Chapter 1 – Andrantomy
The light was a sickly yellow glow that stained the clean patches of the floor. Blood was smeared across the off-white linoleum, orange streaks spotted by dark red droplets. Brown flakes of past offenses skirted around the edges with handprints dashed along the kitchen cabinets. The majority of the blood pooled beneath a wooden chair that sat crooked because of the two cracking hind legs. The man strapped to the chair was bound by an absurd amount of blood-slicked duct tape, limp against the restraints. In the background, a radio flooded the room with the sounds of "Blue Christmas".
The larger of the captors snorted in annoyance, turning to his leader, who was primly seated on the couch. "What now?" the man asked, gesturing to their victim with a snarl of disgust. "He keeps up that bleeding we won't get anything out of him. And he hasn't said much to start with, sir."
The leader brushed long fingers over his uniform, inspecting the crisp green wool with a bland gaze. "This was never about him talking, Kozlov." Settling his cap on his head, the leader stood. His boots clicked against the floor as he stepped closer to the captive. "I was just bored." Grinning, he cupped the captive's chin, bringing the man's face up. The jaw bone shifted, uneven on his fingertips. If Cougar was lucky, the bone was only split in one place. A single dark eye glared upward, the other lost in a swollen mass of blackened flesh.
"He told us all about you, kitten. We were just wondering if you'd do the same. The loyalty seems one-sided, Cougar."
Cougar attempted to growl, but a vicious gurgle emerged in its stead. He spit out a mouthful of frothy blood. A large glob of it landed on Raikov's glove and he jerked his hand back. Promptly, Cougar's chin returned to his chest, too weak to hold his head up on his own. Raikov gave a sniff of disgust. Gracefully, Raikov plucked the soiled glove off with his other hand before cracking it against the side of Cougar's face. The whole business was grotesque. The gloves were dropped to the floor with a wet squelch.
"I think we're done here. Make him feel it. Let's give the dogs a challenge with this corpse." Winking over his shoulder, Raikov strode out of the kitchen and toward the stairs that led to the deck. He didn't bother fighting the gentle grin as he went.
Once his commander left the room, Kozlov returned his attention to Cougar. "More than one way to skin a cat," Kozlov joked, wandering over to the stove. Water was boiling on one of the burners, wooden knife handles stuck out all around the edges. Plucking one up, Kozlov pressed the burning blade flat against Cougar's cheek. Cougar let out a sharp cry, throwing his head back with newfound strength. Red flesh was revealed as Kozlov pulled the blade away. He ran the sharpened edge gently against the abused area, a thin red line appearing in its wake. It was a good test. Returning the knife to its place in the pot, Kozlov plucked up a faintly glowing strip of metal. He eyed it up and down, nodding in approval before he slammed it down against Cougar's thigh. The man found the energy to arch against his bonds.
Burned flesh and cloth was thick in the air. Cougar's already shredded pants seared away. The skin, split from the force of the blow, popped and darkened. Flesh curled away from the source of the heat, widening most in the center. Kozlov pulled the metal away and viewed the eye-shaped wound with muted pleasure. The yell died in Cougar's throat as he sagged helplessly against the duct tape. He panted, the noise rough, echoed by a soft rattling in his chest.
Brow furrowed with curiosity, Kozlov gripped Cougar's chin and forced the man to look up. He glanced between the metal bar and Cougar's good eye for only a moment before he grinned. The metal was pressed against Cougar's tightly shut eyelid. The keen Cougar gave was inhuman as his skin gave way to acrid heat. What didn't immediately turn to ash divided, pulling away from the metal. There was an audible pop, followed immediately by a burst of clear fluid. The fluid sizzled on the bar, transforming into foul smelling steam. Kozlov pulled away slowly and moved to reheat the strip against a bare burner.
Up on the deck, Raikov leaned against the railing. The false dawn lightened the sky, highlighting where the sky met the waves. A hoarse cry wandered up from below deck. Raikov scoffed gently at it, leaning his cheek against his palm. They would be within American waters in a short while, and he hoped the racket wouldn't draw undue attention. Sighing, he opened his eyes to watch the stars dim.
"Oh the things I do for my country," he muttered gently, smiling up at the sky as though it held some fond memory. The boat rocked and all grew quiet below deck.
The helicopter kept low, skimming above the trees of the jungle. The noise was deafening but the lack of it, thanks to the ear plugs, was decidedly more unsettling. Jack's leg swayed, outside the open helicopter side, knuckles white as they gripped the safety handle. Heights weren't his favorite place to be, but he could endure them with a kit. Without a parachute, they made him edgy.
The pilot was young - who wasn't in a war?- but he seemed to be good at what he did. A bit cocky, but that was standard issue for pilots. The vegetation swayed below them. Somewhere down there lay the hidden POW camp, full to its brim with Russian officers that had planned to defect.
If the intelligence was anything to go by, it was a poorly guarded fountain of information on the inner workings of the Kremlin. But the source was questionable, or so Jack had been told, thus a solo mission to scout out the area. If it proved reliable, he was to retrieve who he could and return to the rendezvous point for pick up. If not, well, one man had an easier time escaping than a handful.
The helicopter banked left. Jack tensed, heart leaping into his throat as he slid an inch closer to the edge. The trees thinned beneath them. He rubbed a thumb over the spot on his collar bone where his microphone should have rested. The area was notorious for communication problems, not to mention the nearest base would be too far off to receive any broadcasts, regardless.
A bird leveled off to fly parallel to the helicopter. The helicopter adjusted its course again, and Jack could see the gap in the tree line where he was to be dropped. The bird caught a tree branch in its claws and halted its pursuit of the strange object. Grass and bushes flattened themselves against the earth as the helicopter neared the ground. The landing skids hovered four feet from the jungle floor. The pilot turned in his seat to flash Jack a grin and a thumbs-up. Jack nodded, moving to his feet. Ducking his head down, Jack hopped out of the helicopter, carefully to keep his head low and avoid the blades. He charged into the forest as soon as his boots hit earth.
A moment later the helicopter began to gain altitude, disappearing from Jack's sight. The sound lingered, threading through the trees. Snake disappeared into the forest.
The CIA seal curled and blackened as the fire ate away at the paper. The man gathered up the charred remains, crushing them to ash in his firm grasp. He dumped the ashes in his empty garbage can and tied up the clear bag. The janitor had come and gone before he'd entered the office.
After checking the hallway, he made a hasty exit. The bag was shoved into his jacket pocket as he turned to lock the door behind him. The chipper night staff waved him on, chorusing goodbyes after him. The entire building left unaware that the last trace of Special Agent Ocelot had been erased. His entire existence, as far as the world knew, was a flight of fancy. All evidence that said contrary was ash on the wind.
"Kimba, down."
The large silver and white Siberian Husky didn't bother to lift his head from his paws. Instead, the dog groaned and rolled onto his side. His tail wagged lethargically behind him. From the kitchen, David swore. It was cold enough inside that he could see his breath, but the seventeen year old boy stubbornly refused to turn on the heat. The day wasn't quite half over and he didn't plan to be staying long. He needed to head out soon if he wanted to avoid the calls his mother was sure to place. It had taken David long enough to convince his father to let him stay home for Christmas, he didn't want to risk it by speaking to his mother just yet. After Christmas maybe, but until then all bests were off.
"Kimba, down," the teen repeated. Kimba yawned. David rolled his eyes, cutting the sandwich he'd been making. Kimba perked as his owner entered the room, though the animal's focus was clearly on the food.
"Down."
The dog finally relented. Kimba hopped off the couch and promptly sat down by David's feet. Taking up the recently vacated spot on the couch, David took a large bite of his food. Eating quickly was never a problem. Kimba shuffled closer, until he could set his head down on David's leg. Mismatched eyes looked up pitifully, lingering on the food.
Suddenly, Kimba's ears perked. The dog turned his head to watch as the mail slot opened and letters cascaded to the floor. Around a mouthful of food, David commanded, "Fetch."
Kimba cocked his head to the side, unimpressed. Aggravated, David tossed a scrap of meat in the direction of the letters. When the floor was licked clean, Kimba pawed at the letters briefly. A majority of them flipped up onto their sides and were snapped up in the animal's jaws. Retuning dutifully, the dog sat once more. It seemed he'd grown fond of the mail, however, as his jaw remained closed when David tugged at the envelopes. David tugged again. Kimba made a noise of discontent and didn't budge.
"Fine, damn dog." A sacrifice of the sandwich corner seemed enough to tame the beast, abandoning the mail in favor of turkey. With one hand, David sorted through it. Bill, bill, Christmas card, coupons. Tossing the pile onto the coffee table, David stood. The last of his meal was shoved into his mouth.
The phone gave a shrill cry from the kitchen. Snatching the leash off the back of the couch, David bolted toward the door. He paused long enough to grab his coat and the remaining letters off the floor before he was out the door. Kimba was hot on his heels.
"Car," David grunted out. "We're going to Hal's."
The dog barked once, as if he knew what had been said. Hal had been the one to name husky, determined that David and his father wouldn't simply call the animal 'Dog'. Dave just let him do it. It was certainly easier than listening to the entire story of some white lion.
David opened the door to his sedan. Kimba scrambled over the to the passenger seat, tail wagging furiously in his wake. The car roared to life, smoking in the cold, and pulled out onto the road. It was only then that David gave the other mail a passing glance.
When he came to the second letter, he almost crashed into a tree.
Aaron Millies was written in neat, swooping letters in the upper left corner. In equally tidy scrawl was his mother's old address. With shaking hands, David pulled over to the side of the road. He opened the envelope with a quick flick of his knife and scrambled to get to the letter inside.
Hey brat, it began. The words ignited something in David's mind, and he could almost hear the other man's voice. But it was distant and distorted, crackling like an old radio. The name on the return address made sudden sense. David had no uncles, at least not any connected by blood, let alone any that shared his father's last name.
"Adam," he breathed. Beside him, Kimba whimpered.
The underbrush yielded to the breeze, rustling in subdued discontent. One of the patrol's dogs stiffened. Nose to the wind, the tan animal took a few halting steps away from its handler before the leash tightened. The handler voiced a quiet complaint, noting the other dog's relaxed demeanor.
Alarmed, the dog persisted to struggle against its rope collar. The urgent drone of whining was only interrupted by choked gasps that emerged when the collar appeared to be winning. Its handler gave a sharp tug, dragging the animal back to his side.
The other half of the patrol pressed on without them.
Hidden safely by a small clutch of saplings, Snake slowly closed the camouflage paint kit and shoved it into his left breast pocket. He wiped the last greasy bit of green paint off his fingertips. Hunkered low as he was, catching a clean look of the stray Vietnamese soldier was impossible. Only a column of blocked light could be seen moving between the large leaves and tall grass.
The dog's nails dug into the mud, flinging clumps out behind it as the handler was dragged forward. Lean as the animal was, its master appeared to be having trouble controlling it.
Slowly, Snake slid his pistol out of the holster. The sight caught the edge of the worn leather and Snake bumped a sapling with his elbow in his hurry to free it. The patrolman was suddenly very near, eyes wide as he held the dog at bay. Two blue points bore out at him from a mass of distorted shadows.
An odd noise hissed out from the mass a second before the patrolman's shoulder jerked back. His grip on the dog was released as he made his escape. Another dull impact caught his side, sending the patrolman into the mud.
A third suppressed shot sounded as Snake was knocked onto his back. One arm held across the beast's chest was all that kept eager fangs from finding Snake's face. Hot, foul breath skimmed along Snake's cheeks, untrimmed nails burned into his chest even through the fabric. His arm throbbed, though he couldn't clearly remember being bitten. He pulled his right elbow back, trying to get a clean shot at the animal's head without losing something of his own in the process.
The impact pushed the dog's head back as the bullet tore through its bottom jaw and exited through the top of its head. It didn't die immediately, however, biting at the air for a full minute as its nails curled tightly into Snake's flesh. Ears pinned, the dog spent a spray of blood out with a firm shake of its head before whimpering and sagging onto Snake. The animal's broken jaw pressed awkwardly against his nose.
Panting, Snake closed his eyes and tried to still his nerves. The warm weight on top of him twitched, melting into hot streams of blood that washed away his camouflage. He shoved the body to the side and rolled onto his knees.
"Fuck," Snake swore, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He blinked hard, still unable to see through all the blood.
"No more paperwork," Roy Campbell muttered, plopping another stack of papers in the box labeled 'out.' He dropped the pen like it burned, rubbing at his aching wrist. A flood of transfers and mishandled information created a tidal wave of paperwork. All of them needed at least one signature, and most required upwards of three. Needless, to say, Roy had been cooped up in his office for the majority of the day.
A flashing light on the phone drew Roy's attention. He stabbed at it with his pen as soon as the receiver was off the hook.
"Sir!" came the irate voice of his secretary, "Sir, Mr. Millies' son--"
The oak door flew open, bouncing off the wall with a loud bang. David rushed in, slamming the door shut with equal vigor. He fumbled with the lock as Roy shot him a flat look.
"Is here for a visit? It's fine. Hold my calls." Not waiting for a response, Roy dropped the phone back on its hook. David was suddenly in front of his desk looking quite frantic. A wrinkled letter was cast on the oak tabletop.
"I got this today."
Warily, Roy picked up the letter. His hand tightened involuntarily, further crinkling the aged paper. "Nineteen sixty-five?" Roy read, brow creasing.
"Two months before he went missing," David added. He sat down, standing almost as soon as he was settled. Pacing seemed the best use of his energy. Absently, he reached for a cigarette. Roy cleared his throat. Reluctantly, David shoved his hands into his pockets.
"If you're reading this, my human failsafe to protect your father has been terminated," Roy read. "Inform Campbell, if the fool is still alive, that John is in danger. Tell no one else." He scrubbed a hand over his face. There was a quick note for Roy himself, but nothing else was written. It wasn't signed. "This is the only letter you've gotten from him?"
David nodded, finally planting himself at the edge of the desk. He set his jaw, and Roy saw a glimmer of Jack.
"This is the first I've heard from him since I was ten. The stamp isn't marked."
"Then it wasn't mailed through the post office."
"He's not stupid. Who was his failsafe?"
"I don't know. Not me, obviously. I'd need to call in offsite files, crosscheck recent deaths. Even then--"
"So call in offsite files," David growled. He crossed his arms, hands clenched into fists. "This means he could still be out there."
Roy sighed, "I'll look into it. Just don't get your hopes up, all right? Four years is a long time to be missing, especially considering who he's backstabbed. In all likelihood…" The implications were there in the silence as Roy folded the letter and shoved it in his inner jacket pocket. David gave a curt nod, the motion was choppy at best. "I'll look into it anyway."
"Thanks," David replied stiffly.
Roy nodded. "I'll hang on to the letter. Let's keep this mum for now. I don't need any higher ups catching wind of it and following it back to me. Last thing I need is more of them sticking their noses in what I do."
"Understood." It was serious, they both knew, but David's tone of voice reaffirmed that fact. He sounded old, hoarse, weathered. He sounded like his father, Roy realized. It wasn't a slow self destruct that he needed to see twice. Slowly, the anger and worry that kept David's posture ramrod straight seeped away. Roy watched as David's shoulders sagged.
"The letter is all typed," Roy ventured.
David frowned. His voice was monotone, suspicion only belied by slant of his brows. "Yeah. What about it?"
Roy drummed his fingertips against the desktop. One didn't work for the CIA without becoming wary when things fell into your lap. It was a matter of walking the fine line between caution and paranoia. All precautions had to be taken. Steeling himself, he said, "There's always the chance it's forged. Without a handwriting sample, we're going to have to make this low priority."
David retorted with an indignant, "You're kidding me," before he had time to think about it. Once more, the world was leaving his family to rot. His fist itched to hit something. "What about the name on the envelope?"
"Envelope?" Roy resisted the urge to pull the letter back out of his pocket. It hadn't been in an envelope, he was certain. "You're going to have to show it to me for that to do any good, kid."
"I thought--" Making a noise of frustration, David patted himself down. He pulled a small rectangle of paper from his jeans and straightened it using the edge of Roy's desk. "This? This will work right?"
Roy grabbed David's wrist to still the paper flailing under his nose. He plucked it from David's hand and studied the loops and curls of the lettering on the return address. Finally, he tucked it away in a desk drawer.
"Are you going to your mother's?"
David's mouth twitched. "No," he replied, "I'm staying home this year."
"Yeah? Well, that worked in our favor. I don't want to think about what would happen if your dad," Roy tapped his jacket approximately where the letter was, "got to this first."
"It'd push him over. Knowing Adam made plans like this when the bastard couldn't even save his own ass."
"Dave," scolded Roy at the language, but his heart wasn't in it. David shrugged.
"It's true. Dad's not a big picture guy. He wouldn't get why Adam planned this out years in advance." David turned his back to Roy, physically trying to block the protest Roy would put up. "I know," he snapped. "He gets it, but not on the right level. He's more 'the moment' guy."
"And you're not?"
Pushing off the desk, David headed toward the door. "My father raised no fool." Roy could see the smile in the line of Dave's back. Something told him, Dave didn't mean Jack. "Tell me if you find anything. "
"Will do, kid," Roy agreed, shooting a salute at the other's retreating form. The letter weighed heavier on his chest, but his heart felt lighter.