[h3]The Things We Leave Behind, Part IV[/h3]
[i]Stop Talkin’ Falsely Now…[/i]

>UN CLUB SANGUIN
>1220…///

The three of them arrived at the club, stopping a couple hundred meters down the street. Around this time, the club wasn’t open to the public, probably just being used as a hangout for Hubert and his thugs. It was a typical high-end strip club, nothing on the outside to show its true nature, just flashing neon signs that marketed it as a lounge and bar. Gentleman’s Club. As if that was any better. Just meant the girls had an equal chance of putting out for money with a lower chance of giving you something the wife would notice. Donnelley knew a lot about that, as shameful as it was to admit, “So, how were you goin’ to get in?” He turned his head to look at Renko in the passenger seat, “Because, I’m pretty sure they ain’t goin’ to let us just mosey on through the front door.”

“Side door. I speak password, we go in.” Renko said.

“They’re expectin’ you?”

“They expect [i]Dmitri[/i]”

“Okay.” Donnelley nodded, “Easy enough. You do anythin’ funny, I’ll blow the back of your head out.”

“Understood, my friend.” Renko smiled and nodded. “Follow.”

Donnelley pulled the neck gaiter over his mouth and nose, following close behind with Queen at his side, the three of them looking like an odd trio. If anyone asked, they were Renko’s muscle. They approached the side door through an alleyway, Renko knocking twice, pausing, then knocking twice again. The side door opened to reveal a thickset man in his forties with a long beard and bald head, his gut hanging over his belt in the suit he wore, “What?”

“It is Dmitri. Here for Hubert.” Renko said, giving the lie easily. “Vory v Zakone, friend to the Tadjbegskye.”

Beard-Gut nodded, stepping aside and holding the door open for the three of them. What was inside wasn’t the club floor itself, just the halls with the maintenance rooms, changing room for the girls, and the staff’s offices. “Anything starts feeling off, we go for Hubert and McCune. Plug the rest.” Donnelley muttered to Queen.

“[i]The rest[/i] does not include me, right?” Renko asked from over his shoulder.

Donnelley clapped Renko’s shoulder and squeezed as if they were good friends, “‘Course not, [i]buddy.[/i]”

Queen eyed the club as they pulled up and muttered, “Club Sanguine. If blood starts spraying out of the sprinkler system I’m going to be very upset.” 

He followed Donnelley and Renko, the alley empty but for some strewn trash and empty liquor boxes. Queen had also pulled up the gaitor, now the pair looked like some bodyguards likely hired at the lower end of the bidding scale. He nodded slightly at Donnelley’s instruction, his Scorpion tucked under his leather jacket. 

Adrenaline kept him focused but behind that he felt the creeping exhaustion of being awake for nearly 48 hours minus a nap. He would need something soon, either sleep or another upper. Adderall maybe, cocaine probably. He didn’t bring any meth since Ghost wasn’t around to possibly want it. He forced his thoughts away from the nagging need and looked at Renko, wondering what his game was but left that for Donnelley, that was super spy shit. 

The security around this hour was sparse. Odd, considering Hubert had a hit out on him. He wondered if Hubert knew that Clem was dead, or that he was going to be in a couple hours if they didn’t get him out of this place in time. At least there wouldn’t be many guards to shoot if things went sideways. They went up a set of stairs and Renko knocked on another door, this one wood instead of metal like the ones down below. The door opened and a man who could’ve been the clone of Beard-Gut stood in the doorway, “What?”

Donnelley wondered if they had a script. Renko smiled, “Here for Hubert. Vory v Zakone, friend to the Bratva.”

“Let him in!” They heard a voice yell from inside, and Beard-Gut II looked them all over, grunted, and then waved them in.

The office inside matched the club floor that could be seen from a long panel of windows that looked down upon the stage and tables. The desk was about twice as large as it needed to be, the decor was dark and expensive, lots of gold trim. In the corner on a long sectional couch sat Hubert and McCune, this time outside of a Police Sergeant’s uniform. “What do you want?” McCune asked, looking all of them up and down with a hint of contempt, “We’re discussing something.”

“Hubert is in danger. Rival of Bratva is coming to kill you.” Renko ignored McCune, and so did everyone else, which made the other man bristle.

“How do you know?”

Renko pulled his phone and stepped over to Hubert, scrolling through pictures of Clem’s corpse. Hubert looked at it with some sense of shock before turning away and putting his drink down, ice clinking in the glass, “Holy fucking shit.” His voice quivered, “Jesus fuck… where’d you get that?”

“Tried to save him. Could not. Trying to save you now.” Renko nodded, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“What about me?” McCune spat.

“You were not mentioned.” Renko shrugged, then glanced at Donnelley and Queen, “But you may come. We must leave, now.”

Hubert rose without protest, gathering his coat and his gun. McCune downed the last of his drink and did the same. Hubert spoke up in his frenzied search around his office for things he needed, “Where are we going?” He asked, taking a couple rolls of cash from his desk.

“Somewhere safe from killers.”

The sound of small arms fire echoed down the halls and Donnelley pulled his AK from his coat, pointing it at the door, “How many exits we got?”

“Just that one.” Hubert drew his handgun and racked the slide, staring at the door as more shots were fired in the halls beneath them, the sound of men screaming their last.

Queen  drew the Scorpion from under his arm and unfolded the stock, listening to the small arms fire not too far away. The walls suddenly felt paper thin and he swore internally as neither he or Tex had a plate carrier. He glanced at the glass panels but no one was in the club yet, at least that was one thing they did not have to worry about. He thumbed off the safety and said, “Let’s not wait on them.” 

The clack of Tex’s AK  stock being unfolded was heard. He looked at Queen, a small smirk on his lips, “Real cowboy shit.”

“I am nervous.” Renko voiced as he drew his Glock, looking to Tex, “You are sure?”

“Not really.”

“Yeehaw time!” Queen said in a sing song voice, whatever cowboy shit Tex had in mind was better than getting funnelled into the hallway between the goons and the exit and who knew if they had someone watching the door. 

Tex turned and drew his FNS from its holster, aiming at the large viewing windows that showed the stage and club floor below. He squeezed off four shots across one of the panels of glass, marched to the desk and picked up the chair.

“That’s real leather!” Hubert snapped.

Tex just went on his way, lifted it over his head and then smashed all that weight and real leather through the weakened window, sending shards of glass big and small clinking and clattering on the stage below about ten feet down. Tex smiled wolf teeth at the others, “Yeehaw.”

Tex squatted and then hung off the edge before dropping down. McCune was the first one to follow after Tex. 

Queen turned his face when the chair hit the glass and waved Hubert forward, “Come on down, the price is right.”

He waited for the man to drop down then turned to Renko, “Go on, I’m bringing up the rear..” 

He stepped to the edge, glancing down before he crouched, his gloved hands gripping the edge before he let himself drop. Queen hit the floor and rolled, bouncing into a crouch with his gun held up. “We clear?” 

As if to answer Queen’s question, the door on the other side of the room that led into the employee only areas was thrown open, clattering on the wall on the other side as one of the security people Hubert had hired stumbled through and sprawled onto his face. The sound of pounding footsteps running down the hall was heard before someone in a fitted suit came careening through, jumping high into the air and pulping the guard’s head with the heel of his shoe as he landed. Tex was taken aback by the seemingly superhuman maneuver and strength, only to able to muster a tepid, “What the fuck...”

Beard-Gut II growled like an angry bear as he charged at the stranger, who Tex could see was wearing one black leather glove and sunglasses. The gloved hand cocked back and delivered a lightning quick hook that sent Beard-Gut II into a half spin into the ground, the sound of his neck breaking as it hit the floor was audible. Tex wasted no time in grabbing McCune’s collar and shoving him towards the front door as he himself ran, he knew to pick his battles.

Queen gawked for a moment then was moving, repeating, "Nope. Nope not doing that."

He laid his finger on the trigger and moved his Scorpion up to his chest and rushed behind Renko, almost giving the Russian a flat tire by stepping on his heel. 

"Move, whatever the fuck that is I ain't getting close," he said, turning to cover their retreat. 

Tex had McCune’s nape gripped in one hand, his other on the grip of his AK as he led him to the Ford, opening the back door and shoving him inside before Renko did the same with Hubert. Tex jumped in the driver seat while Renko took the passenger seat. Tex smashed his finger into the Ford’s start button and floored the gas pedal, white smoke spewing out from the tires for a brief moment before the SHO took off at full speed down the road.

Queen was on his Sportster, glancing back as it roared to life. Now he knew how Clem ended up smashed through the table. “No fair, they got a well dressed Hulk,” he said to the wind as the bike roared after the car.

>FLANNEGAN INN
>TEN MILES OUTSIDE MERCY
>BLACKRIVER COUNTY
>1530…///

Donnelley tipped up one of the slats of the blinds in the hotel room. It was quiet in the halls, eerily so, but the Flannegan had been abandoned since the Nineties. Tourism to Blackriver was sparse, and no one left Blackriver if they were born here. This left the crumbling building to rot on the side of the highway into White Tree and Mercy. A perfect place to hide. A perfect place to never be found. A place where no one would hear you scream. Donnelley let the slat fall back into place and turned away from it, letting his hand rest on his AK still slung on his chest. Hubert and McCune were stowed away in another room, no doubt wondering why they’d decided to hide so far away from Charleston even though Hubert knew a dozen other places in the city they could go to.

It was just him, Queen, and Renko in this room. Donnelley sighed, “Well, the Terminator ain’t comin’ ‘round yet.” He said. “I’ll go around and check the area. Anythin’s off, you’ll know by the screamin’.”

Donnelley chuckled almost humorlessly as he left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Renko and Queen alone.

Queen watched him go with a casual, “Deuces,” that belied his nervous energy. He hated sitting and waiting and tried not to pace the faded carpet of the motel room. The Scorpion was still hanging around his neck, his hand resting on it and he tapped his fingers. The bed called to him but if he tried to nap, if he even dared to, he’d not wake up for hours. Just another bump or two and he could make it, just stretching the reserves of adrenaline to make it to when they could rest. 

Instead of heading to the bathroom he turned and looked at Renko, “So you had some good timing popping up when ol’ Tex wasn’t around, just dealing with the ladies, you dog you.” 

His smile teased across his lips but did not touch his bloodshot eyes. “You can tell me, I ain’t no big bad CIA man. That wasn’t a coincidence was it?” 

“Believe it or not, I am not spider,” Renko was sat in a dusty chair in the dusty corner of this dusty hotel room. He had his Glock in his lap, and was absently staring at the closed blinds as if he could stare through them and see the trees, “Not everything I do is the weaving of a web.”

He looked to Queen, and his eyes held a weight, “I know CIA has no reason to trust me. Russia and America old rivals, I know.” He pointed to himself and then to Queen, “But we are not enemies.”

“I am from the Ukraine. Kherson. I lived with my [i]Babushka,[/i] my grandmother. Sweet lady.” Renko smiled and looked away, back to the window, “Sweetest.”

“She died when I was young. Killed because she was Jew.” Renko’s smile disappeared, “Taken to Ahava Orphanage. Means [i]love[/i], Ahava. Funny thing, like bad joke, I have not felt love in a very long time. I grow up lonely, and here I am still.”

“So you and me? We are not enemies.” Renko shook his head.

Queen rested his ass against the scarred dresser, stopping his fidgeting to listen to Renko. He gave a slight smirk but looked away, “Yeah, well who’s a friend and who’s an enemy is really up for debate these days.”

He glanced back over at the Ukrainian, looking him over. “Orphanage. I wasn’t there for all that went down and I only read Dr. Laine’s report but that girl, the one you brought to them. She’s the one we took from Jay.”

Queen frowned slightly, his sea colored eyes seemed more gray, a storm gathering behind his furrowed brow. He recalled how frail she was and how she cried when he tried taking off the headphones. How they kept her locked up like a dog that wasn’t housebroken. 

“[i]Da.[/i]” Renko nodded, still staring out the window, “She was taken from there by Tadjbegskye Bratva. Bratva sells them to someone, like GRU. She is here, so this means that an American is buying them.”

He frowned, shaking his head, “For what reason, this is still a mystery.” Renko looked to Queen, “I give her to you, because I trust you. Or I hope I can.”

“I hope I can trust in you and your friends for many things, but,” He shrugged, “Hope floats like anchor. I guess we are both hoping one can trust the other. I told this Doctor Laine that I am still a patriot to my country. Russia, because she adopt me, I owe much to her. But for me to cover my eyes to this? The trafficking of children? It is too much for her to ask of me.”

“Who can trust who. Nobody trust nobody. Nobody is who they say they are, not really. Every good deed come with price. Life of a spy, [i]bah[/i],” He shook his head and shivered as if he tasted something sour, “I do not wish to live a life like this any longer.”

Queen reached into his pocket and took out the slightly crushed green box, removing a cigarette, then held it out for Renko, “I can’t say I blame you for not being able to look away from trafficking children. Takes a lot of balls to do it right under the noses of a bratva. You think they're doing all this for some American pedo? Something in that report about that girl, not being normal.”

He raised an eyebrow, striking the disposable lighter and holding it to the end of his cigarette. Smoking inside always was not a habit but the hell if he was going to stand outside like a damn target. 

When Renko spoke about trust, Queen coughed and shook his head, an ironic smirk forming under his trimmed beard. “Yeah, well ain’t that true. I wouldn’t trust me. Maybe you’re right to trust Laine and them, they’re not...broken in, so to speak.” 

He took a drag then pointed at Renko, “But just know, I wouldn’t go hurting kids. I think I might have done the same as you. Or at least I’d like to think so. I’d like to think I’ve done a few good things in my life to counter all the bad. Though it might not be seen like that to others.”

His thoughts instantly went to Easy and Goat, how he had blown his own case to save them from federal time. He nearly lost the trust of his own colleagues to save friends he had made under a fake name and identity. Queen still was not sure what to make of it, only at the time he had no heart to betray them. But they were not good men, not in the law abiding sense but they had become like brothers. Lies upon lies, always balancing on that razor’s edge of side stepping and jiving. How he and Tex lived a lie under the noses of THUNDER for five years, their little secret but that was over, now he had to lie that it didn’t tear him up inside to lose Donnelley in that way.

“I feel you on that, it gets a little exhausting, don't it? Never trust anyone, hardly trust yourself,” Queen agreed, then blew out the smoke between his teeth. “Bright side is, you won’t die bored. If running down these bratvas tryna sell kids for whatever reason and having their hands in murdering others. Well, guess that might tip the scales in the end, maybe.” 

Renko smiled, huffed a chuckle and looked at Queen. His eyes went over him from head to toe, snagging on the tattoos on his hands. His eyes were soft and they held Queen’s gaze, searching the bloodshot eyes, “Some men would take dying bored before dying in an alley, scared and alone, just like they lived.” Renko sighed, “But, yes. I suppose doing this for the children may let me die with a soul not too heavy.”

Renko frowned again, before he looked back at Queen with that same look in his eye, “You are close.” He cleared his throat, looking back at the window, “You… and the one you call Tex.”

“That’s a fair point,” Queen conceded, speaking around the Kools in his teeth, checking his phone just in case. He reached up and took a drag, flicking the ash in his cupped hand. “I hope you do find some peace, some of us...”

He paused and swallowed hard, thinking about the cocaine and pills now weighing in his pocket, the call to feel better and wake up without effort. “Hell, I don’t even know what I would do with myself if I wasn’t runnin’ and gunnin’. Been doing it awhile.”


Queen grinned that old bravado, THUNDER speaking through him. The question about Tex caught him off guard and he hesitated a moment, his cocky expression slipping and he looked down, catching himself and shrugged, “Yeah, well we go back. Been doing this thing together, he’s a very good friend of mine. I trust him with my life.” 

He ran his thumb over the safety and fiddled with it, making sure it was still set to off. “You can trust him, I’m here because of him, this is his mission.”

“I can see it,” Renko said, almost like he didn’t hear Queen. He looked down at his hands, his shoulders slumped and his eyes moved over the middle distance like he was recalling something. Something that made him hurt, “Trust. Closeness. Something good there.”

He sounded like he was speaking to himself in an empty room, his fingers idly fidgeting with each other as he sat there and thought. He looked at Queen, “It warms me to see it.” Renko cleared his throat and looked away, “I wish you both luck…”

“With your mission.” Renko added, shaking his head and folding his hands together.

Queen huffed a laugh, a bitter tinge to it and he tried to mask that. He scratched at his brow and brought his cigarette to his lips. “Well, thanks. We’ll need it.” 

He looked at Renko and felt the empathy of loneliness, no matter how much of the joker he played and how gregarious he was there were very few he would ever call friend or brother and most of them did not know who he really was. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Renko. I really do. It helps, when you got it.”

Queen took a drag, drawing on the cigarette so hard his cheeks hollowed and then he snorted the smoke through his nose. 

Donnelley arrived after the sound of his footsteps in the old, empty hotel. He looked between the two of them, one hand in his pocket and the other resting on his AK. His eyes hung on Queen’s, noting the redness there, “You need sleep, pardner.” He said, then put his attention on the both of them, speaking low enough only they could hear, “We’ll sleep here in shifts. Not too long, need to make sure our two friends in the other room don’t start gettin’ uppity.”

Queen narrowed his gaze, wanting to argue against sleeping but gave in, a slight twinkle in his tired eyes as he fell back into their old comfortable routine for a moment. 

“Only if you tuck me in,” he replied in the same low voice, arching his brow. He caught himself and just shrugged, adding sheepishly, “Yeah, sure. Don’t let me sleep too long.”

“Anythin’ for my boy.” He chuckled, then clucked his tongue, smelling the cigarette smoke before he even got in the room and decided to light up one of his own, “Who wants to hogtie these piggies with me ‘fore we get some rest?”

[h3]The Things We Leave Behind, Part V[/h3]
[i]The Cold Distance…[/i]

>FLANNEGAN INN
>DATE TBD(Next Day)
>0800…///

Renko was watching the front door in the lobby downstairs. The Terminator hadn’t shown up all night, but Donnelley still wasn’t willing to go to sleep. The only thing they’d fed McCune and Hubert was water and crackers that they’d bought at the nearest gas station convenience store five miles down the road, back towards Charleston. He whiled his time away looking for public records on Clyde Baughman while Queen watched their two captives. He finally found his kids, Clyde’s son lived in Fort Bragg, but his daughter was still relatively close by in Lexington, Kentucky. He texted Queen and Renko to get back to the room.

He left the two men still cuffed, allowed a bottle of water and a bathroom break. Queen had sat in front of them, an open box of donuts and he had only eaten one powdered one. The sweet soft bread was not sitting well with the coffee but he made a show of it while they had their allotment of dry crackers. 

“Bacon and eggs waiting on me, boys,” Queen said, checking the text from Donnelley. “Y’all just sit tight, maybe we’ll bring you some leftovers.” 

He gave McCune a playful pat on the face, leaving the powdered sugar thumbprint on his cheek. 

“Asshhole,” he muttered.

“That’s the other guy,” Queen quipped as he left the room, stuffing the key card in his pocket and carrying the cardboard tote back to the room. 

He stepped in and handed the box to Renko, “Good old American donuts, enjoy.” 

“Sufganiyah?” Renko took the box from Queen only to groan in disappointment.

Queen looked Donnelley over, he was still dressed in the same clothes and his red hair was tousled. “What’s up, buttercup?” 

“I need someone to stay with the assholes next door, and one to come with me to visit Baughman’s daughter.” Donnelley looked up from his phone, “Still waitin’ on a favor I called in for the old man’s employment records and the DD-214s of him and the people in his old Army unit. We can still ask his daughter in the meantime.”

He winked at Queen, “No flirtin’.”

“Flirt? What sort of scoundrel do I look like,” Queen said, holding his cup of coffee to his chest, looking just like the scoundrel that he was with the white undershirt and his bright colored tattoos over his wiry muscles. He glanced at Renko, their conversation still on his mind, “Take him, I’ll mind the kids.” 

Queen gave Renko a pat on the shoulder and stepped aside. “Figure, y’all could use some time to talk.” 

>SOMEWHERE ALONG I-64
>TOWARDS LEXINGTON, KY
>1000…///

Donnelley and Renko’s drive had been silent. Any sort of forthcoming or niceties Renko had with Queen seemed to shrivel in Donnelley’s long shadow. The two spies sat shoulder to shoulder in the Ford Taurus, quiet music going in the background, the crashing of drums and screaming guitars turned down to a whisper. Renko looked out the window at the passing cars, leaving Donnelley alone with whatever thoughts he had. Donnelley looked across at Renko for a moment and then returned his eyes to the road ahead. There was still roughly an hour to go and they hadn’t spoken for two. Donnelley quietly cleared his throat, glancing at Renko, “It isn’t personal.”

“Hm?” Renko took his eyes off the cars passing and looked at Donnelley, eyes scanning his face.

The muscles in Donnelley’s temple worked as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. Laine was an FBI psychologist, maybe not a spy, but her job was reading people. There was still that part of him that distrusted Renko on principle. They’d taught him how to gauge someone’s motivations after only just a couple meetings, how to read people, find out why they did what they did. And no matter how much he looked at Renko, he couldn’t shake the feeling of a game being played. Whether the winner in it was Renko himself or the Russian government was anyone’s guess. A double agent, maybe. “Me not trusting you,” Donnelley expounded, drawing his lips thin and shaking his head, “Switch our roles in this, would you trust me?”

Renko looked at Donnelley for a long moment, blinking once and then shrugging as he looked at the road, “Perhaps not.” Renko nodded, “But America is not Russia. Bad people on both sides, yes? But [i]good[/i] too.”

Donnelley’s turn to nod in agreement, “True.”

“There comes a time in every loyal patriot’s service where he must question how much he is willing to enable, to do for his country,” Renko frowned, eyes hardening, “He must ask himself if duty to country is more important than duty to humanity. No matter what oath he has taken, making the choice to break it for something greater.”

“The girl.” Donnelley looked sidelong at Renko, “She came from an orphanage. Brought to America for some reason.”

“Yes.” Renko said, “Even if she is the only one I can save from bad men, it will be enough. Maybe. Who can say how much will be enough to outweigh everything you and I have done in the eyes of God?”

Donnelley shook his head, a lopsided frown as he sighed, “I don’t think God cares anymore.” He said, “You and me, we’ve seen enough to know that God’s had enough chances to fix this bullshit. I’ve lost too much to think God’s even awake.”

Donnelley’s frown deepened, “If he was even there at all.”

“I have lost plenty too.” Renko said, nodding slow as his eyes went back to watching cars pass. The moment grew quiet then, as that little moment of the wall between them being chipped away at faded. Passed just as quickly as the trees, and just as unnoticed and forgotten. Until Renko spoke again, “Fadeyka.”

Donnelley seemed unfazed, driving in silence for a moment, “What does that mean?”

“Brave.” Renko said, “I knew someone named Fadeyka long time ago. He died, somewhere in Chechnya.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Donnelley barely threw a veneer of sincerity over the words.

“He was… a good friend. When he died, I made a promise to make things right, and leave being a spy when all was done.” Renko ran his fingers through his hair, “This is why I help you.”

“How’d he die?” Donnelley asked, somewhat curious. Something about Renko opening the door just a small bit made Donnelley want to peek through it.

“He lost someone very important to him. And then...” Renko drew in a breath and sighed, then mimed putting a gun to his own head. “Fadeyka. Brave. But sometimes all by yourself is not enough, even if you are brave.”

Donnelley quirked a brow at that, taking a moment to consider what he’d say. He knew a few who’d done that. Taken the 9mm retirement plan. Whether it was his time in the Army or the Program, sometimes the stress mounted so much, and every door you see is closed. No one answers no matter how hard you pound on each one to ask if they could just please lighten your load even a single ounce, and you wonder sometimes if whoever’s on the other side is just waiting for you to go away. Watching you slowly die through the peephole, so they can go back to watching their television shows.

“Yeah.” Donnelley nodded once. There wasn’t anything else he could say.

>LEXINGTON, KY
>1100…///

It was a nice enough property in the hills, reminded Donnelley of Holly and Mark’s house. There was a large lawn, horses roaming and grazing in their pasture there. A scenic slice of country living. The front gate was a little more modern, a talkbox with a camera from where the owner of the house could see whoever was there. Donnelley pressed the call button on the talkbox, and a man’s voice came through, “What do you want?”

Donnelley spoke at the camera, “Hi, there. I’m Joseph Blaine with-“

The talkbox buzzed and the gate swung open slowly. Donnelley looked back at Renko still in the passenger seat and he shrugged. Donnelley got back in the car and let it amble along on the long dirt driveway towards Sharon Baughman’s house. They parked in a gravel area next to a green Ford Ranger and a Chevy pickup, their fancy sedan looking out of place next to the two older vehicles. As Donnelley and Renko dismounted, he noticed an old man sitting on the porch, not looking at them but at the hills rolling off and away back towards West Virginia. He could smell fresh hay that had just been mowed, and it took him back to those days spent at his Uncle Foley’s learning to ride his horses.

“Stay with the car.” Donnelley told Renko, and Renko nodded.

Donnelley’s shoes crunched in the gravel on his way to the front porch, the steps creaking under him. As he reached for the door, he heard the old man grumble something, “Huh?”

Donnelley looked at the old man, and recognition hit him like he was trying to kiss a freight train full of it. The old golden retriever was next to him, laying on the porch at his feet. The old man spoke again, “Said, you folk lookin’ for Sharon?” The old man asked, taking his hand from under the blanket to reveal he was gripping a Colt 1911. An old pistol, but eight .45 hollowpoints at this distance would do the job, “‘Cause she ain’t here.”

Donnelley slowly brought up his hands and inclined his head towards the old man, “I remember you.” He said, “Lemonbrook Apartments. April. After Clyde died.”

The old man nodded once, slow as slow with narrowed eyes. Killer’s eyes. Donnelley recognized those eyes anywhere, and the two of them had an understanding, “Clyde was a good friend. It’s a shame,” the old man retrieved a cigarette from a box of Lucky Strikes, placing one between his lips and lighting it with a zippo, MAC-V SOG insignia emblazoned on it, “You fuckin’ assholes were getting rid of the evidence.”

“Evidence of?”

“Not out here, [i]dumbfuck[/i], inside. Or did you forget about your training when they picked you up?” The old man struggled to standing, Donnelley offered his hand, but he only growled at it. “Special Forces. [i]Special needs.[/i] Fuckin’ new assholes nowadays, I swear to god.”

Donnelley quirked a brow at that, face screwed up with confusion, “How’d you know…”

“It’s on your fuckin’ vest, asshat. Clocked you in Lexington when you rode that fuckin’ Indian into town actin’ all spooky like no one’d notice.” The old man smirked, “You gonna come in here or what?”

Donnelley stepped through the doorway and into the living room of the quaint house, a small house on a homestead he had to wonder when it was built. He heard the creak of floorboards that didn’t come from him, the sound of a weapon being manipulated to his left and his hand struck out instinctively, wrapping around the barrel shroud of an AR and forcing it away from his head. He cocked back a fist at the man he turned to see and the old man yelled out, “Stop that fuckin’ bullshit right now or I’ll shoot the both of you!”

“You’re gonna let this fuckin’ asshole into my sister’s house after he killed-“

“He didn’t kill Clyde, you fuckin’ moron!” The old man snarled, Colt still in hand, and he turned his unforgiving gaze on Donnelley, “He just cleaned up the [i]fuckin’ mess.[/i]”

The man Donnelley had almost clocked in the mouth was younger than him, maybe five years or more. An angry expression, and rage in his eyes. Everyone here was armed, and Donnelley was not an exception, “Michael.”

“How [i]the fuck[/i] do you know my name?” Michael Baughman stepped closer to Donnelley.

“It was in my briefing,” Donnelley looked Michael up and down, a little different than the picture Foster had given them way back in April, “I’m sorry… about your-“

“Just shut the fuck up and take a seat.” Michael turned away from Donnelley and did the same, taking the wooden chair he’d set up in front of the window facing out towards the driveway and the gate beyond.

Donnelley did what he was told, sitting on the couch adjacent to the television set and entertainment center before the old man came back with a bottle of Wild Turkey and two glasses, whiskey stones inside. The old man glanced at Donnelley, “You like whiskey.”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t a question. It’s all we got, so today you like whiskey.” The old man lowered himself growling into his seat and the golden retriever dutifully placed himself next to him, panting with his tongue lolling about. “Why are you lookin’ for my best friend’s daughter?”

“Answer careful-“

“Would you shut the fuck up? Let the man speak,” The old man fixed Michael with a stare that could freeze hearts, “Jesus Christ. Go on, before my asshole godson shits out his mouth again.”

“I was looking into Clyde’s old associates, IRS coworkers, former unit members.” Donnelley looked from Michael back to the old man, “Clyde was part of the Program-“

“No, he [i]wasn’t.[/i]” The old man spoke frankly, matter of fact, “The Program is just another part of the fuckin’ government so deep in the state’s ass it can’t tell which way’s in and which way’s out.”

The old man took another drag, “Pretty soon, it’s gonna get so tangled up in there it’ll choke to death.”

The old man stared at Donnelley, pouring a generous glass of whiskey and sliding it towards him, before doing the same for himself, “Not everyone came in from the cold. Not everyone trusts the government to do Delta Green’s job after what the government let Majestic get away with.” The old man shook his head, sipping at his whiskey and growling, “You want to know what Delta Green is, son, you’re lookin’ at it. An old salt can barely get the fuck up out of bed, and some young buck discharged from the service, peekin’ out a window with a gun.”

“Two sides of the same coin. Me and him. You and me.” The old man glowered into his drink and then took another, “Clyde Baughman is what happens when you start askin’ the right questions without takin’ the right precautions.”

“Frank.” The old man said, “Frank Gamble. It’s my name. Served with Clyde in Vietnam and Cambodia, Laos.”

“Joseph-“

“Donnelley. Fifth Group. Staff Sergeant. Let me guess, OGA now?”

Donnelley narrowed his eyes at Frank. How he knew any of that was anyone’s guess, but he didn’t like how much was just an open book for Frank. “Yeah.”

“Uh huh.” Frank snorted, chuckling as he shook his head, “You fuckin’ G-Men. You really wanna know who killed Clyde Baughman?”

Donnelley nodded.

“Okay.” Frank turned serious, “Let me tell you a story…”

[i]>NEW YORK, NY
>SHANGHAI KITCHEN
>9JUL2019
>0020

He rode the subway down to Chinatown in his tux, alone except for a homeless man asleep on the bench at the other end of the car. He watched his reflection in the dark window, a pale face with black eyes. 

He got off at Canal, wandering east to the dingy little Chinese place- still open at midnight- where he knew he'd find 'Cousin Louis' slurping down tea. 

His phone beeped, he picked up the call. 

"Overman speaking."

"Yes, I'm going to meet him now."

"They'll agree to that? You're sure? They've never-"

"Understood. Have the Curator prepare my case then, he'll know the reagents I need. I'll pick it up when I'm done here."

Overman ended the call and stepped into the steamy, savory warmth of Shanghai Kitchen. The host drowsily nodded him to the table in the back corner, where Steve Foster sat glowering.

The Chinese joint was  quiet, only open at this hour because Foster had slipped the owner a considerable sum of money. Or what the rickety man saw as considerable. Everything was money. It was the perfect setting for  him to sell his soul to the devil for a drop of hope in avoiding the inevitable, irritably shooing away the waitress and asking only for water and tea to be served before they clocked out and went home. A deal eagerly upheld by the sleepy staff, as per the black budget agreement with the owner since 2005. 

They called it horse trading in their field. Asset for asset, a good prize for a good price. Any man would be a fool if they thought Russia or any other former Soviet country would’ve given Snowden safehaven out of the kindness of their hearts. Putin was a man sans heart, ex-KGB. A figure of an evil organization at the head of a nation. And now he probably had a fair few of America’s secrets rattling around in his and his council’s heads. What Foster wouldn’t give to be bartering in secrets with the Russians, rather than the negotiations he was about to undertake with a… rather different adversary, and for rather higher stakes.  

Per the rules of horse trading, a manilla folder with hard copies and printouts of pictures he’d taken of various case files at the ironclad BLACKBOX- the airtight, heavily secured storage house and archive for the Program’s most sensitive assets and files- sat weighty and accusing at his side in the booth. He could just get up, leave, go home and never speak about this to anyone. But when his contact entered the front door of the Shanghai Kitchen and locked eyes with him, he knew this deal was grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him down into his seat. He smiled, always good at hiding everything. He gestured to the seat in front of him and spoke up, “Please. Sit.” He gestured to the seat opposite himself, “You must be…”

“Bill Overman,” said the newcomer, sitting, “You’re the famous Foster. I’ve heard some wild stories about you, from your old colleagues. Bennings especially had some tales, may he rest in peace.”

Overman’s eyes fell for a moment on the folder between them before returning to meet Foster’s gaze.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Foster?”

“It’s your company doing the most for me.” Foster decided to not indulge in any of the flattery. He was somewhat storied. You don’t put your boots on the ground for Operation JAWBREAKER in the Agency and not earn a few pats on the back, nor live through the days when he and the people like him were illegally fighting back the apocalypse without some war stories, “What you are doing, what I need you to do is finalize the deal I had made.”

At that, he slapped the manila folder on the table, guilt and regret and unsurety lashing his being when it left his fingers, the sound of it on the table like a gunshot. Though it probably didn’t even stir a mouse, “These are for March. Everything we have on the case.” He sighed, looked at the table and then grabbed up his tea, sipping at it, “What exactly is it that you do? They told me you’d fix what I needed fixed.”

“You must have peculiar kinds of problems, if my higher ups sent me to fix them for you,” said Overman, raising an eyebrow. He turned his teacup around in long fingered hands.

“I’m a scholar. One who’s spent a long time studying the kinds of things men like you busy yourselves destroying,” said Overman, “and in the course of my studies I’ve acquired a certain mastery of the, ah, occult sciences, you might call them. Useful skills to have when facing occult threats- though I know the Program doesn’t approve. Pretends to keep its hands clean.”

Overman took a drink of tea, and his gaze fell again on the folder sitting before him on the table. He made no move to open it.

“What do you need fixed, Mr. Foster?”

“A lot.” Foster sighed, [i]though for the case?[/i] “A live specimen has been confirmed to be roaming the West Virginia backwoods in Blackriver county. The Program would rather keep the operation as low visibility as possible.”

Overman flipped open the folder, glancing over the blurry pictures and Program dossiers within as Foster spoke, “I see.”

“Bombing the forest isn’t an option. Sending in a kill team has been met with failure. I fear the Russians have sent their own specialists already.” He shook his head, “I made a deal with March. Solve this problem for the Program, I… let you have some secrets.”

“Well, well,” said Overman, drumming his fingers on the table, eyes still scanning the open folder, “well, well. Very interesting. We can discuss payment later. I know you can be relied on to keep your word. Tell me about your team. They are still alive, I assume?”

Foster nodded, keeping the grimace away from his face at the mention of even further payment down the line, “Wetwork Team BLACKBEARD was the first to come into contact with the specimen. There was only one survivor and he’s been absorbed into my Working Group- UMBRA.” Foster explained, sipping at his tea, “UMBRA’s Team Lead is Joseph Donnelley, a Paramilitary Officer with the Agency. The rest are Federal Law Enforcement. Bureau.”

“We did have two KIA.” Foster left the rest unsaid.

“There are Russians involved, you said?” asked Overman, ignoring Foster’s aside about the dead, “They certainly don’t share your Program’s qualms about, ah, dabbling in things beyond their understanding...which, I don’t need to tell you…”

“I believe the Russians may even be the reason the specimen is there in the first place, if not… other meddlers.” Foster frowned, “That’s all I have on the situation. Anything else is just useless speculation.”

Overman sat back, flipping the folder closed. 

“The specimen can be dealt with,” he said, “That, Foster, is the easy part. And it won’t be easy. But why it’s there, that’ll be a dark rabbit hole to go down. And deep. That’s the real problem, though: who or, ah, what, let the damned thing loose. The files mentioned murders? Tell me about them.”

Foster nodded, pursing his lips as he put down his tea, “Yes,” he sighed, “It was the initial call I got from my contact. We responded, Donnelley and I, under the guise of an FBI response. The victim was skinned completely. Later medical examination revealed that there weren’t even micro-abrasions from a knife. Dental records pinged on a cold case from Seattle. Maria Vasquez, snatched about seven years ago by Sinaloa cartel when she was twelve.”

“This was before we knew about other variables like the Russians. We opened the case under the assumption that it was a local killer and we were there under the authority that the victim was skinned, there were no tire tracks or footprints leading to the scene, either. Oddities that peaked my contact’s interest.” Foster frowned, “Her respiratory organs needed for speech were surgically removed as well. Buried bones discovered under recently turned earth at the scene made us aware that this was not the first. The Program wants it to be the last.”

“Multiple victims, all skinned and missing vocal cords,” said Overman, and sucked his teeth, “You’ve got anyone working on a profile of the killer?”

“One of our agents, a profiler with the FBI’s BAU has been leading the questioning of anybody we can reasonably get to talk or wants to.” Foster shrugged, “Other than that, we’re trying to keep our profile in West Virginia pretty low. Minimal use of non-Program resources. Less questions that way.”

“[i]Less questions.[/i] Spoken like a true Program officer,” said Overman with a slight smile, “Cover up what you can’t fix.”

Foster smirked and gave Overman a once over. He knew a lot about him before he even spoke a word, ironic. Everything the Agency and the Program did was kept behind tight lips until you were talking to your buddy by the water cooler. “What were you doing before March, if you don’t mind me asking.” Foster let a little smirk tweak the corner of his lip up, “You’ve heard stories of me. I don’t even know [i]you[/i]. I suppose that’s a good thing in our line of work, but I like to at least know something about the people I work with.”

“Worked for the Agency, same as you,” said Overman, “though in the lab more than in the field. Seen more of the frontlines at March, and I’ve collaborated with the Program some. Look up the Dallas ‘17 case files. My name was probably redacted but I worked with the Program Handler on bringing the killer- well, killers, it turned out- in.”

Overman paused and tilted his head, considering something, before he spoke again, “I’ll be honest with you, Foster, I left the Agency during the reshuffle in twenty-oh-two ‘cause I don’t agree with how the Program runs things- the obsession with secrecy, making ignorance into a virtue. I’ve seen your people become unhinged, not just because of the nature of the work, but from lack of support, a lack of understanding what they were dealing with. But this West Virginia thing is your show, not mine, and you can rely on me to do what you’ve hired me for.”

“Why do you think I’ve hired you? Some of the hardliners from the cowboy days still distrust March because of the reshuffle and the… conflict.” Foster pursed his lips, “But, you and I are of the same mind. To a degree. I’ve seen too many killed by their own guns than what those guns have put down.”

He sighed, looking away from Overman to the headlights reflecting outside, the traffic, the shuffle of a million little lives like gnats. Worried only about if they would make that light before it turned red. He shook his head, “I appreciate secrecy for the common man. They shouldn’t ever have to see what we’ve seen.” He looked back to Overman, “But there’s no excuses for those who took their exit into their own hands. How goddamn long have we been at this? The Program, [i]Delta Green.[/i]” he hissed, “Maybe we won’t stop this, but we can make sure whoever comes in next has an idea how.”

“Alright, Foster,” said Overman, “Where shall I begin?”

Foster looked away from Overman for a moment, “There’s a man named Gregory Carlisle…”[/i]

>…///

“Foster…” Donnelley breathed, reaching for his drink and taking out his pack of cigarettes, “It was [i]Foster…[/i]”

“It’s always [i]been[/i] Foster. Majestic wasn’t destroyed when Delta Green purged them in Ninety-Nine,” Frank pointed at Donnelley with his cigarette between his fingers, “They went to ground. [i]Changed.[/i] Merged. How do you think Delta Green got its hunting license back? They took on some of Majestic to pad out its legitimacy.”

“Foster’s the mole.”

“Foster’s [i]ex-Majestic.[/i]” Frank growled. “Clyde and I had an Op in Blackriver dealing with kidnappings, disappearing hikers, missing children in the Eighties.”

“Thought it was a cult, at first. Easy out, nine times out of ten. But what we found wasn’t right. It wasn’t a cult, it was Majestic-12, it was the [i]government.[/i]” Frank leaned forward, “We burned it [i]the fuck[/i] down. Delta Green slashed and burned everything Majestic created while they hunted us since the Goddamn seventies. The very country we were saving wanting to silence us and bury us in shallow graves.”

“Took twenty fuckin’ years, but they caught up to Clyde. They dug up his wife, sent her after him, but he put her in that fuckin’ cabin even though I told him to put her down.” Frank dragged hard off his cigarette and ashed it into a coffee cup, “Twenty-Nineteen, March. Foster meets with Breckenridge and March Tech, and they’ve been goin’ down the list of everyone they can get to without the government knowin’.”

“Clyde’s turn. And you cleaned up the fuckin’ mess.” Frank looked at Donnelley with an animal hatred in his eyes that slowly dissipated, “I’m goin’ to let you leave here on one fuckin’ condition.”

Frank held his 1911 on his lap and pointed it at Donnelley. Michael stood up from his chair and his AR was in his hands. Donnelley wasn’t even close to being able to refuse, “What is it?”

“You take the files I have on Foster and the Majestic-12 remnants to the Director of your little Program. It’s sealed, magic, you try to open it and you’ll die the same way Clyde did. Director’s eyes only.” Frank had a small smirk then, “Who do you think’s gonna come clean up after you?”

“And?”

“Kill Foster.” Frank said, “And kill him [i]good.[/i]”

[h3]The Things We Leave Behind…[/h3]
[i]Two Riders…[/i]

>FLANNEGAN INN
>BLACKRIVER COUNTY
>1340…///

Hubert’s stomach squeezed in on itself again, letting out a rumble as he moaned. McCune was in worse shape, he’d dry-heaved up some bile in the absence of food. They’d stopped talking about escape plans after the crackers and water stopped doing the trick for their hunger. They were keeping them weak, so they couldn’t run, so they couldn’t lie, so they were soft and desperate. Whoever these people were, they’d done this before. They couldn’t be Feds, Feds weren’t this cruel. Maybe the Bratva had turned on them, pushing the Brotherhood and the Appalachian Sons out of the drug market. A monopoly.

“Fuck you!” Hubert screamed at the top of his lungs, “Fuck you! You wanna kill me, motherfuckers? Come in here and fuckin’ [i]do it![/i]”

Queen stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing his nose with tissue and checking it, frowning slightly at the blood still speckling it. He picked up his cup and noisily slurped the last of the Sprite, the ice rattling around in it. The food delivery had been to the other room, a local place with sandwiches. He took a few bites of the thick turkey sub then set it aside, not feeling hungry but knowing it would drive Hubert and McClune crazy to smell it and see it so close yet so far. 

Queen sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his hands on the knees of the old blue jeans he wore. “Now you know you ain’t supposed to be hollerin’ like that,” he said, “You wanna talk, we’ll talk.”

He shook the ice again and opened the lid, draining the last of it. “Let’s talk. You know how these things go.” 

He shifted his pale eyes towards them, then set the cup on the floor. Queen stood up, stretching and rubbing his hand along his flat stomach under the wifebeater. He looked at Hubert, narrowing his gaze as he reached for his Kools, “Wanna know how Jay died?” 

Hubert fixed Queen with a hard stare, deep frown set in a hollowed out face. It had only been some hours since they’d last ate, but the hunger was already beginning to take hold. He would’ve done anything for some of that food. He swallowed, the sound of it so dry it was audible, “How, you piece of shit?”

Queen snorted softly, “Piece of shit. That ain’t nice. You know, Jay had some old habits.”

He turned to face them directly, the night he killed Jay replaying in his mind as he looked at their hunger hollow faces. He lit his cigarette, then tossed the pack of Kools on the bed. “He and I had a talk once, about it. What I never did get was how you fucking lot got your hands on some designer shit. Real hospital grade scripts like Midazolam and Propofol. We never got to talk about that.” 

Queen took a drag and sniffed hard, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you tell me about that, I’d feel a lot better about you both. I’ve known Brotherhood, I ain’t even seen y’all deal shit like that. Getting it from the Russians was my guess. But why don’t you tell me some names. Might make me feel better after you called me a piece of shit.”

He grinned, then glanced over at the white paper bag with the other half of an untouched sandwich still in it and the other half sitting only missing a few bites. On the table was the box of saltines and a couple bottles of water. Queen looked back at the and said nothing, he knew they knew it was there. He could see the gleam in their eyes though not as feverish as Jay’s had been when he was cooking the heroin on a spoon. Not yet.

“Don’t tell him shit, Hugh.” McCune groaned from his corner, “Not a single fuckin’ thing.”

“I know that!” Hubert snapped at the Police Sergeant. Already acting like a couple of dogs on the chain with food in sight. “I’m just hungry.”

“Don’t tell him. They’ll find out we’re gone and come lookin’.”

Hubert doubled over again and grimaced, holding back a heave. The empty stomachs were getting too much, and Hubert was going to be the first to break, “You give me food, I’ll tell you.”

“You dumb fuckin’ piece of shit! You say a word, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” McCune spat, lunging uselessly at Hubert as he was cuffed to the radiator.

“Just give me a little, please.” Hubert pleaded. “I’m so fuckin’ [i]thirsty[/i], them little sips of water ain’t enough. I’ll die before I can tell you anythin’, man, [i]please![/i]”

Queen stood up, cigarette between his lips and gave a casual but swift kick to McCune’s shin when he started struggling, “Come on now, you all don’t wanna get found as much as I don’t want [i]him[/i] finding you. You forget about Big Clem so fast?”

He moved over to the table and picked up a bottle of water, the plastic beading sweat as he had taken them out of the small refrigerator not long before. “Don’t worry about him, Hubert. He can’t do anything to help you or hurt you.” 

Queen stepped over and crouched just within reach of Hubert with the bottle of water. “I can though. So tell me about these sources and why they’re so fucking special.” 

He opened the cap, the faint snapping of the tiny plastic seal audible to the thirsty men. “Hubert, I don’t blame you, I hate being thirsty. Tongue starts swelling up and drying out, that cotton feeling. Yuck. Then of course, there's organ failure but I wouldn’t do you like that. Not yet.”

“So gimme names and I’ll give you water,” Queen held it up and sloshed it lightly, a few drops spilling onto his hand. 

At that point, even McCune seemed transfixed. When Queen looked his way, he snapped his attentions somewhere else, making out like he was tougher than his body’s natural need to function. Hubert was being much more obedient, “Okay.” Hubert said, “Okay. We got it from one of Jay’s bitches. She stole it from a hospital, she’s got friends there that needed a little extra money. McCune made sure nobody told.”

“I’m [i]thirsty,[/i] please, just a little bit. Just enough to wet my mouth so I can talk.” Already his words were starting to slur, the diuretics that Donnelley had force fed them with the caffeine pills were doing their job, “Please, I’ll tell you the rest if I can get some of that.”

Queen tilted his head slightly, “Interesting. But you didn’t answer my question. I said names. No names, no water.”

He sighed, then shook his head, then judged the desperation in Hubert’s face, his cracked dried lips and said, “Y’all are lucky you’re stuck with me and not the ginger.” 

Holding up the bottle he offered Hubert a drink, still maintaining possession of it. Hubert reached up with his wrists cuffed together and merely brushed the bottle with his palms. He looked at his hands worriedly, seemingly staring at them as his fingers jutted out immobile from his hands, “What’s wrong with my fingers?” He breathed, “Wh-what’s wrong with my fingers! They ain’t movin’!”

Queen clicked his tongue against his teeth, furrowing his brow. “Dehydration. Your body isn’t liking this not having water thing. Here, I’ll hold the bottle and you drink. Slow now or you’ll inhale it.”

He chuckled and grinned, though it did not touch his eyes,  “Wouldn’t that be some shit.” 

Hubert tipped his head back as Queen gave him some water. Just enough to wet his mouth, like he’d requested, but the look in his eyes was hurt and desperate when Queen took his bottle. Hubert swallowed loud, licking his lips, “Debbie Graves.” He looked at Queen, then the bottle in his hand, and back at Queen, “Debbie Graves got the drugs.”

Hubert paused, looking at the bottle with a thirst in his eyes that made him look almost animal, “We gave it to some… some big guy. Had… some type of shit all over his face and his neck. Like black cauliflower.”

Queen withdrew the bottle, “Debbie Graves. She works at a hospital or something? Jay was her dealer? Boyfriend?”

The next thing made Queen’s gaze sharpen and snap to Hubert. “Black cauliflower? What the fuck you mean? Tattoos or...lumpier? Details and I’ll let you drink properly.”

Hubert shook his head, “Like [i]growths.[/i] Some of the old folk in White Tree got it, miners. Can even see it on the dogs sometimes.” He said, “Clem said he had a woman with him. Night time when they met.”

“He never got the big guy’s name but the woman, she’s, uh…” Hubert’s eyes went dead for a second, before his face screwed up and he shook his head, “I can’t remember.”

“You’d better not fuckin’ remember, motherfucker.” McCune growled, staring daggers at Hubert and Queen, “I ain’t breakin’.”

At that point the sound of the SHO’s engine was heard outside, tires on concrete as it parked in the lot, doors opening and closing. The sound of the lobby doors being opened and after a while, Donnelley was in the doorway. His face held no humor, just two icy orbs set in his face that stared malice into Hubert and McCune.

“They talkin’?” Donnelley asked.

When he heard the door, Queen sighed, “Daddy’s home. Y’all shoulda talked for your uncle, I’m a lot nicer.” 

He stood up, the bottle of water still in hand and faced Donnelley. He saw the thunderous look in his face and shrugged, “Hubert’s getting the idea but still needs help jogging his memory. McCune’s being a McCunt.” 

Queen studied Donnelley from the corner of his eye, noting the tension and what seemed like lines he did not recognize in the familiar face. “Hubert told me about the chick that got the drugs, a piece of Jay’s. He was just about to tell me the name of the woman with the man they met to give them the Midazolam and Propofol. Some dude with weird growths. Coal cancer or some shit.”

He turned back to Hubert, holding the water then giving a slight head tilt in Donnelley’s direction. “Ain’t that right?”

Hubert nodded emphatically. McCune only scowled and looked away. Donnelley frowned and took a step into the room, hiking up the legs of his pants before squatting in front of Hubert, “Let me see your hands.” Hubert lifted his hands, the fingers still obstinately straight, Donnelley looked at them, “Curl your fingers.”

Hubert tried, and then tried harder while he bit his lip in concentration, only able to make one quiver for a second. Donnelley nodded, “Losing fine motor control. The good news is there’s nothing wrong with your muscles.” Donnelley looked from Hubert’s fingers to the man’s eyes, Donnelley’s gaze still cold and flat, predatory, “The bad news is that the caffeine pills and diuretics we shoved down your throat have purged your electrolytes through your piss. Your nerves aren’t receiving signals from your brain to move. Soon, you’ll probably slip into unconsciousness, and then you’ll die.”

Donnelley stood again, his knees popping with the effort, “And I’ll masturbate and then sleep like a baby after I leave you out here in a shallow grave.” Donnelley narrowed his eyes, “But, don’t worry. I stopped at the store, bought some water.”

Donnelley turned his head and called for Renko, the man arriving with a large jug of water, several gallons large, and a pack of towels. Donnelley turned back to Hubert and McCune, “Should be enough.”

“Why don’t you take some time.” Donnelley turned to Queen, “We’ll just be a bit.”

Queen knew what he was up to and raised his brow. Waterboarding was something they had used before on recalcitrant assets. McCune could benefit from it, stubborn proud bastard but he had worked on Hubert and the man was ready to spill without the influence of the threat from McClune, “Hubert and I were in a conversation, he knows what trouble he’s in. Don’t you?”

He glanced at Hubert who nodded and Queen held the water, “See? He’ll talk, tell us the name of the woman with the cauliflower man. I’ll give him his water like I promised. McCunt here, that’s another story. He’s been an obstinate cuss and intruded on our conversation.” 

Donnelley turned to Queen, looking him up and down with a violence in his eyes that Tex usually reserved for those on the other side of his gun. After a moment, he relented, his face lightening a tad and he clapped Queen’s shoulder, “Sure.” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “McCune needs to have a private talk with me and Renko anyway.”

He turned and slapped his hands on Hubert’s shoulders, grabbing up fistfuls of his shirt and hauling him up before throwing him stumbling into the hallway and into a wall. Watching with a concerning amount of contempt as Hubert sprawled onto his face. He looked at Queen, nodding to the door, “Go ahead.”

Queen caught the glint in those blue eyes and braced himself when Donnelley lifted his hand. The moment passed but the threat was still there, bundled in the muscles and sinew and in the dark expression on Donnelley’s face. Queen accepted the eviction and went to pick Hubert up, the casual cruelty was something he had seen before in Tex, usually under the watchful shark eyes of Ghost but it was there. They all had it in them to some degree so he said nothing and hauled the handcuffed man to his feet, looking down the hallway to make sure no one was walking out at an inopportune time to get ice. 

Queen unlocked the door and pushed a stumbling Hubert in and followed him, shutting the door behind him. “Sit,” he pulled out the chair that was placed beside a small table. He gave Hubert a sip of water as he had promised then pulled it back.

“Now let’s continue our talk,” Queen said, leaning against the dresser. “I got food and water in that fridge, Gatorade, too. You’ll need it, your body is screaming for it about now. Don’t be fooled, McCune’s in just as bad a shape but he’s gonna be a damn sight worse now that my partner’s got him. He’ll talk, don’t you worry. And now he ain’t gotta know what you tell me. It’s just us, Hugh.” 

He leaned forward, meeting the dull eyes of the man, “You’ll want it to stay like that, me and you. You don’t want that ginger asshole mad at you. So tell me, what was the woman’s name that y’all gave the drugs.”

Hubert was breathing hard, eyes quivering as they stared off at that face obscured by the mist of memory. A hulking silhouette in the headlights, a woman with wild eyes and a sick aura. “Doctor…”

Hubert looked at the door as the sound of McCune yelling and a muffled Donnelley screamed something broke into their room, a barely contained violence. A danger next door. Hubert swallowed…

“Doctor Levy.”

>1700…///

Hubert sipped from his Gatorade again, somewhat softening over the couple hours that Queen had him. Queen was okay, not violent, not the worst person he’d ever been around. Queen was busying himself with something in the bathroom, Hubert wasn’t really concerned with what he was doing, simply sipped away at his Gatorade. He’d tried chugging it the first time he got it, but his gut wretched it up soon after. Queen had told him to sip instead, and he was eternally grateful. Already, his fingers were becoming more obedient, the headaches were lessening. He felt more lucid.

Just in time for Renko to burst through the door, holding his nose, and sporting a split lip. Renko looked around the room and then went to the bathroom, “Queen!” He pounded the door, “Queen, my friend!”

He snorted and rubbed his nose, his eyes shining and the dark pupil expanding to cover his pale iris and his face was numb, blessed numbness and sparks of energy at the same time. Queen had a line left and when Renko’s voice startled him he had knocked it over into the sink, the small mirror clattering. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, leaving it as he swung the door open. “What’s going on?”


One look at Renko’s face and Queen was moving out the door, calling to him, “Keep an eye on him.”

It only took him a few moments to slide the card to the room where the noise of violence could be heard muffled through the walls. Queen stepped inside and looked around, the room was empty but the sounds pointed him towards the bathroom. 

“Tex!” Queen called and rushed to the bathroom. Donnelley was hunched over, his hands on McCune’s throat and the man was struggling to breathe but making the gurgling he had heard. 

“Stop this shit,” Queen grabbed him from behind, gripping his shoulders. He pulled at him, then got a better hold on his upper arms, feeling the flexing of his biceps in his grip, the determined strength that would be difficult to counter. “Fuck, Tex, let him go!” 

Queen shifted his weight, putting his knee behind Tex and releasing his arms when he could not get him to let go of McCune’s neck. Queen slipped his arms underneath Tex’s to attempt to wrench him up in a full nelson to counter his greater strength and weight. Coke fueled, Queen pulled back hard, grunting as he did.

Feeling someone behind him, Tex tried to spin around, but was stopped when he felt Queen’s arms snake under his. Surprisingly strong, Tex tried to grab Queen, but couldn’t manage to reach him. Instead, they struggled against each other, Tex planting his boot against the kitchen counter and kicking off, slamming Queen against the wall, but still he hung on until Tex relented. He instead sagged against Queen, still pinning him against the wall.

Once Queen let go, Donnelley turned, his breathing haggard from the intense grappling session. The only thing that held him back was that it was Queen. And that was what made Donnelley the most guilty, not just because he could’ve killed their detainee, but because even he knew he was off the handle. The stress was mounting, and he could feel it in his chest, in his shoulders. In his head. A dull ache that couldn’t be pinpointed that even infected his thoughts, turning them all to worries.

Donnelley looked at Queen, searching his face, seeing the confusion. The shock, the worry, “I’m sorry.” Donnelley placed his hands on Queen, pulling him into a hug instead of some rabid chokehold, “I know who it is.”

He whispered in Queen’s ear, his voice coming through clenched teeth, “I know who the [i]mole is.[/i]”

Hitting the wall knocked Queen’s head back with a thunk but cocaine and adrenaline left him feeling little, though he would have a knot later. He caught his breath when he let Tex go, eyeing him warily even though he had calmed down. He met Donnelley’s eyes, standing up straight when he reached for him. 

“What happened?” he started to ask when he was pulled into the hug. Queen felt a pang in his chest and held him tight, almost clinging to him for a moment before catching himself and remembering. He turned his head, his face close to Donnelley’s, “The mole...”

He tensed and stared at him, “Someone close ain’t it?”

Donnelley came out of the hug, holding Queen by his shoulders and looking into his eyes. How many times had they shared moments like this when things were especially hard? How many times had they reminded each other that the sun would come up again? How many times had they all been there during the debriefs and shared in the hurt when THUNDER lost people, or had been too late when running QRFs?

Donnelley nodded at the door and then left the room, waiting for Queen to follow as they went to their room. Renko was looking at Donnelley when he came in, holding a tissue to his nose and lip. Donnelley looked back and then frowned, “I’m sorry.”

“You were stressed.”

“It wasn’t [i]acceptable.[/i]” Donnelley said, voice firm, “I owe you… some, uh, vodka.”

“It would be appreciated.” Renko smiled.

Donnelley pointed to Hubert, “Get him out of here.”

Renko nodded and did what was told, maybe relieved to spend more time absent from Donnelley’s presence. He might have acted like it was no big deal, but Donnelley knew he’d hurt him. More than physically. After Avery, Donnelley never wanted to leave things on bad terms with anyone before the day was over. When they were alone, Donnelley leaned against the wall, arms folded.

“It [i]is[/i] someone close.”

Queen crossed his arms across his chest, giving Renko a sympathetic look at the busted nose. He waited until he took Hubert away to step a little closer to Donnelley, “How close? Is it fucking Poker? Honestly I wouldn’t put it past him, that shady fuck.” 

Donnelley shook his head, looking down at his shoes, still dressed like some tactical hoodlum, “Foster.”

Queen was half joking about Poker but when Donnelley said Foster, it felt like cold water in the face. He stared at Donnelley, “You’re shitting me. Fucking Foster? How, why? We’re his team...we...”

He slouched and ran his hands through his hair, turning slightly away from Donnelley, “Goddamnit. What the fuck?!” 

He kicked an empty water bottle and it careened off the dresser and hit the wall. “How did you find out?” 

Queen looked back at him, hurt and anger simmering in his sea colored eyes. He trusted Donnelley, more than anyone on the team or running their show. Even if they were over as a couple or whatever they had been, he still trusted Donnelley with his life. His hurt compounded, Foster betrayed them, sent them out to get killed. He grit his teeth, grinding them before he asked, his voice tight, “Why would he do this?” 

“I don’t know.” Donnelley shook his head, “I don’t know, but there’s pictures. There’s a transcript in the folder that Frank Gamble gave me.”

He looked at Queen, knowing he wouldn’t know who Frank was, “He’s an old agent. Him and Clyde. Foster killed Clyde, took me from THUNDER to head a team of people who wouldn’t know anythin’ about this world we’re in to clean up after Clyde’s death so no one would know.”

“We were his [i]fuckin’ accomplices.[/i]” Donnelley closed his eyes, muscles flexing in his jaw as he fought the urge to throw something, break something. “The Program is… Majestic…”

Donnelley’s mouth worked to form the words, but he knew it would be too much to explain. They didn’t have time. There was a Ukrainian terminator, Russian spies, Russian mob, and maybe even their own gunning after them. “It doesn’t matter right now.” Donnelley snorted bitter, “Maybe I’ll do a fuckin’ PowerPoint brief if we don’t all get hunted down and the government commits our suicides.”

Donnelley frowned deep, falling quiet for a few moments. He breathed out a long sigh, eyes screwed shut, “What did Hugh say?”

Queen stared at him as he spoke, the news still resonating through him, echoing like an empty 55 gallon drum tipped over. Foster had been their case officer for years. Had it always been this way or was it recently that the bastard had found it profitable to burn his team and the ones from UMBRA, new people that had no idea what they were walking into. The anger surged in him and mingled with a crushing sadness that even in his jaded heart he never entertained a serious betrayal by the man directly responsible for their safety. 

Ghost. Queen swallowed dryly. They had to get to him before Foster decided to turn him loose on them. It would be too easy but if Ghost knew about the betrayal he would kill Foster and those around him. That was one thing Queen was certain of about the man, Ghost did not take betrayal with any sort of forgiveness. He remembered the flat dark eyes warning him the first time they met and the sounds of a grinder on bone.

He held that thought as Donnelley asked about Hubert and Queen could smell whiskey wafting from him. God knows he could have used a drink. He shook his head, trying to gather himself as the paranoid thoughts began to bounce around in his coked up brain. 

"A PowerPoint would be helpful since we were just the knucklehead muscle. Hugh said they uh, they gave the drugs to a big guy with black 'cauliflower' erupting out of his skin, some kinda growth miners apparently develop around here and a woman, said her name was Dr. Levy," he said, the case files he had read weeks ago now farther from his thoughts.

Donnelley’s eyes snapped up to Queen and there was a renewed fire in those blue orbs, “[i]What?[/i]”

Queen met his enraged stare, “Dr. Levy, I presume. You know who she is?”

“Get Hubert, have Renko get McCune,” Donnelley made to leave, keys in hand, “Stuff McCune in the trunk, I’ll get the car ready.”

He nodded, the cabin coming back to mind, the skin he had helped pack away and he felt a prickling up his neck. Queen went over to Hubert, “Break’s over, we’re going on a field trip.”

Securing his cuffs, Queen took the Gatorade and shot a look at the man, “I suggest you behave, you ain’t getting away from us. I want your full cooperation, got it?”

Helping him up, Queen said quietly, close to Hubert’s ear, “Don’t take my kindness for weakness or I won’t make it so easy like I did for Jay.” 

He guided him into the hallway, knocking on the door to relay the message to Renko. Hubert looked at Queen with wide eyes, “Y-you?”

Queen clenched his teeth then looked over at Hubert, “Yeah.”

He felt a moment of regret admitting it in the fit of frustration over Foster and everything else. “Yeah, heroin’s tricky like that.”

He knocked again, “Let’s go, bus is leaving.”

A loud thump shook the door after Queen’s knock, the door opened and Renko crashed through, slamming McCune into the wall on the other side of the hallway, “I am sorry, he is very stubborn.”

“Fuck you, [i]Ivan.[/i]”

“That is not my name.” Renko growled, “I have told you this already.”