Unbelievable! All that work, all the time and money invested in the scheme, and it was busted!

It was all because that idiot Durov insisted that they put the plan in motion before it was ready. The senile old admiral had cost him millions of dollars and several of his best men. All so the old martinet could strut around in his silly uniform and give orders to his adoring submarine sailor boys.

In his anger and confusion, Medikov did not know how he would do it, but someday, some way, he would make the crazy old man pay for this.

He flung his glass against the far wall and then stomped across the large living room to the bar. He needed to get control of his temper. Weighty decisions were best made when rational, not in the heat of a crimson rage.

He sloshed some cognac into another one of the crystal snifters as he contemplated which of his operatives could best be assigned the task of eliminating Durov before he went any further.

He took a large gulp and felt the comforting burn as it went down his throat. That’s when the idea hit him. It was so obvious.

It had been decades since Medikov had bloodied his own hands. It had been all business in those days. Murder allowed him to advance his control of the organization. Since then, it had been more appropriate for him to have others do his gory work for him, distancing himself from the act and better serving his masquerade as a legitimate businessman.

No one was better equipped than he for this murder, though.

He would confront Durov. He would explain to the megalomaniac how his irrational lust for power had cost them all so dearly.

Once that had been done, he would kill Alexander Durov with his own two hands.

Satisfied he had arrived at the perfect solution, Boris Medikov turned to stare out the picture window at the Moscow skyline. He felt better already, the calm returning to his mind as he considered the snowy tableau out his window. The city seemed especially alive this bright, cold morning. The sky was unusually clear.

One of the advantages of the penthouse apartment, atop the Mezhdunarodnaya Hotel, was the striking view. He had often relied on this scene in times of crisis to relax him as he considered the steps necessary to solve a difficult problem.

A small flicker of movement across the sky caught his attention.

He looked up just in time to see the moving object take the shape of a silver-gray missile. It was racing directly at him.

The mobster did not have time to duck. He could only stand transfixed for the half second it took the missile to fill the entire sky.

Somewhere in the room a phone was ringing.

The last thought to pass through Boris Medikov’s mind was that it was Admiral Alexander Durov calling.