Poker looked around at all the carnage, “I’m green.” When no other bullets were whizzing past and no signs of a sniper were had, he shook his head at it all, “We’re clear.”

Queen. Maui. Even goddamn Tex. Poker walked past Dave, not even glancing his direction. At least he’d waited until the shooting stopped to mourn. That’s really all one could do. His eyes went to Laine’s corpse, staring at it for a moment. Then his eyes tracked Tex’s way. His gurgling, but weak breathing made the faintest sound. His fingers clutched at the dirt uselessly. Then nothing. He looked at where his eyes were pointed last and frowned, leaving Tex and Laine, and Maui, and the rest. “On me. We still got the Shaman to recover.”

Ghost joined Poker, leaving Lucky to have a moment alone. He didn't understand loss. Didn't understand grieving. But he knew that until Lucky finished doing what he was doing he would be useless. He allowed a few moments to pass.

"Lucky," he finally growled. "Let's go."

Dave held Ava until Ghost called him. Then he took a long, shuddering breath. He cupped her cheek, stroked it with his thumb, and whispered quiet words to her, too low for the others to hear, before placing a final soft kiss on her forehead and lowering her to the ground. He felt empty, hollowed out, and as he stood and looked at the blasted bodies around him he found that the only thing he really felt was hate. Deep, burning. 

When he joined the others it was with a furnace behind his blue eyes. 

"Let's go," he said softly. 

Poker looked at the last two surviving men he could call his team. He looked past them, at all the bodies. At the people who’d simply come out to watch the firefight with implacably straight faces. Even children. One, maybe 12 years at the most, strayed too close to the carnage, stepping over one body to get to Tex. He bent down to grab something, a gun, maybe. Poker wordlessly raised his rifle and pointed it at the boy’s center mass. His face as stone cold as the Inuit peoples’. The boy caught him, froze. Then stood and walked back to his porch. Poker trailed him until he disappeared behind his front door and then lowered his weapon. “Okay.” He said, “Let’s go.”

They went down the road, following Ipiktok’s footsteps. The neat line down the dirt streets that would lead them to wherever he was shivering and hiding like a rat. After some time, being looked at by townsfolk, and expecting even more shooters to jump out of an alleyway at any second, they finally found him. It was roundabout, a huge pointless circle he’d made. Running down the street at first, then doubling back behind the houses just to get back to Yutu’s ruined house. Yutu and Charles’ bodies were gone. Dragged somewhere, and the trail led back down to the makeshift bedroom that Yutu had set Ipiktok up with.

There the bodies were, stripped naked. Something drawn or written on them in cuts that didn’t bleed. He sat there, naked as well, and swaying with his face turned up towards the ceiling, muttering something.

Ghost's rifle snapped up, covering the shaman. He hated witches. They cheated. They killed people they shouldn't be able to kill, turned the age-old contest of arms on its head. His finger curled on his trigger but he held his fire, waiting for a hostile act or word from Poker. 

Dave joined him in his vigilance, looking at Ipiktok's face through the red-dot of his AK. Unlike the operator he was barely suppressing his shiver of disgust at what he saw, and the suspicions floating through his mind. Ipiktok was their asset, the whole reason they were here, but he'd managed to rabbit the minute bullets flew without even having a gun pointed his way. 

"Was it you?" Dave growled. "Swear to God, I'll fuckin' gut you slow. Answer me!" 

Ipiktok stopped his muttering, slowly opened his eyes as he looked back down to see the trio pointing their weapons at him. He looked to Dave, “Was what me?”

“You fuckin’ know what.” Poker growled, “You got a lot of people killed. My fucking team, [i]my[/i] fucking team.”

Poker inched closer, but if Ipiktok was scared, he didn’t show it. Sad, maybe. But sadness and regret for selling them out wouldn’t get him any mercy, “I could always dump some rounds in your face and tell them you reached for my gun.”

“And what would that leave us?” Ipiktok asked, like addressing the anger of a child, “It was not me, I didn’t sell your people out. I told Donnelley-“

“I’m not him!” Poker roared, “So tell me, before I have Ghost rip your fucking head off.”

Ipiktok sighed, closing his eyes again and muttering more incomprehensible nonsense. Then he spoke low, “Forgive me.”

His hand shot towards a knife and before anyone could even get a shot off, Ipiktok plunged it into his own chest, dead center where some rune had been cut, until Poker on reflex squeezed off a tight triplet in his center mass. Ipiktok fell back, dead and still. Poker lowered his rifle, “Alright.” He said, looking at the three bodies, “Let’s get to the runway and wait for CORAL NOMAD. The [i]real[/i] ones.”

Poker didn’t wait for acknowledgement. Just turned and left, the stairs creaking beneath his boots. They made it to the runway, taking shelter near a building off to the side of it. Just as they’d thought, there were no helicopters. The CORAL NOMAD they’d thought were here for them were fakes, though who’d sent them was a mystery. Whatever UMBRA knew lay with Dave, and Poker knew that Dave wasn’t in the talking mood. It would be an hour or so until CORAL NOMAD would show up, they saw them on the horizon, three black dots. Two Blackhawk helicopters and a V-22 Osprey with their rotors beating the air.

It took them another hour to load everything. The dead, the documents and weapons of Yutu’s house. They burned down the house, the official story probably something about Yutu leaving his gas stove on. No one would believe Noatak if they told anyone what had really happened. It was a quiet ride. The dead were in body bags in the Osprey with Ghost, Poker and Dave. “A lot of fucking paperwork.” Poker said.

"And training," Ghost grunted. "Recruiting. We have slots to fill."

He threw a small nod at Dave, who sat silently at the far end of the Osprey. He'd insisted on handling UMBRA himself, bagging each one carefully. He'd carried Ava aboard alone, and now sat alone beside her, the hat she'd gifted him in his hands. He was getting blood on it, but he didn't care. 

Back at the other end of the aircraft Ghost looked across at Poker. "So? What do you think? He kept his head in the fight. Didn't break down until after." 

Poker looked where Ghost had nodded. Dave. Lucky. Poker figured Lucky had earned the nickname after this. He didn’t have any ties, at least none that Poker knew of. In short, he’d be perfect once he got some training and some more killing under his belt. “I’d rather have a man who doesn’t break down at all, but I forgive him.” Poker shrugged, “I floated the offer. Up to him. I didn’t force anyone onto this fucking team.”

Brain, Maui, Queen, Tex. And many more names went through Poker’s head. He remembered how each one had died, remembered too all the careers long and short they had with THUNDER. Death wasn’t a big thing around here, “Question is, what do [i]you[/i] think.”

"He can learn," Ghost said. It was decent praise from the big man. "He's not there yet, but I've spun him up. He listens. And he can kill." 

Ghost sniffed, thinking. "Not sure about the long-term, though. Have to harden him up. I don't know if he's the kind to crack down the road and eat his gun. But he's good with explosives. Be useful until he does it." 

Poker nodded. He’d known a few who’d done that. No shame, of course, what use was wasting time looking down on the weak when there was always more work to be done. Best to just leave them as bones in the ground, let the ones who’d make it make it. It’s what kept Poker alive all these years, and case in point, he still had Ghost with him. “Maybe. Of course, no telling when he will. Could just fucking do it in the bathroom when we get back.” Poker frowned in thought, weighing Dave’s grief and loss like a stock broker analyzes his portfolio, “We’ll keep an eye on him.”

Ghost nodded, leaning back against the wall of the Osprey. The shitty troop seat made his back hurt, though he'd never let it show. 

"Should we make the pitch?" He asked. 

Poker hadn’t taken his eyes off Dave. He took his moment, “Sure.”

>BLACKBOX
>MEETING ROOM
>7SEP2019
>0030...///

They all sat in silence. From the time they first came in from the outside world into the BLACKBOX, to the time they sat in the meeting room alone. Not a word spoken. Not even when Christian Greedy walked into the room, looking about as forlorn as Dave was. Even then, they all sat in silence. Greedy stood in the front of the room, his arms crossed as they all stewed. “Is this it?” He looked at the three people in front of him, not angry or arrogant like he was before, “Three people?”

He nodded as they kept silent, “Okay.” He shrugged, “So, we checked the bodies. The NOMAD team, or whatever the fuck they were trying to pass off as one.”

“Tattoos and features, all Slavic. Russian or not, they weren’t American. This only adds to the mounting evidence that there is a mole- or several- among the Program’s people.” Greedy spoke like it took every ounce of his being to not give up right then, “We’ve brought in Counterintelligence from the Program, leveraged every fucking favor the Directors could to focus on this with everyone from the fucking FBI, CIA, DIA, EPA and the fucking FDA, whatever acronym you fucking want. There are Russians in Alaska.”

Greedy had the first sign of anger on his face in a quivering frown, threatening to become a snarl, “We’re going to kill every single fucking one of them and let them know they’re not welcome here.” Greedy looked at them all, what meager team they were, “Seeing as you…”

Greedy shook his head, looking down at his feet before returning his eyes to them, “Seeing as you are what amounts as the only Wetwork Team or Working Group we have in Alaska at the moment… you will be my…” he made a fist and shook it, “My instruments of this righteous [i]fucking[/i] vengeance.”

The anger guttered out as soon as it came, “The other part of this plan is going to have to wait until the other asset I’ve requested gets here. I’ve got no ETA, so you’re being put on standby.” He looked away from them, clearing his throat in his fist, “Make use of the facility. Any questions?”

Ghost stood to leave, then stopped when Dave spoke up. 

"What's going to happen to…" Dave's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "What happens to my team? To their…"

He paused and collected himself. There was pain in his eyes, but he clenched his fist. "I wanna know what happens next. To the bodies, their stuff. Their families." 

Greedy looked at Dave and knew that pain. No matter how many people he’d lost before, it never dulled the pain. Only thing a man could do was sit and drink and think, but not too hard. It’d kill you. And here they were, him and Dave. Two men who’d lost all their friends, “Officially…” Greedy began, “Messages will be sent down the wire, notifying their home agencies of their deaths in the line of duty. That’s no lie.”

“Their families, if they have any, will receive notification. Bodies will be transported to the appropriate burial grounds.” Greedy stopped himself there, then continued, “Unofficially, due to the nature of our work, we can’t allow their remains to pose a threat to the outside world. No telling what kind of unnatural or otherwise pathogen or virus, or… any other kind of incursion vector could be on them.”

Dave felt another pang of grief and looked down at the table. There wouldn't even be bodies in graves for him to visit. He stared at the cheap faux-wood and then stood, heading silently for the door. Ghost watched him pass, then looked at Poker.

"I'll be at the gym." 

>ANCHORAGE, AK
>7SEP2019
>1930...///

A woman in a navy blue jacket slid a twenty dollar bill across a sticker riddled counter, almost avoiding eye-contact with the cashier. She closed up her purse and bagged the items herself, receiving the change and sticking it in a pocket.

“There you go, take care ma’am”

“You too” She smiled delicately at the man before exiting the gas station. She sank into the seat of a beaten silver SUV and thrummed the wheel as she started it. It didn’t get better than being paid to cruise around unfamiliar places while blasting music. Still, tension was building everyday her objective was unclear.

A codename and a touring schedule was all she gleaned from this assignment. Some Intel.  It looked like a snail-mail vacation package with a promotion code. She had been in Anchorage more than a week, each day bringing a new prize in the box. She couldn’t help but feel like she was being hazed. This seemed like a single stage operation on home turf, but the details came in dubious fragments as if they were waiting for something.

In the passenger seat was a heavier coat that she pushed to the floor. Lanyard-bound credentials came loose. ‘PRESS. Priscilla West. EPA Photography correspondent’. A far cry from her real name. Bajbala, having been used strictly by one friend in D.C. it was almost more foreign to her than any alias.

 An oversized envelope still lay on the seat with the tab marked boldly, ‘D&D’ for digest and destroy. It wasn’t there before. The Anchorage liaison must be in his heyday. She tore the envelope open and peeked at the contents. There were several photos of faces within a concise dossier, not immediately discernible, and a briefing document —third one of the trip. She closed it back up and left the station, it would be dark soon.

Bajbala drove north of Anchorage proper and crossed the Knik river towards the safehouse she was instructed to use. It was up a gravel path in the foothills, bringing in a good view of the city and surrounding mountains. The tires slowly crunched to a stop at the edge of the gravel road. She parked where the trees broke into a large vista and started thumbing through the documents in detail. 

On loose-leaf was an address with approach instructions. Secure safehouse equipment prior to obsoletion. Live drop September 10th with a time window. Vehicle drop and footing to an old apartment complex. Double follow mitigation. Within the dossier were three men. Two were stamped with execute authority, a critical Russian agent and his de facto muscle. Other faces were linked in their pages but not priority. 

The third dossier struck her as odd. An American. ‘J.D. CIA’ black-flagged with a follow-on objective pending an investigation notice,’...confirm death’ freshly dated 7SEP2019. Bajbala suspected he was something other than CIA, possibly linked with the former. Unusual but within her repertoire. She’s been an instrument to US forces abroad and now is being used to query the ranks within. It’s not often Uncle assigns domestic cases to her lot of agents. Before she could look further the supersonic crackle of afterburner rolled down from the frosted mountains. A small formation of jets passed to finish an exercise and set down at Elmendorf Air Base. 

Bajbala stepped out of the vehicle to peer out into the valley. She clenched her jacket shut against the brisk wind that launched itself up against the hillside. Her black hair struggled to break free from the loosely worn scrunchy. Each passing minute the sun vanished further. To the east, the eerie beauty of the alpenglow began to melt into the darkened sky. Then the shadow of the mountains seemed to crawl from the water over the city and up her skin.

>THREE DAYS LATER...///
>SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE ANCHORAGE, AK
>10SEP2019
>0800...///

The THUNDER playlist whispered some song on shuffle from the speakers, Poker didn’t know which. Mostly didn’t care, just cared that at this point it was tradition and he’d begrudgingly bonded with the dead. Ghost was in the seat beside him and Dave was sat in the back of the Dodge minivan. It wasn’t a glamorous Not-a-Fed chariot, but nobody ever expected death to come out the sliding door of a soccer mom’s carriage. “Shouldn’t be far now.”

He’d said that ten miles ago too, but nobody said anything. Queen would’ve, Maui would’ve laughed. Tex would’ve… done whatever Tex felt like doing that day. At this point, Lucky was starting to remind him of that brooding fuck. He guessed that’s how lone survivors were, grizzled and brooding, dark, mysterious. Fucking insufferable. “Lucky, you ready for this?”

Dave nodded, his eyes glued to the passing scenery. They were plainclothes for this run, which still meant his trademark flannel and cargo pants, just with a covert vest under the shirt instead of his rig. The rig was there, though, plate carrier and pistol belt both. They rode in the floorboard next to him, beside the AK he was now lugging everywhere they went, unless orders told him not to. 

“I’m ready,” he said, realizing a moment too late that they probably couldn’t see him nodding. 

He was ready. The weight of the subcompact Sig in his waistband was a comfort, the Buck knife at his belt freshly honed. He’d taken one of the frags off his vest and slipped it into his cargo pocket. If things went sideways, which they always seemed to, Dave was ready. 

“We shouldn’t need the long guns, but we all know how these things go sometimes.” The most ready example still hanging over them after these few days, “Looks like it’s here.”

The silver SUV was by itself on a turn-off. The gravel lot was nigh untouched, just like the road it was on. They hadn’t seen another vehicle pass them or come up behind them the entire drive. Poker didn’t bother with the blinker as he turned off the road and stopped a respectable distance away from the SUV, “Asset’s supposed to be here.” Poker nodded at the SUV, “Be real awkward if that ain’t them.”

Ghost eyed the vehicle, his hand on the grip of his Glock 19. The suppressor rode in a pocket of his cargo pants; he was ready to go loud. 

“Fuck them,” he grunted. “Smile and wave, shoot them if we need to.” 

He glanced back at Dave to see if the other man was paying attention and got a hard glare for his comment. Good, at least he was awake. 

“Asset is female, right?” Ghost knew she was, but he was antsy. He wasn’t looking for new [i]friends[/i] after their last op. Something stank, he wasn’t sure what it was, and it had him more on edge than usual. 

“Dossier says so, briefing had it that way too.” Poker spoke, still staring at the SUV with his hand on his Glock, riding in the holster stuffed between the driver seat and center console, “Supposed to drive her to the place, get her On Target. Make sure she gets the job done, and come in with guns blazing if things go south.”

“Said she’d be alone too. Lone Wolf type bullshit.” Everyone knew Poker’s feelings about lone wolves.

“‘Til we meet her buddies,” Dave growled from the back seat. 

“She fucks around we’ll drop her,” Ghost said. He glared at the SUV. “We shouldn’t even be playing taxi. We’re fucking THUNDER.” 

In the woodline on the far side of the SUV Bajbala lowered a monocular, satisfied with the first glance of the minivan. The vehicle had the right plates and she was expecting the 3 stoic forms, all business. She wagered there were some big dicks behind that tinted glass considering they drove up in that thing. The brief mentioned a high risk compromise with courtesy of russian activities.  If it was going to be a gang-bang the only thing waiting for them was a 30 meter cloud of CS and smoke rigged to blow from modules beneath the vehicle.

Bajbala emerged from the woods while configuring the settings on a Nikon as if unaware, a collapsed tripod was slung over her back. She paused for a moment in view some meters from the other side of the SUV and acted surprised when she looked up to the van. She tongued the gum around in her mouth and hoped they were American. Just a warm cheesy smile and a wave, the other hand clasping a keychain trigger taped to the camera that dangled from her neck.

Poker watched her approach from the woods, growling and kicking himself in the ass mentally. How he’d fallen for that and didn’t see her anywhere, assumed she was in the goddamn car. It took some effort from him to not punch his steering wheel. Or just shoot through the windshield and tag her in the forehead. 

"I'm point." Ghost spat his mantra and then left the vehicle, hauling his bulk upright and then taking a few steps away so Poker could move or dismount according to his whims. Dave went with him, putting his AK on the seat and then lingering close enough to his door to snag it if need arose.

Ghost eyed the small woman for a moment. He was 240 pounds stacked in a dark grey hoodie, his face a pair of Oakleys set in a thick copper beard. He contrasted with the leaner Lucky, whose eyes were wary, untrusting.

[I]"Good morning. You should be careful hiding like that. Lots of bears in these woods."[/i] His Pashto was clearly intelligible, if accented. The grammar was solid, his tone modulated to his best approximation of 'friendly but authoritative'. 

Bajbala raised her brow at the first man out. You don’t get a body like that in this line of work unless you’re a real hitter. The kind with no other life, no family, a living weapon too honed to acknowledge they were part of some functioning human civilization. The other two men remained vigilant but visible, they looked American at least. They didn’t trust this encounter any more than she did.

“Says the bear.” 

She eyed Ghost as she further approached, slipping her finger off the gas trigger. Within a few meters of Ghost she continued in an expressive, near mocking pashtun response, “Don’t worry, the eagles see them.” With one hand she raises the camera to her eye, pointedly at the bear man, and makes the shutter sound with her mouth, still smirking. 

“What, are they fucking flirting?” Poker muttered just loud enough for Dave to hear. His hand tightened on the grip of his Glock when Bajbala pointed the camera at Ghost. Knowing these CIA types- the real ones, not their shooters like Tex- he knew anything could be a fucking weapon. One pulls out a lighter and it’s a goddamned flamethrower, “Hurry the fuck up, Ghost.”

Poker thumbed his throat mic for his team to hear, “Are we shooting people?”

Ghost gave the 'asset' a long stare, tensing slightly when the camera rose. He smirked to mask the brief tension, giving her the once-over behind his shades.

[I]"I'll sign it later,"[/i] he growled, then touched his mic. "We're good."

He jerked his head at the minivan, his voice all business in a heartbeat, and stayed there to watch her board the van before getting in himself. "Mount up. You're in the back. I'm Ghost, team lead is Poker. Lucky is in the back with you." 

"Priscilla." She flashed her press card from under her shirt, looking at it like she needed to check, then passed him by. Each member of the escort looked cautious as if working in a warzone. The unease was contagious. Her only other possession was a handbag which was tossed into the far seat behind Poker, she gave a nod to Lucky then climbed in.

“Please,” Poker turned his dagger-eyes on this Priscilla in the rearview mirror, “Tell me you were given a fucking gun.”

“I’ve got three of them right here!” She exclaimed proudly about the team. Bajbala dropped the tripod to the floor and felt the van shift under the muscle of the other two. She went right into it, “So, I know there have been a few changes to the September seventh brief, do you know the way?” She asked Poker, leaning up between the seats.

“We’re one part taxi and one part QRF. I really hope you don’t need it.” He eyed Priscilla, she the only one not knowing what happened last time someone needed rescuing, “That part is unchanged. Program CI pulled the nearby cell towers and even ran some drones over Anchorage. Multiple coded messages are coming from a string of cellphones, likely burners all for one or two people.”

“Location data was ran through a sieve by the computer nerds and puts the targets in a trailer park. It’s smart, kinda, low-visibility but a fortress a double-wide trailer does not make.” Poker snorted and shook his head, “Fucking Russians. We’re supposed to sneak over, confirm the targets are there. Snatch and grab, liquidate in another place, preferably no witnesses.”

Poker looked at Ghost, then back at Priscilla, “Those just complicate things.”

“You and Lucky are going into the trailer park. Ghost and I are sitting in the van and looking pretty until you get back, or until we hear gunshots.” Poker finished, “Should be an easy day.”

Ghost shot Poker a knowing look. The new meat needed to be broken in. Lucky was still UMBRA, on paper, but they had a roster to fill. 

“Still think it should be me going in,” he said. “We don’t need a new kid cutting his teeth on an op like this.” 

“I’ve got it,” Dave growled. His Arkansas drawl was heavy. “If there’s Russians need killin’, I’m doin’ it.” 

The southern man seemed to glow with ardor that reminded Bajbala of when she put a gun to use the first time; however, he was likely much less naive and hopefully more competent. He looked the part.

“Me and Lucky in the flesh then. You. Are a mountain, sir.” She motioned to Ghost with her palm. “May be a trailer park but it has ordinary, [i]familiar[/i], families running around, it’s right off the main roads. If they have any sort of surveillance you won’t catch them without the spotlight.”

Ghost shifted his weight, making sure that his shoulders bunched beneath the fabric of his hoodie.

“If you’re sure you’ve got it, Lucky,” he said.

“I said I’ve got it,” Dave snapped. His blue eyes flashed beneath the brim of his hat. It was the only thing at odds with the rest of his outfit, a tan ballcap with a blue brim, and an image of an identical hat on the front. A gift from Ava, his [i]hat-hat[/i]. 

Ghost shrugged. “Fine. Handle it.” 

Truth be told, he wanted Lucky to do this. He needed to see the man in action. To know he hadn’t broken. Attachments weren’t something Ghost had a good grasp of, but he had seen enough to know that men who’d lost someone sometimes cracked. It made them a liability. A useful one, at times, when that crack left them with fewer scruples and a lack of fear, but still a liability. 

“See?” Poker said, shrugging, “Our little boy’s got it.”

Poker looked to Bajbala, “So, we’ll need to find the controls for the cameras, or just cut the fucking power to the whole place.” Poker shrugged, “Do it at night, cut the power just as you two go in, bring them out wriggling.”

“Or just scrub the tapes for the whole day, make it look like a software fuck-up. Anybody bring any gadgets for that, or are me and Ghost going to pry open a panel and do some fuckery with wire cutters?” Poker asked.

Bajbala chimed in. “I’ve watched the site these past three days and it seems likely they have an auxiliary power source. I’d expect the cameras feed to another site as well. We should look to take him outside of the compound unless we want more Russians for Lucky's appetite.” She produced a photograph of a white toyota camry from her bag with a mild tint and grey interior. There was a small logo printed in the rear, a company vehicle, ‘Breger Pipe & Cable Solutions’.

"This vehicle here has come these days a little past noon to carry the target to some business elsewhere, I don’t know the route but it could be routine." She shrugged and nibbled up a fresh stick of gum then extended the pack out to the hard men.

"So let's take 'em in the car." Dave gave the gum an untrusting glance, then shook his head. "We could tail 'em, but they might have more guys wherever they're goin'. If you know what direction they turn we could just wait on the side of the road an' then broadside their ass when they pull up."

Ghost looked back at him, then at the other two. He simply ignored the gum; he didn't take candy from CIA strangers. 

"Could work," he said. "Or we follow them to a stop, pull up beside them. Shoot the driver, grab the passenger. Like we did down South a few years back." 

“Let’s do it.” Poker nodded, “You up for that, Priscilla?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just shifted into drive and put them back on the road. Poker wasn’t looking for applause or agreement, he was looking for any way to kill the people that’d taken [i]his[/i] team. Ordered them killed like pigs. Dying was an inevitability in this kind of life. They just made the mistake of not killing all of them, and they were about to realize what happens when you fucked with Poker.

The brutes were going to get her in trouble. There weren’t many options as it was a time sensitive target. 

“That would be fine. I have to say the directive emphasizes discretion, so I hope you animals don’t run in dicks too hard” She shouldered her handbag and sat back looking at each of the men. Dave was a handsome guy in a very normal kind of way, so normal he’d hold a cover well if his ‘appetite’ wasn’t mainstay. She couldn’t get a good look at Poker, just his eyes bouncing in the rear-view.

“We can be discreet,” Dave said as he checked that his AK was loaded and ready. He’d folded the stock to keep it mobile in the vehicle, and as if to emphasize his point he took a suppressor from a pouch on his belt-rig and began installing it on the weapon. It wouldn’t change things by more than 30 decibels or so, but it was the thought that counted in his opinion. 

Bajbala didn’t want to ruin his fun, nor could she. It was their team, their op. She was there to fill in the cracks, round out the team’s capabilities. It may not even be permanent. 

“I believe you.” She said incredulously. 

The mornings were taking longer to warm as the Alaskan autumn fast approached. The trees passing either side of the van well turned into a palette of yellows on jade. It was beautiful countryside, if not foreboding as the grey clouds of the wet season fill the sky.

>1150...///

The tinted windows of the Dodge minivan kept people from seeing inside of it as they passed. Not that many were paying attention. In these parts of town people were more likely to keep their eyes pointed at their laces rather than risk getting into some kind of fight if they looked at someone wrong. Pedestrians walked past talking and laughing, or just counting cracks in the pavement, not knowing there were four people inside the minivan not five feet away clutching guns.

They were waiting for that Toyota Camry, [i]Breger Pipe & Cable Solutions[/i] emblazoned on it. Poker checked his watch, “10 ‘til.”

His hand went back to resting on the compact MP7, his other holding a half-eaten protein bar. He took another bite, “Once we see the pickup, we’ll tail them for a mile or so and jump these fuckers.”

“Remember, it’s a snatch-and-grab,” Ghost said, more for Lucky than for Priscilla or Poker. “We take them here, then put them down somewhere discreet. If we can. If they make it hard-”

“We kill ‘em,” Dave finished. “All of ‘em.” 

Priscilla put the camera strap back around her neck and fastened it snugly to her side behind the handbag. “Looks like he’s running late today.” The Russian safehouse was barely visible from the van. Several rows of stained trailers and junk sat between them. It was a big park for a modest city. “If there are more than the two of them we’ll need you, Ghost.” She said chewing her gum. One gun per body. Life or death, the Russian wouldn’t go down easy with numbers. 

“Just tell me who to hurt,” Ghost said as he press-checked the chamber on his G19. Dave gave him a look; the big man wasn’t usually so talkative. 

“So we’re just grabbin’ ‘em,” he said, more to remind himself than to go over the plan again. “Wave the gun around, hope we don’t hafta shoot ‘em. Yet.”


“People fight less when you take out a knee,” Ghost interjected helpfully. “Try that if they struggle too much.” 

Poker was ready to put rounds through the windshield. The engine block would take it better than him if it took some bullets, and he wasn’t going out today. There was retaliation on the schedule. He thought fondly of Mexico, the time THUNDER had when they had a full roster before the CSAR Op staged out of the BLACKBOX. At least this run would be easier, less variables. Except for the one. He glanced at Priscilla, doubting that was her real name, and put his eyes back on the road.

He cracked a grin, then his grin grew when he counted heads in the approaching white Toyota Camry, “Breger Pipe and Cable Solutions,” he checked his watch, “On schedule. Two heads inside, making three when we ruin their day.”

Dave reached into his shirt, briefly fingering a St. Michael medallion he’d taken from Ava’s personal effects. He held it for a moment, then tucked it away and racked the charging handle on his AK. 

“Let’s fuckin’ go,” he growled. 

Priscilla put up her monocular towards the vehicle. It sat high, a light load on the suspension. Low tint and no modifications. Small arms were expected, but probably not on their laps. Something big happened the other day, out of her sector, but the ripples pulled her in. 

The car rolled past some family enjoying the last throes of summer before their children would be back to school then parked, partially obscured. One of the men approached the building, disappearing through the front door. Moments later he returned with who looked like the target.

“Tall, scruffy, It’s Belyaev.” She confirmed.

“Are these the ones?” Dave asked suddenly. He looked into the rearview, seeking Poker’s gaze. “These the guys behind it?” 

Poker looked into Dave’s eyes through the rearview mirror. He held his gaze, searching his eyes for any cracks or faults in his conviction. Finding none, he nodded. Just once, “Few of them.”

As Belyaev and his drivers mounted up in the Camry, Poker watched them leave. He counted to ten and then pulled into the road just behind them. They hit a stop sign and then took off from a rolling stop, Poker doing the same after seeing no other cars. They took a left, continued on straight and then took another left. There were other cars around them in traffic now, and they were all stopped at a red light at a four way intersection. Without warning, the Camry burst into movement, cutting a turn right and slamming the brakes in a gas station parking lot just to the right side of the street on the corner of the intersection.

Poker furrowed his brows, “What the fuck.” He spat, “What the fuck, did they clock us?”

He looked at the red light and then back at Belyaev’s Camry, “Take them at the gas station, or try to double back and find them again?” Not giving chance for an answer, he spoke again, “I vote now.”

“Now,” Dave said instantly. He snatched up his AK and gave it a quick check. It was a last-moment decision, but he saw no reason to be subtle. They were going after three men in a public place. If people were going to see them with guns regardless, he’d rather bring what he was most confident with. 

“Now,” Ghost agreed. As Dave made his preparations Ghost was making his own, unbuckling his seatbelt and making one more check of his Glock. 

Priscilla was wondering who the fuck she was paired with. “They are on high alert, it could be counter-surveillance, it doesn’t mean we’re burned. Your call team-lead.” The intersection could spell trouble for them down the road, but she could see the burning in their eyes and it was more an opportunity than getting into a fight in a community.

Poker, growled, looking once more from the stop light to the Camry. He smacked the steering wheel and unbuckled his seatbelt, “Fuck it, let’s go.”

He flipped the same maneuver they did, squealing into the gas station parking lot and slamming the brakes on the driver side of the Camry, the suspension rocking forward. Poker made his move as quick as he could, untethered by his seatbelt already undone and moving to his left, the red dot on his MP7 hovering over the driver’s face, “Hands, hands!”

Ghost and Dave dismounted, splitting so as to not present a single clumped target. Ghost’s Glock was leveled at the HVT himself, the sights settled just even with the bridge of his nose. 

“Hands! Hands, motherfucker!” Ghost roared. 

Behind him Dave raised his rifle, sighted, and without a word cut a burst through the driver’s side window, scattering brain, blood, and tempered glass across the inside of the vehicle. 

Priscilla was already moving slyly across the front of the car with a startled expression as if one of several onlookers to the men that burst from the van on the target’s side. When Lucky opened up on the driver, the passenger went into a panic and fumbled with something before trying to open his door. To his surprise she did it for him.

Patmonov, the babysitter, gripped a Sig tightly in his left hand, unable to get a proper hold in the shock. Shit was already out of control. Priscilla pulled free the integrally suppressed Makorov frame from her handbag and granted Ghost’s wish. Not even close to a djinn, she failed to cripple the Russian’s knees. Instead two rounds pulped into his thigh and groin. He grit his teeth and went red, buckling over out of the vehicle. Priscilla kicked the handgun free from reaching distance and stepped back holding the barrel pointed towards his sucking dome against the soiled pavement. Bright red spilled rapidly from the pant-tears around his knees.

“Not a good day to be Russian, friend.” She uttered in Russky.

“Jesus,” Poker spat watching what was already cutting it close spiral downward into an actual fucking shit-show. He lowered his weapon, pointing at Belyaev still in the back with his two hands shaking and eyes frantically flicking between all of them, “Get him in the fucking van!”

Ghost complied, snatching open the back door and collaring Belyaev. He hauled the man from the vehicle and dealt him a rather casual elbow in the chin before shoving his Glock into the small of his back. 

“Walk,” he snapped. He glared over at Priscilla, who still stood near her squirming and moaning victim. “Will you fucking put him down? Lucky, get your stupid ass in the van!” 

Dave complied easily, waiting until Belyaev had been shoved into the vehicle before getting in after him, shoving the muzzle of his AK into the man’s gut to keep him compliant as he sat down. 

Priscilla planted three more bullets in his chest, a pool formed around him and his hands went limp over his popped groin. The Station was now vacant of scattered pedestrians, some leaving their cars behind to flee from this side of the street. No doubt the police would be here shortly. She set in a new magazine.

“I’m thrashing the footage.” She was curt, looking at Poker then hastily entered the gas station. Immediately she trained her muzzle on the man behind the register who seemed too busy cowering to be a threat. “Stay!” she commanded. Another person ran around an aisle and knocked several things down before running out of the store. Priscilla passed through the employee swing door and found the office. She snickered in relief seeing a glowing laptop running the security system; it was all in there. The machine was easy to rip from its wires. She then sprinted out to the van and slammed the side door shut.

“We’re clear.” With the laptop tucked under her arm, she started blowing a bubble.

“Better fucking be.” Poker stomped the gas and they came squealing back out of the parking lot of the gas station. They fishtailed back into the road and sped away as fast as the 4L V6 could throw them down the road. He’d only had Priscilla around for a couple hours, and he already didn’t like her.

Dave. Lucky, he was starting to really get stuck in his craw. There was a time and a place for high-vis shit, and this was not it. No doubt Ghost would handle Lucky. He could already hear the sirens somewhere far off, not knowing if it was police or an ambulance. “Who the fuck told you to shoot?” Poker growled, “Goddamnit…”

"What other options we got?" Dave snarled back. His blood was up, heart pounding, his hand a vice around the grip of his rifle. "We got three guys, an' only two of us back here. We gonna take the time to pat 'em all down real good, make sure nobody's got a holdout? We gonna leave one and hope he don't follow us?"

He jammed the muzzle of his gun into Belyaev's gut, more from frustration than to shut him up. 

"An' we're already jumpin' out of the car with a crowd around us, wavin' pistols and screamin' [i]hands hands[/i]. You think a few gunshots is gettin' any different a reaction?" He was not quite yelling now, his voice harsh. "They killed our goddamn people! We should be guttin' every one of 'em!" 

Poker jerked his steering wheel and the van’s suspension rocked left as he turned right, “I don’t know where the fuck Tex got you from.”

"Arkansas."

"Shut the fuck up!" Ghost finally roared. It was rare that he actually shouted. It was rare that he had to. "You're done! No more talking! You fucked up and we'll discuss it later, now shut your goddamn suck and watch the detainee!" 

Priscilla sat quietly chewing her gum, looking out for police or any other pursuers. Lucky may have shit the bed but it was Poker's team. He should know his guys, should've listened. They looked more like wolves snapping at each other because there wasn't enough meat. She did get the feeling earlier this was personal.

"Get us off the main roads" she interrupted. "What's the plan Team Lead?" Another bubble, getting her mind off the tension in the van.

Belyaev grunted with every pothole as the glock pressed into his bruised ribs, his jaw clenched tightly. She might not have had to shoot his partner if she didn't think he was already going to die.

“Area Kilo,” Poker said, in the middle of doing just what Priscilla had mentioned. This wasn’t his first snatch and grab. Once they were a good enough distance away he cut a left and doubled back, and then another left in an effort to head south towards the objective area that they’d use to interrogate and liquidate Belyaev, Codename BLACKFISH.

He’d angled them down towards the Highway, trying to get back onto Seward Hwy and then turn off from there, wait for things to die down by nightfall and then continue to the safehouse. They’d gotten to the last few stoplights on the edge of Anchorage, glowing red. Poker looked in the rearview as the sound of sirens grew louder, seeing the lights of a cruiser bearing down on them, “If he stops on us, let him have it.”

"Done," Ghost said. Dave looked alarmed.

"Wait, we're-"

"Shut up," Ghost snarled at him. "Watch the prisoner, shut your fucking mouth. I'm cleaning up [i]your[/i] mess, so just sit there and fucking deal with it." 

"Hold on." She said abruptly. "They don't have us yet." Poker had at least been driving carefully to avoid any more attention.

"If we make an encounter they'll have another ping on us."  Ahead of them was a small plaza with a big Long John Silvers sign at the entrance. It didn't look too crowded. She didn't want anyone dead that didn't need to be. "Park in there, I'll try and deal with him." She pointed out with an arm past Poker's shoulder.

"He doesn't want it, you can put him down." She reasoned.

Ghost growled but slipped his pistol into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Lucky, hide your rifle," he said. "And keep that fucking Russian quiet."

Dave leaned down and stowed his AK. He had picked up on the tone in the vehicle, and knew he'd fucked up. Now a man's life was on the line just for doing his job. He bit back his regret, clamped it down hard. Then he drew his knife. 

It was a workman's tool, a Buck 105 with a 6 inch blade and a grip of stacked leather, worn from over a decade's use in the Ozarks. The blade was slim from hundreds of sharpenings, gently feathered and sharp as a razor.

"You keep quiet," Dave growled to Belyaev. He slipped his arm around the man, slid the blade beneath his shirt and pressed it to his liver. "One sound. Just one. I swear to God you'll bleed to death before the last round's fired." He leaned a little closer, his blue eyes hard as stone. "An' I'll make it hurt." 

Belyaev swallowed hard. Poker made sure he didn’t look in the direction of the cop as he depressed the gas pedal and sent them casually ambling into the parking lot of the restaurant. He kept the engine on after he’d found a parking space and laid a hand on the butt of his Glock, watching through the rearview and side mirror for the cop following them there. Poker reached for the police scanner and switched it on.

“11-54, Long John Silvers on Walter J Hickel. Vehicle is Dodge Grand Caravan, Silver. Possible relation to 10-71 at Tesco. Please advise.”

“Do not approach, additional units are en route now.”

"Fuckin great guys." She lauded. "Team Lead trade places with me and everyone stay down. Ghost I need you with me." She was already clambering to squeeze into the driver's seat past Poker with her camera dangling. She pulled off her jacket revealing a loose cashmere lightweight, then fastened her hair up with a clip from her handbag. She was readying to pass through the driver door, the windows would be dark enough to conceal the exchange.

Ghost followed Priscilla's lead, shedding his distinctive grey hoodie and hat to jam them beneath his seat. His Glock went into his waistband holster, and he mussed the hem of his shirt to hide the bulge. His T-shirt was a neutral tan, stretched tight across the chest and shoulders, the sleeves straining over biceps like boulders. Hopefully any descriptions had focused on his clothing, not his mass. 

In the back seat Dave shifted his weight nervously, prodding Belyaev with the tip of his knife. 

"Not one word," he whispered. 

Poker settled into the back, stashing his MP7 under his seat and tucking his Glock and its holster into his waistband. He placed his low-cut ankle-boot on Belyaev’s neck, “Keep fucking quiet, asshole.”

Priscilla cracked the door and shot Ghost a confident glance. "I need you to reach for my hand out there,  cool? Let's go." 

He had a cliche all American mountain man look about him. Belonged on a paper towel package.  Face of a killer maybe, not of a criminal. Easy pass for military; bonus that she couldn't spot nerve or worry about his hard features. She stepped out to casually meet him in front, leaving the keys on the seat. 

Ghost followed, closing the door not-quite all the way.

"Left hand," he said, voice low. "I'm a right-hand draw." He cracked his most genuine smile as he took her hand, giving the cop a wave. 

She clasped fingers and walked closely with him, resting her other hand upon the purse hanging from the left shoulder.  Looking up a shoe and a half past his fiery beard she made some arbitrary joke about the police being here for him and chuckled with a smile, her gum still going.

Another police cruiser rounded the corner next to the Long John Silver’s, no lights or sirens, trying to give the impression this was a normal spot for them on a normal day. Across the parking lot, parked on the street, the other officer dismounted. The police cruiser stopped at the parking lot entrance and met the other officer, exchanging words with him. What they were, neither Poker or Dave could tell. Poker reached down and retrieved his MP7.

There were three of them now in the parking lot, the other two new arrivals approaching Ghost and Priscilla just as they were making their way into the restaurant. The one who’d clocked them back at the intersection hung back, his thumbs hooked in his duty belt.

“Ma’am, sir.” One of the officers called out, a tall, lanky man with clean cut hair. His voice toed the line between friendly and authoritative. His partner was a head shorter, but bald and broader, staring at them through his black shades, “Ma’am, sir, we’ve got a couple questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

Ghost turned and smiled, tugging Priscilla's hand as though bringing her to a playful stop.

"Sure, no problem," he said. His tone was light, confident but friendly, all of his skill at dissembling and blending being brought to bear. "What can we do for you guys?" 

"Oh! Sure." She said quietly, backing her partner.

Priscilla stood next to him still clutching his hand. At some point earlier she pulled a phone from her purse and held it limp over the bag for normalcy. She was glad to see Ghost fit into his role and had a genuinely bright countenance about it. 

“Your guys’ van happens to match the description of a vehicle somebody saw fleeing a crime scene. I know how it sounds, and I’m sorry,” he said, holding up a hand, but his partner remained stoic. The likely ‘bad cop,’ “But, I’m going to have to ask you for your IDs.”

"Oh, shit, that's not good," Ghost said. He let go of Priscilla's hand to dig a wallet out of his back pocket, flipping it open to pull two bogus ID's. They were Program stock, one a Kentucky Driver's License and the other an Army CAC. Together they identified him as a Sergeant Major Richard Grissom out of Fort Campbell, with a rudimentary paper trail that, while it wouldn't fool a deep-dive, should more than handle an NCIC check. 

He passed them over with a smile. He had no choice but to trust that 'Priscilla' had a similarly intact cover, and he dredged what he'd memorized of her dossier from the steel trap of his mind. 

"Here you go," he said. He affected an uncomfortable look, the demeanor of a man who knew he wasn't in trouble, but hoped he wasn't about to be overly inconvenienced. Mildly annoyed, but still wanting to be helpful. "I'm on leave right now, do you need me to get my command on the phone or anything?" 

Priscilla wasn't acquainted with any sort of name so she gave him the good ol’ “babe!” Said with ebullience, giving Ghost a cheery look then back to the officer. “I swear we can’t go anywhere without something strange happening.”

Her fingers slowly snaked inside the handbag past the grip of the pistol while she denoted the type of ID he produced. She pulled a floral-patterned card wallet with little urgency and handed over a Tennessee ID, Amber DeMarco, out of Nashville; close. 

The officer took both IDs and nodded, “Thanks, guys.”

He walked back to his cruiser and sat in the driver seat, looking at the IDs intermittently and then typing on the computer. His stoic partner stayed with them. Back in the van, Poker was still kneeling down in the back, clutching his MP7. He eyed the cop that went back to his cruiser and then the other one that had clocked them and started this whole thing, “I got eyes on the officer in the cruiser at our 8.” Poker muttered, “You keep the nosey fuck at our 6 in your sights. If shit pops off you’d better squeeze that fucking trigger.”

Dave grunted his assent. He kept his knife pressed to Belyaev for another moment, then sheathed his knife, picking up his rifle and pushing the barrel against the man's groin.  

"I'll do my fuckin' job," he growled back. His heart was pounding and he felt sick, but he clicked off his safety even as he sent up a prayer that he wouldn't have to kill an innocent man. "I'm a fuckup, not a pussy." 

“Uh huh…” Poker said, tracking the officer as he left his cruiser to get back to Ghost and Priscilla.

>...///

“Here you go, sir,” The officer said, handing back Ghost’s ID, “Thank you for service, and I’m sorry for disturbing your folks’ day. You’re free to go.”

"Hey, no problem. Thank you for yours," Ghost said as he pocketed the ID's. "You guys stay safe out there." 

The officer handed Bajbala her ID, “Sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am. You guys have a nice meal.”

“Oh, that was quick. You sure you don’t want him?” She put her hand by her mouth and  whispered loudly, "because I'm sick of him!” At least the one cop looked amused.  “Don’t worry about it, have a good one. Gonna get some tacos!" her voice lilting as she looked up at Ghost with his shades and reached for his hand again. Just had to follow through. 

Ghost followed, casually ignoring the police now that business was concluded and accompanying Bajbala to the door. He leaned over as though murmuring something intimate. 

"We need to exchange backstories," he said. "Good save." 

She snickered at him as they went inside. "Yeah, you'd look good in cuffs though" she menaced. They wouldn't notice the missing shrimp taco and crab cake until they got back to the van. Fucking pirates.

>...///

“Well, did everyone have fun on their fucking lunch date?” Poker asked. He’d gotten back into the driver seat since the parking lot fiasco and they were now a couple miles down the road. Poker and Lucky had shared the time Ghost and Priscilla had spent inside the LJ Silver’s quietly menacing Belyaev, and watching for cops.

"My macros are fucked," Ghost grunted. After the stress of the confrontation he'd allowed himself an indulgence, and was currently tearing his way through eight fish tacos. He hadn't eaten since breakfast; the machine needed fuel. 

Behind him Dave sat in silence, his food untouched and his gun muzzle digging firmly into Belyaev's crotch. He was casually neglecting to compensate for bumps. 

"I'll hold your hand next time, Poker." Priscilla stated. She met eyes with him in the rear-view mirror and toasted with her cup. It was at this point empty, but she slurped the ice for effect.

The prisoner sat frozen, focusing on keeping his balls from busting under Lucky's barrel. She placed her last taco next to his leg, done. In Russian, "have a bite, friend." Fully aware that others might not have understood.

Poker looked away from Priscilla and shook his head, focusing on the road again, “Please, refrain from speaking anything but English.” Poker said and after a moment asked, “What [i]did[/i] you say?”

“I wouldn’t trust me either.” She slurped one last time and stuffed the cup in the Long Johns bag. “I told him to eat. I wouldn’t want to die hungry and we’re all one big family in death, right?” She said nonchalantly. She extended the offer to Belyaev but didn’t care if he missed his opportunity.

"Fuck that, he ain't kin of mine," Dave snapped. He reached over and grabbed the taco, unwrapping it before taking a bite himself. He wasn't a cruel man. Not by nature. But his hate for the Russian agents was a fire, and petty or not he was in no mood to give the man any luxuries. Instead he looked Belyaev in the eye as he ate the taco. 

"You're gonna die for what you did," he said finally. "All you get to choose is whether you talk first, an' they make it quick, or they give you to me." 

He leaned a little closer, forcing down the knot in his belly. "You took from me, boy. You'll pay." 

Priscilla recoiled at the animal way he ate the taco and suppressed chuckling. She wasn’t about to get between them, the man wanted vengeance and he fractured an operation to make his point. She didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him in his passion, or envious of whatever bonds he had.

>ANCHORAGE SAFEHOUSE
>1245...///

The Dodge van pulled into the gravel road that led off into the hills outside Anchorage, winding up and over until it ended and the gravel pooled around a lonely barn and its accompanying small shack of a house. The gravel protested under the tires, crunching and cracking in the silence between the occupants of the van. They stopped in front of the barn and dragged Belyaev out. If he had been screaming and protesting when he went in, he simply let his feet drag on the gravel when he came out. Dejected, he let himself be thrown on his face on the floor of the barn.

While Poker worked at getting a couple lamps going, the others were tying Belyaev up to a chair. Poker walked back to the van and opened the back, coming back to Belyaev holding a very heavy tool bag filled with a great many things Belyaev immediately decided he did not want to see. Poker dropped the bag clanking on the floor and they all stood in the dim light of the lamps inside the barn. Poker looked down at the bag, then looked to Belyaev, “This bag belonged to a man I knew. He was always better at this shit than I was,” Poker shook his head and shrugged, “But since you [i]fucking killed him[/i] in some goddamned backwater, you’ll have to bear with me for this.”

“I want you to understand something. You’re going to answer my questions, or I will let Lucky have you for a couple minutes.” Poker looked at Lucky and then back to Belyaev, “He liked Tex. He doesn’t like you. Anything you don’t understand?”

Belyaev shook his head, “I understand fully.” Belyaev was still shaking his head, “Just ask me anything and I will answer, I promise.”

Poker snorted and laughed at Belyaev, wheezing and looking at everyone while he shook a finger in the Russian’s direction like he’d told a pretty good joke, “No, see, I really don’t think you do understand.” He motioned to Belyaev, looking to Dave, “Please, help him.”

Dave looked at the man in silence for a moment. He removed his can of Copenhagen from his pocket, snapped it a few times, and took a large pinch. He'd expected to feel that hot fury. Right now he just felt… Cold.

He put the can away, situated the dip with his tongue. Then he drew his knife. 

"Ya ever been huntin'?" He asked. His drawl was pronounced, his tone laconic. "I grew up huntin'. I'm from the Ozarks. Middle of the mountains, out in nowhere. Figure it's somethin' like your Siberia, without quite so much snow."

He walked over to Belyaev and crouched beside him, holding up the knife. "See, our deer up there get pretty big. Can't carry' em out all once if you're deep in the woods. Ya gotta joint 'em. Take each quarter."

He pointed the knife at the bag. "We got tourniquets in there. Tie ya off, so there's no bleed-out while we work. You answer us, or I'm gonna take you apart, piece by piece." 

He fought down a sick feeling in his stomach, clenched his fists to still the shake in his hands. Then he moved quick as lightning, grabbing Belyaev's right index finger. His knife bit deep, into the joint right at the base, and he brought the razored blade around in a quick and practiced motion. Flesh parted and the man screamed, then the finger came free with a wet pop.

Dave threw it on the floor and walked away.

"That's one. For my Ava. Got five more to go. Then I start countin' again." 

Priscilla heard a loud yelp from the barn, muffled by it’s damp wooden walls. She teetered on the edge of an old wooden stool, leaning on the railing of the house's porch. The others were going to work on the spy. She only held a gun to his head and a cold eye to eye while he was being tied down but the rest she wanted no part of, none of her business. They were owed this catharsis. If they needed some Russian flair to bluff some information they’d call her; otherwise, she was only interested in chatting and termination. 

When they arrived Priscilla burned both Russian dossiers and trashed the laptop. She watched the footage before wiping it. What they did wasn’t smart. Hardly practical. Civilian lives were on the line, their cover in a soft compromise, and public execution.

The brief covered the mash-up task force she was to link up with but she wasn’t expecting these animals. She had no doubts about their prowess. It was the manner of handling each challenge. Even her echelon adjacent to Ground Branch didn’t get this dirty. After the snatch, if the team didn’t cooperate to deflect the cops, the mandate was to evacuate all liability. Pulling it off on all three would be a miracle and she was reluctant to even think about it. 

A cool breeze meandered the clearing around the safehouse rustling the loose ends of a weathered tarp covering some rows of wood. Her gut was saying this is something deeper that she’s been cast full force. No games, no seasoning, no witnesses.

>1700...///

The barn smelled of blood. The air was rank with the dirty-metal stink of it, the dirt floor around the chair on which Belyaev had sat sodden. What was left of him was slumped back, eyes to the sky, a wet red smile gaping beneath his chin. 

Dave's arms were bloodied to the elbows. He'd shed his flannel, and the white wifebeater beneath was smeared crimson where he had wiped his hands between cuts. He was sweating, both from sickness and exertion. 

"I'm goin' outside. Need some air." Dave said. His voice was calm, level. Numb. He absently wiped the blade of his knife on his shirt and slid it into its soft leather sheath, then made for the door. "I'll see y'all in a minute."

Ghost watched him go, then looked around the room. 

"Obviously we're burning the barn," he said. He nudged Belyaev's left shin with the toe of his boot. The cuts at the knee and ankle were respectably clean. Smooth, like a butcher's work. "I'm not a janitor." 

“Safehouse is still operational,” Poker said, watching Lucky stumble outside. He remembered his first too, and if Lucky was smart he’d get used to this. “Gotta keep it clean for some other assholes. Gotta do this the old fashioned way.”

Outside, Priscilla had been pacing around the property. They were at it for nearly four hours. Lucky had it his way, if the cries didn’t tell.

“No, no. No! Just leave it in there, what’s the big deal?” She chuckled on the phone and leaned against one of the wood beams holding up the porch awning. “That’s alright, I’ll fix it when I get back.” Her friend Lauren back in D.C. was the closest she had to family in any normal sense. “Awww Picasso! Yeah he does that just make sure you get him the stick one, you know —the treat stick, whatever.”

The clacking of the barn doors opening seized her attention and she saw a disheveled Lucky exit dressed in murder. “Hey, Lala, yes. Lala I have to go, thank you soooo much again. Ok. Bye.” Her smile faded then she slipped the phone into her pocket.

“Discrete.” Sarcasm in her voice as she eyed the film of blood crusting on his hands. 

Dave raised a hand to her as he walked hurriedly around the side of the barn, a hasty gesture of acknowledgement. Once he was out of sight he doubled over as his stomach purged itself of the last four hours. He heaved until he was empty, then staggered back to lean against the weathered wall. 

His guts were empty, but still sour. He was sick, not just physically but at his core. Dave looked down at his bloodied hands, swallowing hard. 

The first cuts had been easy. Satisfying. Cathartic, almost. But that had faded fast, and by then he was too far along to stop. In the end he'd been cutting the man just because Poker told him to, and he was too deep in to quit. It had been a relief when he'd finally been told to wrap things up and he was able to draw his knife across the man's throat. 

Dave looked at his hands again, tried to imagine touching Ava with those bloodstained things, or his son, and immediately he clamped down on the thought, closing his eyes to force it away. 

"Not doin' anybody any damn good," he muttered. He took a sucking breath and centered himself through sheer force of will. "Alright. Bitch later. Work now."

He thumped the wall of the barn with his fist, took one last breath, and then walked back around the corner to where he'd seen Priscilla by the porch. 

She had witnessed this deliberate brutality before, had to watch, listened to the tortured screams of prisoners while she sat idle at her husband's mercy.  Somehow this time seemed even more cruel; there was no jihad.

Priscilla muttered something in another language then silently watched him approach. Some of the color had returned to Lucky's face but she could smell the blood, sweat and pain. "There's a shower in the bedroom, make sure you get your nails." She feigned a smile and made a claw gesture. 

Dave grimaced, not even attempting a smile. Instead he joined her on the porch, leaning his elbows on the rail. Then he stared at the barn in silence for a few moments. 

"I know I fucked up," he said. He thought back on the gas station, on the vengeful burst he'd sent through the windshield and into the driver's skull. "I uh… I ain't been myself lately."

That excuse sounded lame even to his own ears and he grimaced again, waving a hand as though to rewind things. 

"I'm sorry, 'bout that. For puttin' you an' Ghost in that position. I just… There's been some shit. You know?"  

During the silence she garnered all of the optimism she had, at least he had some feeling other than anger. "Yeah...” A measure of compassion in her voice. “We've all been there. Even those two, maybe more than once."

Priscilla turned from him. It was sketchy business, and even if he didn’t shoot it might have been a fight anyway. It crossed her mind this assignment was clean-up for these sorts of fuck-ups; though, the situation was fucked from the start, since whatever happened to their team. She blamed herself for not protesting enough. 

“Nothing happened. Three Russians died and the police are returning to their families. I would have done it differently… but nothing to be sorry for.” she said, impartial, wondering what kind of shit was had.

Dave nodded in thanks, a small bit of the day's burden lifting. There would still be a reckoning with Ghost and Poker he was sure, but at least he'd gotten one third of his apology out of the way. 

"How long are you with us?" He asked, looking over at her for the first time since he'd begun speaking. "Russians probably ain't done, and I can guarantee we're goin' after whoever's left."

"I'm here to see the Russian objective through. After that... it's not up to me." She said, looking towards the ground. "I guarantee more screwing up means you'll be seeing more of me though." Priscilla smirked and twisted the heel of her boot into the dirt. 

“Yeah, fair enough,” Dave grunted. He wasn’t sure what Priscilla knew, or how much he could tell her. But he felt like he owed her something. Some kind of explanation as to why he’d turned things into a shit show. He stared into the middle distance until he’d made up his mind.

“They killed my team,” he said. “All of ‘em. My...My girl, too.” He blinked rapidly, forced away tears through sheer will, and felt himself getting angry all over again. He clamped down on that, too. “I’m the only one left. So...I know it ain’t an excuse, but...Now you know.” 

Priscilla felt for him hard. She wanted to slap him for opening that emotional door, he was dealing with a lot of trauma. She couldn't see him going to the others for support, they'd slug him in the arm and stick some chew in his teeth. There was a place for that masculine suppression, where that most efficient padding can mean survival. This was the time but it wouldn't last. Once the crew dissolves and entomb themselves in their distant homes the pain starts to leak out, tearing past the binds that keep from violence, hatred and despair.

"I'm sorry." Her hazel eyes expressed more than her flat voice. Any more acknowledgement and it could unsettle her own trauma, expose her vulnerabilities. "No matter how many Russians you get your hands on, that hole of sorrow will always be there. Just, " she produces an archaic gesture from her childhood. Kissing her fingers, to her chest, to her head. "Honor them and they'll be part of you again." Coy, from old scriptures she didn't much believe anymore.

"Until then, think you got it? Our day could be next."

“Yeah, I got it,” he said. He looked at his bloody hands again. “I need a shower. I’ll...Go do that, I guess. You take it easy.” 

>POKER AND GHOST...///

Poker figured they’d earned this break. Lucky had done alright, though he’d turned pale and his zealousness for revenge had seemingly turned robotic by the sixth finger. By the time he’d given the go-ahead to slit Belyaev’s throat when they’d gotten enough information out of him, Poker was surprised Lucky didn’t just blow chunks all over his face. He’d made no move to clean up since Lucky left, and he and Ghost shared the barn in silence for a bit after the two of them had put Tex’s bag of toys away.

“Say what you want about Tex, the man knew how to break someone.” Poker said, reaching beside himself for the mug of coffee he’d gotten from out of the Safehouse, “Shame they didn’t even have beer in the fucking fridge. I’d pour some out for the three of them we lost.”

Even though there wasn’t much mourning plain on Poker’s face, he would admit that seeing the bastard that orchestrated the deaths of his and Tex’s teams had some pleasure to it, “Goddamn, how many roster changes has it been now?” He spoke to Ghost, knowing he never really grew too attached to anyone, as much as it was useful, Poker still found it a bit creepy some days, “Three? Four?”

Ghost frowned, furrows appearing in his granite face. "Full wipes? Three. Nevada, Bolivia, now Alaska. As for regular attrition I couldn't tell you."

He gave a negligent shrug. He remembered the desperate times, the life-or-death struggles where casualties mounted and THUNDER risked annihilation. The times where he got to shine. 

The ones and twos, though, those ran together. They were a fact of life, a thinning of the herd, and for the most part those deaths never left any more of an impression on Ghost than the people themselves had. 

"This is the first time I walked away without a scratch though," Ghost said. "I got shot the last two times." 

“Yeah, I remember.” Poker winced, a hand going to his stomach as he sipped his coffee, the metallic stink in the back of his throat didn’t seem to bother him except for reminding him of other times it did, “I was right there next to you, sniper got me too. He was fucking good, even Maui had to take his time with that asshole.”

“Dying Queen’s hair black and sending him into that fucking club in Mexico. He never should’ve come out the other side of that one.” Poker snorted, “Almost didn’t, actually. You, me, and Tex had to pick him up, double back and then catch the Sicarios at a red light.”

“And then the day after, goddamn. Now [i]that[/i] was a firefight.” Poker smiled wistfully.

Ghost nodded, his mind ticking back over the stories as Poker related them. Mexico had been a shit-show even by THUNDER standards, but one they had remarkably all survived. He had vivid memories of having a bullet hole patched up by a drunk vet in Matamoros, one who didn't seem to care that they'd liquidated twelve of his CDG employers fifteen minutes before. 

"We should go back to Mexico," he said. "Once we get the new roster filled. Make it a final exam, after I have them trained. Maybe take out a Golfo boss." He paused.

"Need to find us a Mexican. Queen could at least talk to people down there." 

“Yeah, teach me some of that Spanish so I know what the fuck to say when someone calls me a [i]pinche chino.[/i]” He chuckled, remembering that Brujo Tex was taking apart in that basement somewhere in Juarez screaming that at him before he knew how fucked he was, “Maybe we should do a Sinaloa. You know, that flock of assholes Carlisle was with. I mean, shit, maybe we go to New York when things cool off and fuck with the Bratva, the, uh… Tadjbegskye.”

“That way Program doesn’t give us shit for extracurricular activities. Pin it as official business.” Poker shrugged. “Need a Mexican, another Asian too. Tired of you white motherfuckers being everywhere I look at Langley. At least Brain was half… something. Costa Rican? I dunno.”

"I'll kill more Russians," Ghost said. He put his hands on his hips. "So are we done with the split-tail out there?" 

“Just about, you ask me.” Poker shook his head, “Useful though. Can’t say she isn’t smart. Real question is if she’s done with us.”

Poker looked to Ghost, “I don’t trust CIA though. We got lucky with Tex, but she isn’t Tex. I don’t know what they told her about us, but she starts acting fucky, well…” The rest didn’t need saying.

Ghost simply nodded. He was still suspicious of Bajbala. She was a solid agent, that much was clear, but the CIA was to be trusted even less than the Program itself, and she was supposed to be a wetwork specialist. Like him. Predators knew their own.

He stared at the barn floor for a moment. Poker was one of the only men Ghost came close to trusting, and that was because the man was as savage a survivor as Ghost himself. 

"TEMPEST," Ghost said suddenly. "Remember them? Catastrophic security breach, three survivors." 

It was a decade old THUNDER op, a cleanup among their own. 

"If things look like they're headed that way, I have a...List," Ghost said. "Interested?" 

Poker snorted, “More like no survivors.” His wolf’s grin was on his face remembering that Op. it was about the closest THUNDER got to being evenly matched… barring Noatak, but that was Mickey Mouse surprise bullshit that he didn’t like. Most likely because he didn’t think of it himself, “They had three of them. Priscilla only got herself. Just might shorten that list by [i]one.[/i]”

Poker’s phone began to buzz, Foster, “Top.” He said, shaking the phone in his hand for Ghost to see, the Caller ID reading as [i]CIAsshole,[/i] “Hello, big boy.” He said in a teasing, shit-eating tone as he walked out of the barn.

>1929...///

Sleep wouldn’t come. He’d showered away Belyaev’s blood, soaking in the hot spray until his knotted muscles had finally unwound, but Dave found that he was unable to do anything but lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. When he closed his eyes he saw the ruin he’d left in the barn, or bright blood on white snow. 

With sleep not in the offing, he’d found his way to the safehouse porch. He sat in the fading light, watching the sky darken bit by bit as the sun sank. 

Seeing Poker outside his plates and without a gun in his hand might have been odd for anyone outside THUNDER. Without it on, he looked surprisingly normal, like your average everyday prick you could find walking down the street. Inside a bar, maybe, waiting for a chance to come punch you in the jaw for just being there. He stood in the Safehouse doorway, looking out at the sunset and the deeply darkening sky. The velvet creeping against the bloody orange.

The two of them stayed there like that for a bit, not saying a word to each other. Just sharing the silence. Wordlessly, Poker offered something that sloshed quietly in his hands. A fifth of whiskey, halfway down. Wild Turkey, “Here.”

Dave looked at the whiskey, then took it with a nod. He took a long pull, relishing the harsh burn. 

“Ain’t like my gramps makes, but it’s good stuff,” he said. “Thanks.” He passed the bottle back. 

“You havin’ trouble windin’ down, too?” 

Poker shrugged, not one to give in and start spilling his guts. The whole weeping into your brothers’ arms thing was something he left in the past with his badge and his gun. There was no crying in THUNDER. You just picked up a gun and made things right again. “Someone needs to mourn those assholes.” He said, pouring some out on the lawn in front of the porch, “Ghost won’t do that. Ghost doesn’t have to know I did. Long as [i]they[/i] do, that’s fine.”

“How’s it feel, killer?” Poker asked, taking a pull of his own off the bottle and then looking at Lucky sidelong.

“Honestly? Not great, man,” Dave sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “That ain’t me. Or...It didn’t used to be. Won’t cry about it, don’t do any good anyway, but…” He shook his head. “I dunno. I’ll do what needs doin’. Same as I have been. An’ I’ll keep my head, next time. I know I fucked up.” 

“Good.” Poker nodded once, nothing else for a bit. Not that there was anything else needed. Either Lucky was a liar and he’d let Ghost deal with liars like he always did, or he’d hold strong. Either way didn’t bother Poker, “Because this isn’t just about you. It’s not even some boogeyman threat to national security or about protecting the homeland.”

“It’s not even about me. So, next time you’re thinking about blowing off a little steam, scream into a pillow or punch a wall. Don’t blast someone in the face and get the cops called.” Poker turned to look at Lucky, “Maui, Queen, Tex. They deserve this. What we’re doing right now.”

“So, get your head straight. Whatever you need to do. Don’t fuck up twice, Lucky.” Poker just spoke facts, no hard feelings, just stern facts, “Make sure everybody gets to see another sunrise. I know he told you that one, he wouldn’t fucking shut up about that shit when I knew him. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Poker took another pull from the bottle and offered it again to Lucky.

Dave nodded in silence, taking the rebuke for what it was. He took the bottle and after a good slug he looked back at Poker.

“So do we have a plan?” He asked. “I mean, what’s comin’ next? I ain’t heard from Foster, I don’t know if UMBRA is scrapped, or the investigation is gonna get passed off.” 

“You’re on the shelf until Foster knows what to do with you. We stay here and wait until Foster has another target for us. Those names Belyaev gave us need to be verified.” Poker took the bottle when Lucky handed it back and pulled off it, “Until then, while we’re here. Assume [i]someone[/i] is listening.” 

He didn’t have to say who. The only unknown among them, and she might’ve been CIA, but TRIDENT might have been Program until they pulled their triggers, “Get some sleep when you can.”

Poker left Dave on the porch. Minutes ticked by, the sun got a little lower, and the sky got a little darker. Around these parts, there were more trees, actual woods and everyone had learned to fear the dark in this line of work. The TV inside switched on in the living room, Poker sitting to the side of it, not wanting to let the window or the front door out of his peripheral.

Dave sat and watched the sun disappear beneath the horizon. The trees were cast in deepening shadow, until they finally vanished from view. He sighed, looking up at the moon, then felt the hair on his neck rise. He loved nature. He’d spent his whole life in it, and now his woodsman’s senses were picking up a sound that didn’t belong. The high, whining squeal of brakes. 

He moved at once, going into the safehouse and beelining for his gear.

“Poker, we’ve got a vehicle somewhere down the road,” he said as he picked up his vest. “Ain’t got lights on either, an’ that ain’t right.” 

Poker’s eyes went from the TV to Dave. He frowned for a second, then looked outside the window and shook his head, “No.” he looked at Dave, “Don’t think it is.”

Poker reached behind the couch and dragged his vest over, slipping it over his shoulders and buckling the side. His rifle was next to it, and with a quick brass check, he was up with Dave. “Go get Ghost.” Poker said, kneeling down behind the couch with its back to the window. Wasn’t much for cover, but concealment would have to do, “He sleeps light.”

Dave nodded, running for the back room where Ghost had made his lair. He banged the door open and pulled up short, raising a hand when he found himself unexpectedly looking down the barrel of a rifle.

“What?” Ghost growled. The big man had stripped to his boxers for sleep, but kept his rifle in the bed. Somehow Dave didn’t find that surprising. 

“Got a car comin’, no lights on,” Dave said. Ghost nodded. 

“Be right there.” 

Dave ran back to the living room and made his way to Poker. 

“He’ll be here in a minute,” he said. “You know he sleeps with that rifle?” 

Poker shrugged, nodded, “Most of us do after Arkansas...” Poker chewed slowly on a stick of gum, his narrowed eyes sharp as knives as he stared almost unblinking out the window with the TV now off, “No visual. You’re sure you heard something? My show was getting good.”

“Positive,” Dave said. He’d retrieved his AK and clutched the rifle as he stared out into the darkness. “Brakes squealin’ down the road, I know that sound.” 

As he was speaking Ghost arrived, dressed in cargo pants and boots and with his plate carrier on over a bare chest. 

“Status?” He growled. 

“Lucky heard brakes on the road about five hundred meters away, east, no headlights.” Poker shook his head, eyes still out that window and scanning, “Still no visual.”

Poker saw a flash, “Wha-“

The wet [i]thwack[/i] that followed glass breaking had put Poker on his ass. Lucky for him, he was alive enough to start stringing together swears as he scrambled back behind the couch. 

Dave swore as well, pulling back out of the line of fire. 

“You hit?” He asked. He looked out into the darkness and then pulled back. “I can’t see a fuckin’ thing.” Beside him Ghost’s rifle spat twice as the big man sent a careful pair of rounds into the night. 

“Aim at the muzzle flash,” he said. 

“Yes.” Poker answered Licky. The sound of a car starting could be heard faintly from outside, and then a pair of headlights coming on in the distance. Back inside and behind the couch, Poker swore again, “Where the fuck’s Maui when you need his big Hawaiian ass.” His hand was covering a blooming splotch of red in his white shirt.

There was another sound, an engine revving for all it had and the living room got brighter little by little.

“Move!” Ghost’s shout elicited an immediate response from Dave, courtesy to the time he’d spent training under the big man. Both of them darted away from the window in time for a red car to come slamming through the window and wall. Dave’s adrenaline-spiked mind somehow noted that it was a Toyota, then he raised his AK and sent a tight triplet into the driver’s face. 

Poker was up after the carnage of the wall had begun to settle, dust, insulation and shattering glass all around. He was still clutching his bleeding stomach as he held his sights over the driver, the sole occupant of the Toyota. He carefully advanced with the others until he could see inside, and what greeted his eyes didn’t make sense at first. All the windows were rolled down on the Corolla, and driving it was an overweight, blonde woman. He could only tell that much and only that much on account of Lucky’s big 7.62s ripping her face off. Hanging on a piece of jaw was a ribbon of silver duct tape. And in her hand was a detonator rigged as a dead-man’s switch to a backpack in the passenger seat.

“Get away!” Poker yelled as he turned and ran.

Dave swore and spun on his heel, sprinting for the hallway. He grabbed Ghost by the dead-drag of his plate carrier as he passed, hauling the big man with him in a cloud of profanity.  

The light rattling of gunfire was tied with the sounds of nature in Priscilla's home country, where conflict and war persist in their thousand-year heritage. Normally, it's the call of a rooster but it barely shook her from a cold sleep. Brought on by reminiscing across from Belyaev's bagged corpse in the cooling barn and passing out. The blare of an engine and crashing pulled her out of her peace.

She jumped up from the long wooden chest she had been laying on. It took some shuffling on the ground to find her footing amidst the craggy floor. The cold started to seep in through her jacket.  Priscilla pulled the makarov from her bag as she moved a distant angle around the half opened barn door, peering out into the moonlit glade from the pitch black interior. Her heart was pounding, her thoughts shifting between what, who, where. 

Before Bajbala’s mind could straighten things out, another explosion blew a huge cloud of dust through the gaping hole already in the house. The windows shattered outwards from the violent change of air pressure. Poker’s ears were ringing as he stumbled into the kitchen, not even able to hear his own heartbeat or breathing. His shoulder bumped into one wall, then another. He set himself down in a corner and held his head in one hand, his head throbbing and his balance so off he couldn’t even bring himself to stand. He withdrew his sidearm from its duty holster, the FNP shaking in his hand as he tried to steady himself, “Status!” He called out, his voice still muffled to his own ears, “Lucky! Ghost!”

“We’re good!” Dave’s own voice was choked as he coughed dust from his lungs. “We’re alive!”

“Green!” Ghost snapped beside him. He hauled his bulk upright, grimacing at the sting of a dozen new minor scrapes. He and Dave both had their rifles, thanks in no small part to Ghost’s constant harping about the efficacy of slings in combat. Ghost held his weapon at the low-ready, unwilling to put himself at the mercy of an attack of opportunity. If he was going to drive a bomb into a place, it would be to storm it after. Shooters were coming, and he was going to be ready.

“Poker, what’s your status?” He shouted. 

He opened his mouth to speak but the floating pieces of dirt, dust, and drywall stung bitter in the back of his throat. He coughed out, still sitting in his corner. His eyes were still blurred and stinging from the dust still hanging about. A figure in the blurriness, indiscernible except for the fact it was human. “Lucky?”

“Lucky is with me!” Ghost shouted. “He’s green! Where’s the female? Was she in the house?” 

Priscilla nearly fell over with the surprise of the blast. All of the dust in the barn jumped into a cloud with the flash of light. Her gut sank.

"Damn…" she mouthed, knowing the team was still in the house. She couldn't see the damage but feared the worst and felt more to come. If she had any luck, whoever it was didn't have her in their sights yet. She waited in the dark of the barn and looked through the doors wide hinges for movement after the blast.

Ghost growled, his eyes tracking the smoke-filled ruins of the safehouse. He was stressed, pissed off, and worst of all unsure. Indecisive. Indecision killed.

"Lucky, on me," he snapped. Dave settled in beside him and the two began moving, rifles up and heads on swivels. "Poker! Moving to your POS, watch your fire!"

As soon as they entered the kitchen, they saw a man larger than Poker dressed in civilian clothes bearing down on him. Poker’s back was pressed against the kitchen sink, teeth bared and straining against the bigger man’s hands, wrapped around the hilt of a knife. The point of it glinted in the dusty moonlight filtering in from the blinds as it slowly crept closer and closer Poker’s way, “You motherfucker, fuck you.” Poker growled through his gritted teeth, “You’re fucking dead, you piece of shit.”

Ghost slung his rifle, the sling taking it clear of his hands. He rushed in, drawing his knife and bringing it forward in a sharp thrust. Whether by luck or the simple fact of the big Operator's lumbering footsteps, the man turned at the last second. His forearm moved to block the strike, catching Ghost's wrist and knocking it offline. His own blade came around and Ghost rolled his hips, grabbing the man's jacket and slinging him clear, his mass and strength coming into play as he flung the enemy away and to the ground. He took up a fighting stance, knife tucked close and off-hand slightly forward, a feral grin on his face.

"Come on, pussy," he growled. "Come on. Let's play, bitch!" 

The other man was back on his feet in mere seconds, practiced movements and a practiced stance. He kept his eyes on Ghost and Lucky, the other man with his rifle still refusing to shoot. Too many variables in the room, and that’s what he was banking on, his voice muffled by the balaclava, “I’m gonna dig those fucking eyes out of your skull, Ghost.”

The man came on quick enough to rival even Poker’s speed with a knife, lunging forward at Ghost’s face. Poker himself was still holding his gunshot wound on his lower abdomen as he watched the first moves of this deathmatch.

Ghost met the first thrust with an off-hand parry, knocking the blade aside. His counter attack was quick and clean, a hard thrust that sank the Camillus to the hilt in the man's belly and then neatly retracted it. Both men moved like lightning, blades flickering as Ghost followed with a backswing aiming to disembowel the stranger. It whiffed past as the man stepped right, and his own quick counter left a deep cut across Ghost's powerful thigh. They broke apart and Ghost snarled.

"I'm gonna wear your fucking face," he said. "Strip that mask, see who you are, then cut your fucking face off." 

“Maybe if that pussy over there took his [i]shot![/i]” With the last word came another lunge, a feint for the face and then the groin, going for the femoral artery.

Ghost watched him move, read his body and took a gamble. He raised his hand to shield his face, then pulled his foreword leg back, the blade missing him by a quarter of an inch at most. His own blade flicked out, a swift one-two swipe, and it bit twice into the stranger's forearm before it retracted. 

"Don't you fucking dare, Lucky!" Ghost snapped. His blood was singing through his veins, his every sense stretched to the limit. He was alive. "Don't you fucking ruin this for me!"

“Fuck you, Ghost!” The Stranger, already bleeding from multiple, deep cuts still came at Ghost again unheeding. His knife struck out quick as a viper looking to taste Ghost’s neck.

Ghost saw the blade coming, knew there was little he could do to stop it. The strike was reckless, lightning quick, and all Ghost could do was raise his shoulder and duck his head, tucking his chin to protect his throat. The knife laid open his cheek to the bone, grating on teeth, but Ghost stepped in, unwilling to lose his momentum. His arm pistoned out and he felt the blade part flesh, felt hot blood on his wrist as he drove all six inches of the blade up beneath the man's ribs before he pulled it back. 

Dave watched the contest in awe, his stomach twisting with each ugly blow. His sights followed the stranger, but he obeyed Ghost, holding his fire. 

With a gasp that sounded like a tub drain sucking in water, the Stranger stumbled back, colliding violently with the kitchen counter. His shaking leg gave out on him and he sprawled face first on the floor. The gun Poker had disarmed him of before the bloody duel was inches from his reaching fingers. He drew in another wet breath and coughed, spraying bloody spittle across the floor, “Fuck…”

Ghost watched him fall with a savage satisfaction. The gash on his face stretched his grin into a leer, bloody teeth showing where the cheek had drooped. It had been a good fight. A great fight. 

He dropped to a knee on the man's back, put the point of his knife against the base of his skull, then shoved hard. Sever the brain stem, end the pain. The guy deserved it after a show like that. Ghost pulled the knife free and wiped it on the man's shirt, then pulled the balaclava off. 

“What the fuck…” Poker pushed off from the counter and knelt down next to the Stranger. He grabbed two fistfuls of his jacket and hauled him over onto his back. A pool of black blood spread out from the back of his neck as they all took in the face they were looking at, “[i]Bear.[/i]”

"Oh what the fuck is this?" Dave said. He stared at the body, feeling a sense of vertigo. He'd killed that man. Blown his fucking face off for what he'd done to Ava. He raised a shaky hand and wiped at his forehead. 

"Bullshit is what it is," Ghost growled. The ugly wound in his face slurred his words, helping to mask the sudden twist of anxiety in his guts. He shoved his knife into its sheath and brought his rifle around, then put three rounds in the body's skull at close range. 

"Poker, you good to move? We'll stress about this later." 

Poker stared down, unblinking even with the sharp cracks of Ghost’s rifle. He swallowed, “Yeah. Gotta,” he cleared his throat, shaking his head and looking at the others, “Gotta get this wound treated.”

He made his way out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s get rid of that fucking body… we still have a Safehouse to keep.”