Private Wars

Chapter One

Uzbekistan--Tashkent--14 Uzbekiston
Malikov Family Residence

9 February, 0929 Hours (GMT+5:00)

They gave it an hour after the husband left, just to be certain he hadn't forgotten anything, that he wouldn't be coming back, before they knocked on the door. Four of them went to do it, while another two waited in the second car, the engine idling.

The two who waited were jealous of the four who went. They thought they were missing the fun.

All were men, and all wore business suits of the latest style, acquired for them in Moscow and Paris and Switzerland, then altered by tailors here in Tashkent, men who were paid pennies to adjust clothing worth thousands. All six finished their look with neckties of silk and shoes of Italian leather and cashmere-lined kidskin gloves. A few wore overcoats as stylish as the suits they covered, to ward off the howling chill that blew down out of the mountains in Kazakhstan to the north.

The only thing that marred the line of their clothing, each in turn, was the slight bump at hip or beneath an armpit, where they carried their guns.

Back before Uzbekistan had declared its independence from the creaking and cracking Soviet Union, before the failed hard-liner coup in August of 1991, when they were still called the KGB, none of them would have dreamed of wearing--let alone owning--such finery. Signs of Western excess, such garments would have flown in the face of Communism. Certainly they would have made a mockery of the subtleties required for their work.

But those days were long past, and fewer and fewer of them remembered a time when orders came from Dzerzhinsky Square. They weren't KGB, and they weren't Communists. They called themselves the National Security Service now, the NSS, and if they believed in anything anymore, it was in power and money, in that order. They were the secret police, and they didn't care who knew it. They were beholden to--depending upon whom you spoke to--one of two

Born in San Francisco, Greg Rucka was raised on the Monterey Peninsula. He is the author of Private Wars, A Gentleman s Game, and six previous thrillers, as well as numerous comic books, including the Eisner Award winning Whiteout: Melt. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his family.

"Rucka gets things right, serving up a taut and exciting tale of spycraft and ' wet work ' that will appeal to anyone who thinks James Bond is too effete for modern sensibilities. " San Francisco Chronicle

"Forget Lara Croft and that chick in 'Alias.' If you're looking for a really tough broad, seek out British super-spy Tara Chace!" The Oregonian

"The action bristles and Rucka's way with amoral characters continues to seduce: Chace chases, chills, and somehow charms." Kirkus Reviews

"Tara is often likened to a female James Bond (she can drink, sleep around and kill just like a man), but she's really more interesting than the comparison would suggest. These are well-researched, intriguingly complicated, exciting spy novels in the tradition of Adam Hall and his great series hero, Quiller." Publishers Weekly