disclaim ;; I don't own South Park. This story has a gay theme. There is one or two swear words. There is blood. No, you don't get another summary.
Nine minutes.
In every scenario they played out, nine minutes had been the breaking point. Christophe could survive the first eight. This was a certainty beyond any Gregory had ever experienced. Eight minutes and the charismatic young French mercenary was safe as he could ever be, and the young British Revolutionist was as relieved as he ever could be. Eight minutes and one second, and things began to go south. It grew worse with each ticking second.
Two, three, four...
In every scenario, the pair never went over nine minutes.
Russia is a vast expanse of snow and trees at this point in February. Snow, trees, and remnants of the Soviet Union. It is the latter that the pair is here for. Their contractor had been specific about this much. Kill the man behind the Soviet Uprising, Yuri Khrushchev, and they would be funded for life. Gregory didn't usually take jobs like this. He liked to know who was kissing him before they fucked, but it was too much to look the gift horse in the mouth, figuratively speaking. Christophe was never adverse to any idea Gregory had. It was a perk of the unusually talented teenage mercenary.
Ten, eleven, twelve...
Ten seconds past eight minutes has Gregory on high alert. The walkie-talkie laying dead beside his position, his hands caressing the sleek metal of his sniper rifle, he waits. It is another fifty seconds before he has to panic. There is more than enough time. This thought reassures him as he squints down the sight of the rifle. Cross-hairs touching the steel-covered windows, in about the right position, he breathes out evenly. Years of fencing had been useful enough for a gentleman's battle, but to truly be useful in the field, he had to learn another skill. He found his niche easily enough in long distance targets, having the immeasurable patience for a sniper shot that so many people seem to lack.
Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two...
He's getting uneasy now. The radio doesn't crackle with the signal, the steel barricades do not lift from the picture windows. There is no movement from the compound below. The wind and snow is whipping around him and his fingers are beginning to go numb. Seconds are slipping by like grains of sand in an hour glass. Unsettling feelings begin to creep into his stomach, twisting his insides until he can think only of the worst possible outcomes.
"Gregoree? Fucking sheet, Gregoree."
The crackle of the radio startles the blonde, and the sights dip as he reaches for the small black box. He takes only a second to gather himself, to steady his voice. "Mole, is everything alright?"
"Oui, oui, everytzhing ees on target."
Gregory lets his relief out in a whoosh of breath. "Good. I'm in position. You have twenty seconds."
Mole doesn't respond. Gregory sets the radio into the snow beside him, taking up his rifle. One hand slides down the barrel, propping it up, as his other hand reaches for the grip. His finger slides to the trigger, his thumb flicks the safety off. His breath trickles out slowly, evenly, and he breathes in just as calm. Eyes on the locked down complex, he waits for the final stage.
Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight...
Yuri Khrushchev has a right hand man, Ivan Chekhov. Khrushchev keeps the man at his side at all times. The man will take a bullet for him, and is indeed paid for that very thing. Gregory closes his eyes for a brief moment, catching the image of Khrushchev in his mind's eye so he doesn't miss, so he doesn't fail. He opens his eyes to see the steel barricades rattling, lifting from the floor and revealing the windows. Gregory's heartbeat picks up, his finger touches on the trigger, his scope searches for the target.
Nine minutes, one second...
Lifting away, the steel doors reveal dirty fatigues, kneeling on the cement floor, combat boots covered in mud. Gregory's throat tightens. Mole's figure becomes more clear, head bent, hands tied behind his back, shovel laying discarded just out of reach. Two men stand behind him, gun pressing into the back of his head, parting the shaggy brown hair. To this, Gregory feels hot anger flash through him. This is his mercenary they are threatening, his only friend. The sights lift, cross-hairs leveling over the man's chest.
The first bullet rips through the glass as if going through paper. The second bullet follows the same path, skimming the hole made by the first and slamming directly into the man's heart. He hitches, the gun drops from Mole's head, and Ivan Chekhov falls dead to the floor, blood pooling out of his chest.
Gregory realizes his mistake too late. He discharges the used bullets and reloads, cursing himself for his rash actions. Never before has be jumped the gun like this. He's never lost sight of a target. He's never had this weakness before.
They've never had Christophe before.
He allows himself to think in terms of the Mole's real name. He allows it, just this once, because he's already messed up and there isn't much else he can do to make it worse. When he lifts his sight to the target once more, he freezes. Mole is struggling out of the bonds against his wrist, pulling his legs through the loop his tied arms make, trying very valiantly to get to the pistol before the original target can.
Mole knows Gregory has messed up. Gregory can see it in the actions the French mercenary is taking. Khrushchev darts across the room to the bound mercenary, kicking him in the head and dropping to his hands and knees, grabbing for the handgun. The pair scuffle, and Gregory is unable to keep a bead on either of them. When at last they part, Gregory pulls the trigger. Khrushchev buckles as the bullet rips through his stomach, and the handgun goes off. Christophe drops to the floor, and Gregory lets the second bullet pass through Khrushchev's neck, exiting in a spray of blood that, even this far away, Gregory can see.
Trying to hold the sight steady on Christophe's still form, Gregory snatches the radio, trembling. His voice betrays the panic he feels, but he barely cares. Their target is eliminated. "Mole? Mole, answer me!"
Nothing comes over the walkie. Mole's body doesn't move. Gregory abandons his post, leaving the sniper rifle and the walkie, scrabbling down the embankment, sending stones tumbling to the bottom. It takes him precious minutes to find the tunnel Mole used, and even more to travel it. There are two dead Doberman dogs laying at the end of the tunnel, along with a pile of cigarettes. Gregory lets a grim smile cross his face, knowing now why it had taken Mole those few extra seconds. Coming into the compound, his feet touch the pearly white linolium. Instinct tells him to go right, and he does. Coming into the next room, he pauses to take in the scene. Three bodies, one of which is Mole's. None of the three have moved since his journey down the hill, to this spot, and his chest knots up as his stomach plummets to the cold floor below.
Blood surrounds each body, giving Gregory the chills simply stepping into the room. He stops at Mole's side, kneeling and gently taking the mercenary's bound hands in his own. The ropes slip away easily enough, and he swallows hard as he puts Mole's hands back over his chest. The mercenary is covered in grime and blood, looking so peaceful laying out on the floor this way. Pressing two shaky fingers to the body's neck, Gregory's heart jumps as he feels a pulse. Mole's breathing is shallow, the pulse weak, but he is alive and Gregory is overcome with happiness. The bullet passed through the dip between his shoulder and chest, perhaps missing his lung by mere inches. Perhaps not even that lucky, a chilling thought. Gregory rips a portion of Christophe's shirt and presses it over the bloody mess, reaching for his cell phone.
"Gregoree," Christophe breathes, though he doesn't open his eyes or move.
"Christophe, I'm here," Gregory replies, dropping the phone to put one hand over his precious mercenary's calloused knuckles. "I'm going to call to get you out of here. It won't be long now."
Christophe's voice is weak as Gregory picks up his phone, dialing a contact in their organization. "You shot zhe wrong asshole."
"Yes, you needn't remind me," Gregory says thickly, hearing the phone pick up. There is silence on the other end, and Gregory breathes out to calm his voice. The others don't know. They might suspect, but they do not know. "Kyle, this is very important. I need you to send a helicopter to the point... Yes, we finished the job... Medical attention, immediately. Do not waste time."
Gregory drops the call, letting the phone slip from his grip and clatter to the floor. Concern and uncertainty swim in his eyes as he looks down at Christophe, unsure of what to say, if anything at all. Gregory keeps a hand pressing against the wound, stopping the bleeding, but his other hand runs through Christophe's mousey brown hair. The French mercenary opens his chocolate brown eyes, hazy with pain. Gregory tightens his jaw, holding back his emotions.
Their lips meet, briefly, sharing a quiet whisper between them. Gregory feels a hot tear slide down his cheek and feels immediately foolish. Christophe doesn't notice, as he slips into unconsciousness, the taste of their last kiss on his lips.