She blew kisses. Scoop-crossed her arms to shove her tits together. Turned sideways and threw up a Marilyn Monroe leg.

He continued shooting the boulevard behind her. “Most of them have cleared out, but he’s still in the office on the second floor,” he said, his words snatched away by the wind.

They’d spent the day photographing the building from every angle.

The mottled skin of Candy’s back complained beneath her fitted top, no doubt angry from the cold breeze and salty air. She put the pain in the bank, a mental account she’d been saving up for Orphan X. She couldn’t wait to start taking withdrawals out of his flesh.

Willing away the discomfort, she smacked her bubble gum. The gum was neon green, her lipstick orange, both props to help her blend in. A gaggle of girls legged by, giving her competitive glares. God bless these Ukrainian-Russian broads. They oozed so much natural sexuality that they could slap the 1980s all over themselves and still knock the skin right off an American girl.

Except for Candy, of course.

She leaned over, grabbing her knees, gave the knock-’em-dead smile. Jaggers clicked and clicked.

“Everyone else is gone,” he said. “He’s the last one there now.”

“Hey, M,” she said. “It’s not polite to not stare at a lady. Especially when she looks like this.” She straightened up, spreading her stance, arms on her hips, her breasts pushing high—Colossus of Rhodes if he was fucking hot.

Jaggers moved the camera to the side of his cheek. His flat eyes observed her. Blinked. The zoom lens drifted over her shoulder. More clicking. At least it blocked his face.

She should be thankful for small mercies.

She thought about the kind of fun she could have here if it weren’t for Orphan M.

Of course, the mission was primary. Though they’d been in-country for only twelve hours, they’d ascertained a few things.

The phone-service company to which Orphan X had moved his number was located on the second and third floors of the converted cannery that Jaggers was currently lensed in on. Given present conditions in Crimea and the Nowhere Man’s proclivities, it was no surprise that TeleFon Star placed a premium on the privacy of their customers.

Van Sciver had identified the target as Refat Setyeyiva, vice president of operations, a thick-bodied man with scruffy good looks. A youthful forty, he had come up as a hammer thrower in the Soviet Olympic program, juiced and primed from the age of eight. He’d blown out his knees in his late teens, and here he was, overseeing operations for the discreet comms company that Candy and Jaggers needed to infiltrate.