A/N: Takes place 2 weeks before canon S8. Kevin Wade is still in jail, Hassan is still in Kamistan, etc.
Shit.
Vladimir Laitanan tossed his cigarette to the concrete floor of the abandoned parking garage's rooftop level, crushing the butt with the heel of his shoe.
He didn't have a good feeling about this meeting. His contact had said the money was good, but there were too many unknowns. He had just started rebuilding his organization from the ground up as slowly, his men had trickled back from serving Federal prison sentences, and he wasn't about to fuck things up now.
He felt the reassuring weight of the sawed-off shotgun under his leather jacket, felt the cold barrel of the Makarov pistol stuffed into his waistband. He knew Sergei and Lugo behind him brandished AK-74 assault rifles.
He looked at his watch - 2:00 A.M.
As though on cue, he heard the car, saw a glow of headlights from the direction of the access ramp that wound around the garage's perimeter. The black BMW sedan angled toward him and his men, and Vladimir was forced to turn his head from the blinding headlights as the car came to a stop several yards away from his position. The driver did not turn off the engine when the doors opened, but three men stepped out.
The Americans were well-dressed in black suits, and the two that exited the rear of the car were conspicuously armed just like his own men, carrying what looked to be MP-5 machine pistols. The man who sat in the front was tall, broad-shouldered, black, and as he appeared to at least not overtly armed, was obviously the leader.
He made his way to Vladimir, his men staying behind. The BMW's engine was still running, driver ready for a quick escape if necessary. Closing the distance, he extended a hand.
"Mr. Laitanan? You can call me Smith. I'm sorry we could not speak more openly earlier. But I'm sure a man like yourself can understand my employer's need for discretion."
Mr. Smith. That was, as the Americans would say, a load of bullshit.
Vladimir eyed the man for a moment. "If your employer were serious, why won't he meet with me himself?"
"He is a man who cannot afford to attract too much attention. But he can afford to compensate you generously. Generously to the tune of 20 million dollars."
Vladimir blinked, trying to keep his composure. 20 million? The influence, the infrastructure he could obtain with that kind of money...to do something besides spending the rest of his life selling AK-47's from the back of panel vans...
"So what is it he wants from me?"
Smith held out a small manila envelope and handed it to Vladimir. "This is a flash drive. It contains information my employer says you would find very interesting. Confidential FBI files, he said. Read the files. In two hours they will initiate a self-deletion protocol. Attempting to copy or rename the files will also activate the protocol. There is an index card inside with the drive with a phone number. If you are still interested in working with us, contact me at that number in exactly two hours."
"And what if I'm not interested?"
"You will be, Mr. Laitanan. I assure you, you will be."
Smith turned and headed for his car. As the Americans climbed inside, Vladimir looked down at the envelope. The BMW began to back away, turning, but in the vanishing glow of its headlights he saw two words written in small, fine script.
Renee Zadan.
