"What a beauty!" the Wolf said as the men walked up beside a red Porsche-powered prototype Fabcar. This very model had run in the Rolex Sports Car Series.

"You love your cars," Ilya said. "Always have."

"Growing up outside Moscow, I never thought I would own a car, any car. Now I own so many that I lose count sometimes. I want you to take a ride with me. Get in, my friend."

Ilya Frolov shook his head and raised both his hands in protest. "Not me. I don't like the noise, the speed, anything about it."

"I insist," said the Wolf. He raised the gull wing on the passenger side first. "Go ahead, it won't bite you. You'll never forget the ride, Ilya."

Ilya forced a laugh, then started to cough. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"After we finish, I want to talk to you about the next steps. We're very close to getting our money. They're weakening day by day, and I have a plan. You're going to be a rich man, Ilya."

The Wolf climbed into the driver's seat, which was on the right side. He flipped a switch, the dashboard lit up, and the car roared and shook. The Wolf watched Ilya's face go pale and laughed merrily. In his own strange way he loved Ilya Frolov.

"We're sitting right on the engine. It's going to get very hot in here now. Maybe a hundred and thirty degrees. That's why we wear a 'cool suit.' It's going to get noisy, too. Put on your helmet, Ilya. Last warning."

And then they were off!

The Wolf lived for this—the exhilaration, the raw power of the world's finest race cars. At this speed he had to concentrate on the driving—nothing else mattered, there was nothing else while he spun around the test track. Everything about the ride was about power: the noise, since there was no sound-dampening material inside; the vibration—the stiffer the suspension, the faster the car could change direction; the g-force, resulting in as much as six hundred pounds of pressure on some turns.

God, what a glorious machine—so perfect—whoever made it was a genius.

There are still some of us in the world, he thought to himself. I should know.

Finally he slowed and steered the highly temperamental car off the track. He climbed out, pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and shouted to the skies.

"That was so great! My God, what an experience. Better than sex! I've ridden women and cars—I prefer the race car!"

He looked over at Ilya Frolov and saw that the man was still pale and shaking a bit. Poor Ilya.

"I'm sorry, my friend," the Wolf spoke softly. "I'm afraid you don't have the balls for the next ride. Besides, you know what happened in Paris."