The air in the Monte Carlo VIP lounge was thick with the scent of ozone and $1,000-a-glass scotch.
Silas Vane didn't look like a man who was about to die. He looked like a man who owned the world. He leaned against the mahogany bar, his tuxedo fitting his broad shoulders with military precision.
"You're late, Elara," he murmured, not turning around.
Behind him, the click of stiletto heels stopped. Elara Vance leaned against the bar beside him, the slit in her crimson dress revealing a glimpse of a polymer holster strapped to her thigh.
"I'm not late. I was busy checking the perimeter," she replied, her voice like velvet over broken glass. "Your handler sold you out, Silas. There are twelve mercenaries in the lobby. They aren't here for the Russian. They're here for the Ghost."
Silas finally looked at her. Two years. Two years since she had shot him in that rainy alley in Paris and disappeared into the night. His heart hammered against his ribs—not from fear, but from the sheer, violent urge to either kill her or kiss her until she couldn't breathe.
"And what about you, Viper?" Silas leaned in, his lips inches from her ear. He could smell her—sandalwood and gunpowder. "Are you here to finish the job you started in Paris?"
"If I wanted you dead, Silas, you wouldn't have lived long enough to finish your drink," she hissed.
Suddenly, the elevator dings. Six men in charcoal suits step out. They aren't carrying chips. They're carrying submachine guns.
"Down!" Silas didn't think. He tackled Elara just as a hail of lead shattered the expensive scotch bottles behind the bar.
They rolled behind the heavy oak counter. Silas was on top of her, his body pinning hers to the floor. For a split second, the gunfire faded. All he could feel was the heat of her skin and the frantic pulse in her neck.
"Still using the 9mm?" he joked breathlessly, pulling a sleek, silver gadget from his pocket—a sonic disorienter.
"Shut up and prime it," Elara snapped, though her hand lingered on his chest a second too long.
Silas clicked the device. A high-frequency hum ripped through the room. The mercenaries dropped, clutching their ears.
"Go!" Silas grabbed her hand.
They sprinted toward the balcony, thirty stories above the jagged rocks of the Mediterranean.
"We don't have a chute, Silas!" Elara yelled over the wind.
"I know," Silas said, a dark, reckless grin spreading across his face. He grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Hold on to me. Don't you dare let go."
"I hate you," she whispered, her arms locking around his neck.
"Liar," he remarked.
Then, they leaped into the abyss.
As they plummeted toward the dark water, a thermal-guided missile streaked across the sky, slamming into the hotel suite they had just vacated. The explosion illuminated the sky, but Silas wasn't looking at the fire. He was looking at Elara.
In the light of the blast, he saw it. The chain around her neck. The ring.
She had kept it.
But before he could say a word, a black speedboat roared out from the shadows of the cliff, and a voice boomed over a loudspeaker:
"Silas Vane. Elara Vance. You are now enemies of the state. Board the vessel or be erased."