This is the life.

  He still wants to kill Hammett and knows she aims to kill him. As he stares through the windshield and out over the black, undulating water, he imagines how he’ll do it. A knife would be fun, carving her up, bit by bit, until she begs him to end it. He’d like to hear Hammett beg. That would be the ultimate turn-on. And he always had a thing for knives.

  Of course, since it’s Hammett he’s plotting to kill, he’ll probably just shoot her. He reflexively checks the Glock on his hip.

  Yes, shooting is best. Anything else is too risky. I've seen what she can do.

  However Victor does it, he’s content to leave her alive for now. Now that they have the transceiver, things are a little more relaxed between them. She did as he told her, bringing her sister along, and for the past hour, she’s been on the phone with his tech team, figuring out how the transceiver works, leaving him to relax and think about what he’ll do next.

  He's a rich man now. He can do whatever he wants.

  Hell, maybe he’ll start off by getting laid.

  He smiles, liking that idea. The only question is which sister does he have a taste for? Hammett? Or her crippled lookalike below deck?

  As if on cue, Hammett saunters into the cockpit, clad in silk and leather. She is sexy despite her battered face, or maybe because of it. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes gleaming, and for a moment he half-expects her to start stripping right there. Instead she holds up the transceiver.

  He turns down the music.

  "I've figured out the launch application." Her tongue flicks out, running across her lower lip. "Let's nuke a city."

  # # #

  How much did it cost to put teak flooring in a boat?

  Fleming shook her head, hoping to rid herself of inane thoughts. The pain was messing with her mind. She focused on her senses, trying to concentrate.

  She was in a cabin, a platform bed to her left, stairs to the right. Classical music came from above deck, Rachmaninoff, no doubt the Russian’s choice, and she could hear the slap of waves against the bow. Fleming also detected a growl of thunder, but no rain. At least not yet. She could smell a hint of it on the air.

  Before she went any further, Fleming had something to do. Something awful. She sucked up her courage, then took a look at her hand.

  Oh... boy.

  Two of her fingers were bent at crazy, unnatural angles and swollen like overcooked hot dogs. Her thumb, pinky, and ring finger remained unscathed, and if Fleming bit her lower lip to stop from crying out, she could pinch them together like a lobster claw.

  But that wouldn't be enough. For her to have a chance, she needed to have a greater range of motion in her hand.

  She started with her index finger. That one appeared to be in slightly better shape. At the second knuckle, it bent backward at almost a ninety degree angle. Fleming moved her hand to the anchor, gripping the digit tightly, squeezing her eyes shut--

  --this is going to be bad--

  --and then bent it the right way.

  There was a sound like a walnut being cracked, and then the wave of pain hit. She had to turn her head and bite her left biceps to keep from howling. When the worst of it faded, she peaked a teary eye at her middle finger.

  Two bends in this one, each in opposite directions. It looked like a bruised, misshapen Z. Fleming knew the thing to do was pull on it to align the bones, then snap them back into place. But neither of her hands moved.

  All pain is temporary. Bad as it gets, I can get through it.

  Her body still refused to obey.

  Do it. Just do it, goddamnit.

  Such a small part of the body, a finger. Yet when she tugged it straight, the entire essence of Fleming's being was reduced to white-hot agony. Her vision swirled, and then the darkness came in from all sides, making her already-aching head vibrate like a church bell being rung. The little bones inside her middle finger were so shattered it reminded Fleming of a beanbag.

  She chanced a look, both hands quivering. Her middle finger was more or less back into position, but it still needed a lot of work.

  There's no way I'm touching that again. I'll make do.

  Fleming dragged herself through the closet door, going from teak flooring to thick carpet. She sank into the pile like it was deep sand, fighting the weight of the anchor for every inch. It was slow going, and she needed to be quick. If Hammett or the Russian discovered she’d escaped the closet, there wasn’t much she could do to protect herself, let alone bring the hurt to them.

  And she wanted to deliver some hurt.

  What Fleming needed was a weapon.

  She struggled past between the galley and a seating area and stopped at the base of the stairs, struggling to catch her breath. The seven small steps loomed above her like Mount Everest. As she sized up the challenge ahead, her gaze rested on the large cabinet seated into the wall. It was marked Emergency.

  Gritting her teeth, she plopped the anchor on the first step, then dragged her body up after it. The steps were wood, hard, making her miss the thick pile carpet on the floor. A chrome handrail framed one side, the perfect height if she’d been standing. But as things were, it was as good as worthless.

  She mounted the second the same way, then the third and fourth. When she reached the fifth, she could reach the emergency cabinet. Leaning on one hip, she gripped the latch.

  The boat rolled hard to the starboard side, almost sending her careening down the steps. She clung to the anchor with her good hand and tried to quiet her stomach before reaching for the box again.

  This time she managed to get it open before another heave from the waves. And as she clung, her eyes locked onto a silver blanket, a waterproof radio and a bright orange, plastic gun.

  That would do.

  She pulled out the signal gun and loaded a magnesium flare. Fleming had never fired one before, but the mechanism was simple. Point and shoot.

  She tucked the gun in her waistband and turned her attention to the remaining two steps. The boat continued to pitch and sway, and the climb seemed to take forever. With each sound, she braced herself, expecting Hammett or Victor to suddenly appear and put a bullet in her, ending it all.

  Fleming made it to the deck, lifting the anchor, placing it in front of her, then dragging her body after.

  Lift, place, drag.

  Lift, place, drag.

  Voices carried on the wind, over music and waves.

  She tucked herself behind a small beverage fridge and strained to hear.

  “No, Victor! I love Paris!” Hammett. Her tone was a mock-whine.

  “You women and Paris.” A man. The Russian, Victor.

  “How about London?” Hammett said. "Rains all the damn time."

  “I can live without London. Do it.”

  A chill ran the length of Fleming’s body. The transceiver. Hammett had figured out the launching sequence.

  And she was launching a nuclear strike on London.

  She struggled to breath. Please, let me be wrong. Let it not be true.

  Once again, the boat rolled hard to the side, and she held on to the side of the refrigerator.

  If they were indeed launching a strike, Fleming had to find a way to stop them. No doubt they were armed. The cheap plastic flare gun in her crooked hand suddenly seemed like a cruel joke.

  “Why don’t you try to steady this damn boat? I’ll look up the latitude and longitude.” The heels of Hammett's boots clicked across teak. A second later, she let out a startled noise. “Oh, hell. That bitch.”

  Fleming gripped the flare gun. She was almost certain the refrigerator blocked her from their view. Hammett couldn’t have seen her. But if not her, who could she be talking about?

  “What is it?” A second set of shoes scuffed over the floor, Victor joining Hammett at the cockpit’s control panel.

  “Look for yourself.”

  “Chandler!” Victor shouted.

  Fleming’s heart stuttered.

  “It can’t be her. It has to be one of those pigeons.”

  “You really think a pigeon is going to fly out over the lake, Victor? It’s Chandler, and she’s coming right at us.”

  # # #

  Hammett grabs a set of binoculars from the cockpit and races out of the deckhouse.

  "Hold her steady!" she yells at Victor through the side windshield. Then she grips the guardrail and walks along the narrow, port gunwale, stepping onto the yacht's expansive, twelve meter bow. It's a perfect place to sunbathe, but not a perfect place to stand during choppy water. Especially wet, and the rain had begun to fall. She plants her feet and scans the horizon.

  The water churns white behind them, the Chicago skyline barely visible through the storm clouds rolling east over the lake. She searches the waves in the direction of the blip, but sees nothing.

  Impossible.

  She looks again, sweeping slower this time. Lightning flashes and the rain kicks up.

  “Where in the hell is she?”

  As soon as the question leaves her lips, Hammett knows the answer. The tracking devices don’t show height... and they don’t show depth either.

  Chandler is coming at them from under the water. She’s using SCUBA gear. Or, considering her speed, a submersible.

  No problem. I can deal with that.

  She makes her way back into the cockpit and grabs a duffel.

  Victor glanced at her and raises his brows.

  “She's under water,” Hammett tells him. "Kill the engine and let her come." She pulls two grenades from the bag. “Are there more in the staterooms?”

  “Yes,” he answers, but the lazy bastard doesn’t move his ass off the swivel chair.

  “Then get them, damn it.”

  She grabs the tablet PC out of the duffel before she spins around and returns to the boat's bow. Chandler’s blip is nearly below them now. Time for Hammett to give her sister the welcome she deserves.

  She pulls the pin on one of the grenades and throws it into the waves.

  The explosion is powerful enough for her to feel the concussion shake the hull and vibrate in her chest. Water erupts into the air, meeting the rain falling from above.

  She throws another off the starboard side, right where the blip should be.

  The whump hits the ship like a slap from an angry god, causing it to pitch, then roll. Hammett points the deck spotlight on the water, and smiles when she sees something float to the surface.

  Hell. It's a salmon. Son of a--

  "Freeze!"

  Hammett glances portside, sees her disabled sister holding an anchor in one hand, and a flare gun in the other. The image is so ludicrous, she begins to laugh.

  "I want the transceiver," Fleming says. Her hand is shaking badly.

  "Or what?" Hammett asks. "You'll signal for help?"

  "How about I shoot you with a flare instead? Magnesium burns at three thousand degrees, and I'm aiming at your fat head."

  Hammett considers her next move. Getting hit with a flare doesn't sound like a good time. She has a .45 in her shoulder holster, under her jacket.

  "Fair enough," Hammett says. "I'll give you the phone."

  She casually slips a hand into her coat.

  "Hold it! I saw you put the phone in your side pocket. Take your hand out slowly, and give me the goddamn phone."

  Hammett blows a snort of air out of her nostrils, annoyed. They really don't have time for this. But, impaired as she obviously is, Fleming is one of the Hydra sisters. Hammett respects the training she's had, and follows her orders, slowly holding up the phone.

  "Now toss it to me," Fleming says.

  "How about instead you toss me the flare gun," Hammett smiles wide, "or I'll press the touch screen and destroy London?"

  # # #

  Fleming wasn't sure what to do. She should probably take the shot, but her aim wasn't steady, and she had no idea how accurate flares were.

  Last she checked, there were more than seven and a half million people in London. Their best chance at survival depended on the next decision Fleming made.

  "What the hell?"

  Now Victor was coming across the gunwale, reaching for his sidearm.

  Fleming had no choice.

  She had to take the shot.

  She aimed.

  Let out a breath.

  Squeezed the trigger.

  The flare exploded out of the gun. Hammett ducked below its arc, and it sailed out across the water, a bright orange streak, before falling into the lake a hundred meters away.

  Then Victor was on her, kicking the useless gun away, putting his foot on her chest, pointing the Glock in her face.

  "You lose," Hammett said.

  Fleming glanced at her, and watched as--

  Oh no.

  --she pressed the screen. "In seven minutes, London bridge is falling down."

  Tears erupted from Fleming's eyes. She could imagine all of the people, the innocents, the children, swallowed up by an atomic fireball. Black and white images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki flash through her mind. The horror. The tragedy. The misery. The senseless waste.

  All because I couldn't aim a goddamn flare gun.

  She stared up at Victor, into the barrel of his pistol, trembling and broken and beaten but still defiant.

  And then she saw something.

  Something above Victor.

  Something black and red and plummeting down to earth like Satan getting booted out of heaven.

  Chandler!

  # # #

  Flying an ultralight trike at night was hard enough. Especially this junker, which had been buried on top of my parents for six years and had seen much better days. I throttled the modified Evinrude motor, slowing down the rear prop, and took another glance at my PC to see if I was on course. According to the blip, I was right on target. But I couldn't see a damn thing below me, and missing would be deadly. I was too far out to swim back to shore.

  I had to be at a high enough altitude to prevent Hammett from seeing me coming, and so I could get the drop on them. The altimeter had some water damage, being exacerbated by the rain coming down. It said I was at 1100 feet. I was betting my life that it was right.

  Then I saw the flare, bright orange, my own personal landing strip.

  I killed the engine, ditched the PC because I had no way to carry it, and unbuckled my seat belt. Beretta in hand, I rolled out of my seat, falling into open sky.

  As soon as I dropped away from the ultralight, I pulled the ripcord on my parachute. It took about nine hundred feet for it to fully open, so I was cutting it close.

  I quickly fell through the haze, then saw the lights below me, following them to a white yacht. My chute deployed, making me jerk and rock in my harness. Still clutching the gun, I snatched the brake handles. Once I had control I steered toward the boat, sighting Victor on the bow. Victor, and Hammett, and...

  Fleming!

  My aim was for shit, but I emptied my magazine at Victor, forcing him away from my sister. He fired back, his bullets whizzing past me, and then I had my feet out in front of me and I planted both on his chest right just as I hit my buckle release.

  Victor went flying, and I rolled onto the bow, out of control, crashing into the raised pulpit, the guard rails stopping me from falling out.

  I turned around, scanning for Fleming, and instead saw Hammett, drawing a gun from her leather jacket, pointing it at my head.

  I fired at her. No rounds left. Then I reached for the extra magazine in my pocket, and found my pocket had torn off.

  # # #

  Hammett doesn't believe this is happening. Chandler swooped onto the deck like a bird of prey, firing wildly, then knocked down Victor.

  She unholsters her .45 and aims carefully, anxious to put this unkillable bitch out of her misery.

  "Hey!"

  Hammett looks to the right, sees Fleming, who has crawled up next to her.

  "Anchors away, Sis!"

  Then she sees the anchor, Fleming swinging it like an Olympic hammer at Hammett's legs. She jumps back, but not in time, and one of the pointed flukes catches her calf, digging a bloody rent across it.

  Hammett slams into the bow, her gun falling overboard, the transceiver skipping across the deck. She quickly pulls the Spyderco blade from her sheath, ready to gut Fleming, then sees Chandler coming closer.

  Fine. First Chandler. Then the cripple.

  Hammett stands to meet her sister.

  # # #

  Fleming locked eyes on the transceiver as it skittered aft, down the bow.

  "The phone!" she yelled at Chandler. "That psycho launched a nuclear attack on London!"

  Then she crawled after it, her legs begging for mercy, her swollen hand slapping tortuously against the teak as she dragged her broken body, and the anchor, closer and closer.

  A wave hit, splashing over the port side, cold water spraying her in the face. The boat tilted, and the phone slid back toward Fleming. She reached out her broken hand, and it bounced off her screaming fingertips, sliding off the bow--

  --across the narrow gunwale--

  --and skidding onto the stern, where it came to a stop at the edge of the transom. Two more inches, and the lake would have it.

  Fleming pushed herself harder, fighting the pain, using the hand rail to pull herself and the anchor along the gunwale, past the deckhouse, across the starboard side windshield, and finally flopping onto the stern next to a cheap, folding metal deck chair.

  The boat heaved up, then down, taking Fleming’s stomach with it. She bit back the rising gorge and got within two meters of the phone, so close she could see the bright glow of the touch screen counting down in large, red numbers.

  3:55... 3:54...

  She continued her trek toward it.

  Almost there. Almost...

  That's when her anchor got snagged on a cleat, preventing her from getting any closer.

  # # #

  I lifted my knee and pulled the VORAX knife from its sheath, focusing on Hammett. The boat rocked gently, back and forth, and my stance was wider than normal so I didn't fall over. Fleming, the boat, the transceiver, the guns on the deck, Victor--none of it mattered. The whole world was nothing but me and Hammett.