay much money to witness this."

One brow arcs. "You don't like him?"

He makes a non-committal sound. "We are not friends."

You don't say.

I don't say that, though. Instead, I just roll my eyes and shake my head, even as I breathe out another shuddering puff of air. "So, what did you say to him that made him let me go?"

"It is nothing for you to concern yourself with," he says. When I go to tell him he's full of shit, those dancing eyes narrow in on my face, and we stop in the center of the hall, right at the mouth of the ballroom entrance. In the background, I hear Rosalie laughing, and then in my periphery, I catch a familiar flash of sleek, finely tailored black-on-black as Masen slides through a group of party-goers, aiming directly for us. "Do you recall our discussion from terrace?"

I duck my head slowly, trying and failing to read a man who could give even Spooky fits. "I do."

"Good. You will inform Misha about this incident," Markovsky says, and it's a statement, not a question. "Or I will." His chin dips in another one of those quick affirmatives. "Such behavior is not allowed."

Except when it is.

I have no idea what game Markovsky's playing. Nor do I know why Basayev is here to start with.

But for whatever his reasons, apparently Sasha wants Ali dead.

And that works just fine for me.

This might even be fun.

.

.

.

Notes:

Russian (transliterated):

Privyet printsessa: Hello, princess

Ty - prelestnaya malen'kaya shtuchka: You're a pretty little thing

Otpusti yeyo: Release her / let her go

Sasha… Davno ya ne videl tvoyego urodlivogo litsa: It's been a long time since I saw your ugly face

I zachem mne eto delat': And why would I do that?

Suchka: diminutive of suka, which means bitch

Nu, Didima bol'she ne… udovletvoryayet tebya: Is Didima no longer… satisfying you?

I ty dolzhen znat', chto on planiruyet zhenit'sya na ney: And you should know that he plans to marry her / make her his wife

No Kayus skazal: But Kaius said…

Zhenshchiny…: Women…

Glossary: