Who Needs a Dream? Who Needs Ambition?

Someone was going to pay for this. That was the only coherent thought in Molokov's head as he watched the strange American throw the press conference he and de Courcey had labored so carefully to put together into shambles. The only thing keeping him from drawing his gun and taking care of both Sergievsky and this Yankee bastard was the fact that he'd be in more trouble than he already was.

He fought his way through the crowd of clamoring reporters, viciously elbowing anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way until he reached his counterpart. There were protocols for this sort of thing, but this event had changed the rules.

"We must meet. Ten minutes in the usual place," he whispered briefly in de Courcey's ear then continued walking, his rage growing by the minute.

One way or another, he was going to get some answers, even if he had to beat it out of de Courcey himself.