"And then," Olaf says, "the doctor spat in Jorge's eyes and called him a pest!"

"That bitch," Boulder snorts. "Pristine white coat with the manners of a sailor."

"Watch the road, please," I warn him.

Boulder's driving. I successfully refrained from making them fasten their seatbelts this time, so he really should pay attention to the road.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Olaf shrieks. "She was totally herotistical!"

"Yeah, boss, Olaf kinda fell for her." Boulder smirks. "He loves tough bitches."

I know the details of their attack on the lab from Jorge's point of view. The problem is not that the woman called him a pest, the problem is that Jorge got into an argument with her instead of shooting her about his usual work ethics and his conflict with our client.

That's why I left him home now. We're about to meet Pavlov, and I doubt that he could keep his mouth shut.

"Herotistical is not a word," I tell Olaf, feeling like a glitch in the Matrix, repeating the same sequence again and again.

"But she was totally like that, boss!" Olaf exclaims with starry eyes. "She refused to tell us a thing!"

"Well, she told Jorge the most important thing," I point out. "That they had finished the last phase of the tests. So the vaccine is working and ready to be used."

"Yes, because she wanted to convince him about how much the world needed that shit! But the location of the formula—she was ready to die to keep that piece of information from us!"

"Well, she'd have died in vain," I inform him. "I know very well where it is."

Boulder stares at me with his mouth agape.

"The road," I remind him.

"Where is it, boss?" Olaf asks.

"The Agency has it. They are guarding the documentation apart from the sample. It's a frequently used strategy to protect an asset, and their headquarters is the safest place to do that."

"How do you know that?" Boulder asks. Then he corrects himself without missing a beat. "Sorry, boss, I didn't mean to doubt you. I'm just nosy."

"Yeah, I noticed."

Boulder drives the car into a pot-hole and murmurs another apology.

"I know the place," I inform him before his agitation causes a mass-casualty incident. I won't kill him while he's driving; he should know that.

"Were you kept prisoner there, boss?" Olaf asks, sounding like a kid listening to a fairy tale.

Olaf isn't like my other men. His hyperactivity makes it hard for him to shut up. I can't kill him just because he's asking questions all the time. He'd be dead by now a thousand times over. I can't beat him up every time he's too curious, either; I've tried that and changed nothing.

"Yeah, in a way, I was," I answer. "That sounds pretty accurate, looking back, Olaf."

"Were they torturing you too?"

"Well, you can say that, yeah. Back then, I failed to notice it, though. It seemed natural."

"Wow, you're tough, boss!"

I roll my eyes. Boulder drives into another pot-hole. Olaf fails to pay attention to it, as usual.

"So, are we attacking tonight?" he rattles on. "Are there armed people at the Agency? Of course, there are, right, boss? Do you know a good place for me to—"

"I know the place," I repeat. "I'll prepare all of you before sending you there."

I know it, indeed, like the palm of my hand. I still dream about those corridors, the halls, the dressing rooms, the storages, and the endless hours spent with practice. Shooting. Fighting. Scouting. Detonating. Capturing.

Killing.

We wanted to be the best. And when we became the best, we wanted to forget everything we knew. But it was too late then.

I wonder how many of my old teammates are still there.

I wonder how many of them my men will kill tonight.

My new men. My old men.

It's something I absolutely shouldn't muse over while trying to bargain with a person who, somewhere, somehow, became the best, too.

Pavlov.

I have no idea about his background, he doesn't have one, or I wasn't brave enough to make my men dig deeper. But I can tell that he's dangerous. He made sure that I can't back away from this contract, for a start. He contacted me, and he offered me an unreasonable amount of money. He also let me know that the warrant I'm bound to give him in case I fail to fulfill our agreement is my head, fairly and squarely.

He didn't make that deal with my army. He made it with me, and me only.

I have no doubt he has the means to enforce it. I look at him, and I see myself in him. He wanted to be the best, and he became the best. And now he, a man with the eyes of a cold-blooded killer, wants to destroy everything he's seen because he can't forget it. It's too late for that, I can tell.

When I look him in the eyes, standing in a half-built office building he chose as a meeting point, I almost feel sympathy for him.

"Have you got my vaccine?" he asks.

"I've got the sample," I tell him. "The documentation is kept somewhere else. But I got it covered, don't worry."

"Do I look like I worry?"

He doesn't. That's precisely what makes me alarmed. He should be worried. And impatient. And angry. But he isn't. Like he's not interested in getting the formula at all. Like he's certain that everything's going to be all right.

All right, by his standards, involving the mass extinction of the human race.

He might have an extensive lab background, ready to analyze the sample as soon as I hand it over to him.

"You don't," I answer, after noticing that I'm discussing my doubts in my head.

"I know you'll deliver it on time. I trust you."

Yeah. That's the other thing. He should tell me off and threaten me. But he doesn't. He seems to be sure that I'm able to keep my word, for no apparent reason. And it's unnerving, because, as flattering his faith in me is, it also can be read as he's sure that I won't try to fuck him over if I want to live.

He has me under his thumb, in other words.

I curse under my breath before I go on.

"We'll have the formula by tomorrow," I assure him.

"Yes," he says, extending his hand to take the sample.

"It's a widely used practice to keep the items separated," I explain to him, instead of handing him the vaccine. "The Agency has the documentation."

"All right." He shrugs. "That might be a problem for someone else. Not for you, I suppose. With an army like that, you can raid anything."

I take a deep breath, and I place the sample in his palm. I sold it. It's not mine to keep.

I could use it, at the moment, though. Stupid Carlito got infected somewhere, and I had to put one of my bases under quarantine. The one where my poor men were beaten up badly by two raving lunatics, not so long ago. They seem to go through a rough patch, I must say.

"Good." Pavlov grins. "One step closer to our goal."

Your goal, I think.

"People who are a burden to us," he says, "won't be a burden for long."

I involuntarily take a step in his direction. I don't mean to threaten him; it just happens. He takes a quick glimpse at my right fist and takes a step back.

He stumbles and almost falls.

For a second, I feel better. After that, I feel the urge to raise two of my fingers and signal to Olaf what to do.

But I can't. Pavlov always occupies a spot where he can't be shot from a distance. And I have no reason, either. People die every day. It's not my problem.

Still, I can't get rid of my gloomy mood for the rest of the day. Something's off, and I can't tell what it is. It lingers while I send the guys off to raid the Agency, and it only gets worse when they return empty-handed.

They succeeded. They only killed when it was inevitable and searched the whole place. There can't be a mistake. I told Jorge everything about the safes. It's simply not there.

Something's going on, something I can't follow. But I can definitely see the next step. I must get to someone at the Agency to tell me where they hid that fucking formula, and quickly. So I need to resort to what I've got.

I know a place. It's a nice little flat downtown. I used to play video games there. With a bumbling fool, who, I'm almost certain, never thought about moving out just because I returned to the city.

I go alone, obviously. The moment I break in, I'm a hundred percent sure that Duke still lives there. The flat's empty, but I see the traces he's left behind.

There's a huge bed in the middle of the room. There are super expensive suits in the wardrobe. There's also a surprising amount of tea and peanuts in the kitchen, that's something new, but I'm still sure I'm at the right place.

I look around. I turn everything, but I find nothing. No folders of documentation lying around.

I break into his notebook. I search the files, and I take a look at the browser history.

Still no formula, but there's another find that almost makes my heart stop.

Someone used this notebook to check emails. Someone called Edith Barnes. She's spent enough time here to make it inevitable for her to log in and follow her correspondence with her employer, a kindergarten.

I've never planned to demolish Duke's place, but I can't help it. My blood's boiling, and if I don't want to die of a sudden stroke, I need to break something. The notebook, first. Then, the furniture. And everything else I can lay my hands on.

I come to my senses a few minutes later, standing in the kitchen with a beautiful bowl in my hands. I breathe out, and I put it back to the counter. Well, to the rest of it, because I'm not sure how, but I managed to tear it off the ground and smash it to the cabinet.

So much for remaining undetected.

She promised me not to help Duke against me.

She lied again.