The silence was wrong. A few minutes after Vladimir was gone, a breach happened. One minute I was resting and now I'm restless.

It wasn't the natural quiet of a well-secured fortress nestled in the desolate Russian countryside. It was the sudden, dead silence of a live wire that had been expertly cut.

I was in the master suite, following Vladimir's last instruction: survive. I had armed myself, not with the delicate stiletto, but with the heavier, more efficient handgun he'd taught me to load ...