These women always scream so much.

I never know if it's because they're enjoying themselves, or they've watched too much porn and believe it's a must.

They're probably thinking about my money during sex. Or my gun. Or both. Even if I add the length of my gun to the size of my actual penis, though, this, right now, still sounds highly unjustified.

She's probably scared of me. She may think I'm going to kill her if she disappoints me. Or she has plans, and she's old enough to know that the way to a man's heart is through his ego. Or she's a nymphomaniac, married to some old guy, in a scarcely populated village, and hasn't had any in years.

Okay, this probably is not what I should think about during sex.

One of the perks of being a mercenary lord is that I can send women away after intercourse without needing to find excuses for why I don't want them to spend the whole night with me. I can be an asshole to everyone, and they think it's normal.

Being rude, in fact, is a must for a mercenary leader. It's almost as essential as screaming is in her case. Tools of the trade, so to say.

Most people who hire me are rude too. There are exceptions, though. My current client, Pavlov, is a true gentleman. He has impeccable manners and animalistic cruel eyes. Eyes of a cold-blooded killer. That's why he didn't expect me to fake rudeness—he noticed at first sight that we were of the same ilk.

Okay, just another thing I shouldn't think about during sex.

We fucked up our last mission. That can't happen again. This time, I'll go alone. We need to get a code that's kept in a safe, in the Congress Palace. Pavlov gave me the details. It will be swift and easy.

If I brought the boys with me, they'd probably blow something up. They usually do. And if it happens to be the Congress Palace, it can hardly be called an undercover mission anymore. So I'll definitely go alone.

When I'm making decisions like this, I usually trust my gut. But when the stakes are high, I can't refrain from trying to guess what Gabriel would say. I wish she were still with us. She could calculate what to do without a doubt.

Or he. I have no way of knowing if it was a man or a woman. But I imagined her as a woman. A beautiful, witty, strong woman. Who seldom screams.

Okay, that's something I absolutely shouldn't think about during sex.

But I can't help it, I keep thinking about her every day. I tried to find the place where she was buried, but this time, the Agency did an outstanding job. I paid a shitload of money to recover her personal files, but they were simply nonexistent, so I still have no idea who she was, and I wasn't able to pay tribute to her memory, either.

It still bothers me. I know I should let go of her ghost. I'm not her lamb anymore, committed to her care like the stupid Credo she recited before every mission said. Now, I'm a wolf among the lambs. I doubt she would care for me at all, even if she were alive.

An unrecognizable voice on the radio, which belonged to a woman created by my imagination, is the last thing I should think about during sex. But I do. And it pushes me over the edge.

If I weren't dubbed the most dangerous person in the world, I'd have to apologize to Miss Scream Queen now.

But I am. So I point at the door, and she disappears without a word.

Just in time. I don't need her to witness one of my late-night panic attacks.