“Hey, comrade, did you hear?”
“Oh, you mean the assassination of Lieutenant Adrova?”
“In the background, maybe it was MI6, GRU, the CIA, VVS…”
“No, I heard it was the work of a Janitor.”
“Maybe one was involved, I don’t know. But I can almost promise you he’s dead.”
—Never. They took him too lightly!
Amid the din of the bar, a red-haired woman sat at the counter, tipping back a glass, her eyes crinkling at the throat-scorching alcohol. Ahhh, it was good.
She never would have guessed that there was an amateur/orphan just like her out there, fully organic, and able to do something like that.
At first, it had been a bit of a joke on her part. Call it a break between missions, call it sabotage—whatever it was, admittedly, it wasn’t praiseworthy.
Well, the job had been boring anyway.
She’d decided to tease the boy who’d happened to speak to her, to joke around with him. That was all she’d meant to do.
But then… Well.
—A PPSh… He’s an old soul.
The woman thought of what she’d seen and chuckled, a sound that came from deep in her throat.
There was his prompt retreat after he had thrown the electromagnetic grenade. He’d known how to move, and he’d shown good judgment. There was no indication that he was a cyborg, and she thought he was doing quite well for himself, for an organic.
When he’d twisted his ankle falling and found himself with pursuers hot on his tail, she’d thought, What an idiot, and laughed. But the way he’d bounced back from it—that wasn’t bad.
She’d figured, however, that that was the end for him.
Then the mafia had shown up from behind, and blam. The boy had just been a diversion.
The quarry had been taken by another group, but she was of no mind to worry about the results at this late date. In fact, she had found it quite a meaningful little moment, she thought.
—I see how he works. If the gamble isn’t going his way, he just flips the table over.
It didn’t surprise her to hear that he’d faced down the spetsnaz and MI6.
It wasn’t that those groups were weak—they were terrifying, of course. They just hadn’t been serious. If GRU had been playing for keeps, Baba Yaga would have been involved. And that really would have been the end.
But the boy? When his opponents weren’t serious—when circumstances prevented them from being serious—he immediately saw and exploited that opening.
There were those types, she thought—perceptive, quick thinkers. The top class of a whole pile of their ilk. Right there in the pile of those who were top class.
—How long he’ll survive is a separate matter.
“Seems like Moscow’s back alleys are getting interesting,” she said. She tugged on a chain at her neck, pulling out a small ring that had dropped behind her collar. Then she gave it a gentle kiss. “Don’t you agree, Ivan?”
With that, the red-haired woman—Eleonora—Uchitel, the Teacher herself—gave an alluring smile.