Prologue

The first time that Jasper had told someone that bullets flying helped him relax and concentrate, they had refered him to a shrink by the name of Dr. Morian Jones. The good doctor, for all of his years of practice, fatherly manner, and big-wordedness, had, in effect, been a pointless waste of money. Well, not entirely. There was an amazing steakhouse next door to his office that Jasper would otherwise have never had the pleasure of eating at.

 

Years later, Jasper came to his own conclusion. When bullets meant to kill you are flying through the air, a calm, rational mind had a better chance of keeping you alive that a frantic, panicing one. And then, of course, he was good at dealing with deadly situations. When he was up against someone else, he always held on to the idea that he was better than them, that he could beat them. He felt....in control. So, Jasper had concluded, calming down in situations that warranted panic was his mind's solution for keeping him alive. Or, maybe he just realy was as crazy as most people believed.

 

In any case, Jasper was calm now, as the vase on the table behind him shattered from the impact of a .45's bullet. Roughly shoving his charge, a C.I.A. asset named Arman Elov through the window and onto the fire escape, Jasper returned fire with the slightly more impressive .357 magnum that he'd torn from the hands of on of the South African mercenaries out to kill Elov.

 

From what Jasper could tell, the shot grazed the fellow's chest, causing him to half-duck, half-fall back through the doorway into the hallway. The cramped appartment building was a stupid place for protecting an asset, in Jasper's opinion, but it was cheap, and unassuming, which were good qualities for hiding someone. Just not so good if they were found. From behind the wall, one of the assailants let loose with some automatic weapon, shredding through the thin plaster of the wall.

 

Rolling out of the window almost fast enough, Jasper grimaced as a round grazed his forearm. It hurt, but it wasn't much more than a burn. Jumping down the stairs after Elov, Jasper kept an eye on the window of the room they had been staying in. Hopefully, the mercs would be too busy chasing them to conduct a check of the room.

 

When he heard one of the men shout "Get down, bomb!" he knew he wasn't so lucky. Sooner than he wanted to, Jasper thumbed the button on the remote detonator in his left hand, bracing himself.

 

Exactly two seconds later, an explosion rocked through the air, as fire roared from the window. The shocwave hit after that, throwning Elov the rest of the way down the final flight of stairs, and over the edge of the platform at the bottom. Jasper was knocked over the side, falling two stories into a pile of refuse in the alley bellow.

 

Luckily for him, most of the trash was soft. Except, of course, for the broken bottle that sliced his shoulder. As burning debris began to fall down toawrds him, flashing lights caught his eye. Forcing his head up, Jasper saw a welcome party of Russian police officers, along with an old friend.

 

Though the blast had rendered him temporarily deaf, he could read agent Marcus Winter's lips.

 

"Sloppy work, Grey."

 

Jasper smiled. He probably yelled, though he couldn't tell.

 

"You took your time getting here."

 

Winter shrugged. Jasper let his head fall back, relaxing for a minute. Elov was now in U.S. Custody, which meant Jasper's perfect mission record was safe, albeit by a close margin. He wasn't looking froward to the flight back to D.C., but he was happy to be getting out of Russia. It was just too frigging cold.