He’d been paid a rather hefty reward for the operation and then wandered down to the Florida Keys to just… chill. With thirty mil in numbered accounts, a college degree suddenly seemed less necessary. Instead of a vacation, while enjoying himself in the Bahamas with a couple of lovely young ladies he’d been asked to capture a nuke that more terrorists were smuggling through that country. Again, he’d succeeded, at least to the extent of preventing the terrorists from getting any further even if the nuke had been detonated in place. And, again, he’d nearly died from the wounds he suffered.

The Keys clearly being too hot for comfort, he’d wandered through Europe until in a whorehouse in Siberia he’d picked up the scent of another nuke. He’d followed it back through Europe, via the white-slave markets in Bosnia, and found it planted at Notre Dame, waiting for a papal mass. When the timer had gotten down to less than a minute and the French EOD unit was sure they’d never stop it in time he’d taken a fifty-fifty chance and sent a code to the bomb that would either temporarily disarm it or detonate it. He’d been lucky: Paris was still there. However, the French government was less than thrilled by his taking the choice in his own hands and declared him, or at least his cover identity, persona non grata.

This left him back in Russia, not sure what to do with himself and with every Islamic terrorist on the face of the earth pissed at this unknown who had broken up three major ops. Russia’s winter was coming on, nothing to look forward to, and he decided to head south. Georgia had always interested him as a country and, just looking for somewhere to lay low, he’d headed that way.