It's almost funny how a single moment can irreparably change a multitude of lives forever. One moment, the Spanish writer was sharing dinner with his lovely young wife. They'd just laid their new baby to rest, and were now toasting the purchase of their small but lovely apartment near the heart of Madrid. Publishing all the dirtiest secrets of politicians in the country certainly brought in the money. Unfortunately, it also made one quite a few enemies. Enemies with the connections and means to purchase the services of some of the best in the business when it came to removing men like him.

Valéria had tracked the man's movements for the better part of the last month. Primarily through the lens of her scope, she watched his every action, familiarizing herself with his schedule. She only took breaks from him long enough to check out the activities of police nearby. Thanks to her scouting, she knew that approximately 7:35 at night was the idle time for her to carry out the deed. The nearest police cars were about five minutes away, and the family's neighbors would be asleep for the night. The woman adjusted herself, careful not to disturb any loose shingles -she'd once given herself away when one such single fell from the rooftop and clattered to the ground below, a thoroughly embarrassing mistake- and checked her watch. 7:34, with the second hand ticking ever closer to twelve. She took a deep, calming breath, and found the man in her scope once more. His head was thrown back in laughter at something his wife said. It was the last laugh he'd ever have.

With one squeeze of the trigger, with the the dull, muffled ringing of the shot, the shattering of the window pane, and a woman's shrill scream, a life was extinguished. A man was now dead, his child fatherless and his wife, widowed. All that, done in the span of just a few seconds. Valéria peered through her sight just long enough to ensure that her target's brain matter was now spattered across the floor behind him. To ensure that her job was indisputably done. The wife rushed to her husband's side quickly, blocking Valéria's line of vision, but she'd seen what she needed.

An empty feeling in her gut, Valéria slid down the slant of the roof, landing nimbly on a balcony below. The sliding door leading inside was glass, but she did not worry about the possibility of an inhabitant happening by and seeing her, wearing all black and with a sniper rifle in hand, prowling the night. This particular apartment had been on the market for weeks, fortunately. Without hesitating, she slung her rifle over her shoulder and easily shimmied down the storm drain nearby. The moment her feat silently hit the ground, she broke off into a sprint. At the other end of the alley she now found herself in, she'd concealed a bag with everyday clothing. In this case, a dress, with a skirt just full enough to conceal the specially made holsters in which she could hide her rifle even in plainest day.

An hour later, Valéria was clad in this plain brown garment. She was somewhat uncomfortable, if only because she hated skirts, but that was the nature of the beast that was her line of work. At any rate, she wouldn't have to wear it for long, because she had a safe house just a few blocks away in the form of a cheap motel owned by a very old, well trusted contact. By the time she'd reached its doors the sounds of sirens could be heard in the distance. The noise did not concern Valéria. She believed that she wouldn't be caught with the same certainty that she believed the sun would rise the next morning. She was one of the best at what she did, and she knew it.

The establishment wasn't the prettiest around and didn't smell the best, but it was one of few places that the woman felt she could sleep soundly. Sitting at the front desk, just a few feet away from the door through which she'd entered, was the motel's owner. This man was tall and bald, built like a brick wall and with the charisma to match. The eye patch covering his left eye was one of many signs of his background as what most would consider a less than savory character. In his youth, mercenary work had been his game, and it was one he played well. Now well into his fifties, he preferred brokering information among the various contacts he'd racked up in his years selling his services to the highest bidder. It was a hell of a lot safer -which the missus preferred- and gave him more time to read his five cent dramas, as he was currently doing.

"Good evening, miss," He greeted in Spanish, not glancing up from the pages of his book. He made no attempt to hide the cover, which pictured a woman in the arms of some darkly-clad man while a second man burst in through the door, all with overly exaggerated expressions of surprise. But then, a man with six inches and almost a hundred pounds of solid muscle on most who would consider mocking him rarely feared embarrassment. "A letter for ya," he told her, jerking his head toward a sealed envelope on the counter next to him. The slight widening of her eyes was the only indicator of her surprise; still, that was a lot, coming from her. She approached the counter and picked up the letter. The anticipation in her eyes dimmed somewhat when she noted that it was her brother's handwriting in the top corner. "A message came, too, if you're interested."

Valéria looked up, the unspoken question being just who this verbal message would be from, since the only two people she regularly corresponded with did so purely via letter. Now the man carefully dogeared his page and glanced around, ensuring that the small sitting room was empty and the door was fully closed. He leaned in close. "I've a boy who's been told that a pack of wolves is gathering up for the first time." That said, he took a pen and paper from his desk and scribbled out a location, sliding it to Valéria. She carefully placed the envelope in her bag, making a mental note to read it later. She committed the scrap's contents to memory before holding it over the flickering flame of one of two pillar candles that sat atop her friend's desk. She watched it burn, then turned away.

"Can you please find me transportation to Vercelli for tomorrow?" She asked briskly, mind already racing with questions and plans. All she needed was to pick up her plane, her arsenal, and a few changes of clothes...

---

Even after eight years grounded, [i]A Loba[/i] took to the sky like she never left it. Retirement had treated the plane almost as well as it treated the woman, it seemed. And retirement [i]had[/i] treated Valéria well. Few would have thought it possible, given the excellent shape she was in in her youth, but she was actually in better shape now than eight years ago. Her arms had only become harder, abs more clearly defined. Of course, the years did show, but that was more through her new scrapes and scars and the thin lines on her forehead from her habit of furrowing her brow when concentrating.

Valéria took a deep breath of the crisp night air billowing around her and gripped the wheel of the plane. She'd only flown a small handful of times since the wolves broke up. She kept her plane in tip top condition; cleaning it every day that she was at her home, replacing parts that seemed to be rusting or breaking, repainting it the same steel grey once a year. But her efforts were more out of the deep connection she still felt to the plane than any belief that she'd really get to fly it again. But despite her doubts, here she was, flying above the clear Sicilian sea, eyes scanning the dark coast for the rocky outcrop that marked the sea cave that was their designated meeting place.

It came into view, and she started dropping altitude. How many of her old friends would be there? Wolfgang, certainly, and Arturo. If anyone would call this meeting, it would be those two founders. Lucian, perhaps? For a moment, the ghost of a smile seemed to grace her lips. It was likely. Pretty girl that she was, Madelief may have settled down and started a family; but, something told Valéria that there was no man persuasive enough to convince the girl to abandon her pursuit of adventure. If he hadn't changed, Eric wouldn't have needed much pushing to return to their glory days. For the next few minutes, she pondered the chances of her various other former teammates attending.

Of course, it was very possible that none of them would be there. For all she knew, they could be dead, bounty hunters or soldiers or God knew what else waiting for her in the quickly approaching cave. She'd confirmed the message with a small handful more of her more trusted contacts, and it seemed to the real deal. But, just in case, she kept on the alert. After killing the engine, she listened carefully for some indicator of an ambush, but there was one to be found. What she did see as her plane drifted in were four she hadn't seen in far, far too long.

Valéria climbed out of the cockpit, a rope in hand, as soon as she was actually in the cave. She tied the rope carefully and securely around a solid rock, then simply followed the sound of voices to the small cabin, dusting her black trousers out of habit and straightening her crisp brown button-up shirt before sauntering into the open door. Already inside were Wolfgang, Madelief, Eric, and Lucian. The latter two had already broken into the alcohol, it seemed. Valéria very rarely drank -she placed much value on keeping a clear head, and far less tolerance for the stuff than she cared to admit- but even she couldn't deny that the occasion warranted some revelries. For most of them, this was the first time they'd seen each other since the group broke up. 

For a moment after she entered, her ever analyzing eyes flitted quickly over the others who’d arrived. They went to Wolfgang first; the fearless leader who she first met over a decade ago, who'd almost single-handedly changed her entire life. Despite the rather unsavory setting of their first meeting, he'd helped her time and time again. First, by bringing her to Europe, then by giving her purpose with his invitation into the then newly formed Wolves, and in countless dogfights after that day. She regarded him with an immense respect similar to what she'd once given to her superiors in the military. Though she also grew to consider him a friend, that image she kept in her mind of him as her superior and leader kept her from growing overly close with him. And, despite her claims of not regretting a single moment of her history, he'd occasionally catch her watching him with a look bordering on guilt. The man wasn't too far changed from her memories, something she was surprised to find herself almost grateful for. She wasn’t perceptive enough when it came to human emotion to notice the slight change in his demeanor.

Next was Eric. He seemed perhaps a bit softer around the edges but, from what she could see, his spirit was very much unchanged. Also seemingly unchanged -in attitude, at least- was Madelief, who’d clearly just arrived as well and was playfully greeting the man who’d taught her much of what she knew. Valéria did note, though, with just a tinge of worry, that the girl seemed even thinner now than she was when they were younger.

Finally, there was Lucian. Though plenty of their group had been former soldiers, he was the only one who came from a line of them, as she had. The two had been close back then, despite the woman’s preference to act like she didn’t care much for anybody. She glanced from him to Wolfgang, wondering if the fact that she and Lucian had broken that promise never to see the others again had come to light, and if their leader would mind. For now, she saw no reason to bring it up.

Her assessment lasted only a few moments. Her greeting, like her personality, was much more subdued than Madelief’s. All she gave the group was a short nod with the smallest of smiles, one that appeared and disappeared so quickly that someone might question if it were ever there at all. Most knew, though, that this was a sincerely warm greeting from her. She made eye contact with Lucian for just a moment before taking a seat. It seemed that all of the people who were most likely to answer the call were here, save one. His absence puzzled her, given that he was one of the two who’d founded the group. Never one to extend greetings longer than necessary, she figured she would go ahead and ask the question straight out, addressing Wolfgang. “Where is Arturo?”