IX.

Revelation

Billy no longer lifted his head when they entered.

There wasn't any point. He couldn't escape. He couldn't fight them. He could barely even move even if he tried. He was weak and hungry and tired and in pain, though all his injuries and breaks were impossible to distinguish from all the other pains that wracked his shattered body. Like a hundred individual noises that merged into a wall of solid sound.

He didn't lift his head when they entered. He didn't struggle when they grabbed him and hauled him from under his arms, dragging him so his knees and feet scraped against the floor. He whimpered when they wrenched his dislocated shoulder, cringed, but made no sign of resistance.

He knew what came next.

And he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

-o-

Pain.

The source didn't matter. Whether it was the thick-necked Lieutenant or the Commander or any other faceless uniformed tormentor. The method didn't matter. Beatings. Lashings. Shock. Drowning. Burning. Breaking. It all became the same. In the end, Billy was always dumped back into his dim and stinking little cell to curl up, throat raw from screaming, alone with his pain.

He didn't have the energy to move from where he lay, apart from the slight shifting required to remove his weight from his gruesomely displaced shoulder. Didn't have the motivation to redistribute the tattered remains of what had once been a suit in a way to preserve his dignity. Didn't have the strength to do anything other than lie and wait.

Once, he'd waited for rescue. Waited and hoped and promised himself with quips and reassurances that his team would come for him. That he'd escape, and he'd go home and live the rest of his life with this as nothing more than a bad memory.

Once, he'd waited and hoped.

But then hope had dwindled and flickered and wasted away into nothing. His team never came. There was no rescue. In all likelihood, he'd been written off by the agency as dead and eaten by wolves. And even if he were to escape by some miracle, his body was too broken for him to be of any use. His old life was gone. Sometimes he mourned it. But that was the truth of it. Hope had been a cruel illusion that he had clung to, and he'd probably caused more torment to himself by doing so than his captors had ever inflicted.

Once he'd waited and hoped.

Now, he just waited. Because sooner or later his body would give out – starvation or exhaustion or infection or any other host of things that had been slowly wearing him down would finally prove victorious over his fragile life. Dying was the only available escape, the only realistic end to the story. Eventually he'd shuffle off this mortal coil and his body would be dumped unceremoniously in an unmarked grave and that'd be the end of it. The only way it would all finally stop.

And the one consolation he had was that when he died, he'd take his secrets to the grave with him.

Because he'd lost his health, his body, most of his sanity, his friends and his dignity and his hope...

… but the one thing he had, the one thing they hadn't been able to take from him, which he'd clung to even after he'd let go of everything else, was his integrity as a spy.

Billy had his secrets.

And nothing else.

(The rest was silence.)

-o-

Michael checked his watch. He tried to be discreet, but it didn't matter. Casey noticed anyway.

"He's late," Casey observed, tapping his foot absently. They were at the airport, waiting at the gate. They had a flight to Poland before they got into Prensk with an aid organization under the pretense of being relief workers. It was a hasty cover, but it would hold, provided they made their flight.

Michael pursed his lips and looked back up at the crowd of people. "He'll be here."

Casey shrugged coolly. "You need to have a talk with him."

Michael turned, glaring at him. "About his timeliness?"

"About Billy," Casey returned bluntly. "He's not letting go the way he needs to."

Eyes narrowed, Michael kept his temper as even as he could. It was late and he was tired; this mission was high stress and last minute, neither of which was helping Michael's mood. "You mean because he actually still cares?"

"Caring is irrelevant," Casey told him. "He needs to focus. He can't have distractions right now."

"Billy's our teammate-"

Casey held up a finger. "Was our teammate-"

Michael's frown deepened. "He's still our friend."

"He's a liability," Casey said. "And we all know Morovia is a country we can't afford liabilities in."

Michael worked his jaw. "We can't all be heartless bastards, Malick," he said. "That's your job."

The insult didn't seem to bother Casey. "I'm just reminding you that we have to have priorities."

"We do," Michael said. "We just don't all agree that cutting Billy out entirely is the best solution."

"It's the only solution," Casey said.

"Keep telling yourself that," Michael said.

"And you think having a wayward operative is a good thing?" Casey asked pointedly.

"He's not wayward," Michael said, eyes on the crowd again. He nodded forward smugly. "See, there he is."

He said it with confidence, but the fact was, he felt mostly relieved. Rick was never late, especially when it came to missions this important. He wasn't sure what Martinez might try to do, but he actually agreed with Casey: he wanted Rick focused on this mission. Michael had already lost Billy to Morovia. He didn't intend to lose another operative.

Not that Casey had to know that.

Not that he could actually hide it.

Fortunately, Rick was approaching at a fast pace, so Michael didn't have to dwell on it any longer. Instead, he gave the kid a once over. "You're late," he said.

Rick straightened his jacket, setting his carryon down as he took the chair next to Michael. "Yeah, sorry," he said quickly.

Casey snorted.

Michael ignored him, focusing on Rick instead. "Everything okay?"

Rick looked back at him, and their eyes met. "No," he said, plain and honest.

Michael's stomach fluttered; he wasn't sure what to do with that answer. Hell, he was barely sure what to do at all.

But Rick shrugged, settling back down and looking out over the airport. "But I'm ready to go."

Michael took a breath and nodded. "Good," he said, taking another breath and pushing back his doubts. Really, there was nothing else to say. Nothing else that he could let matter at this point. "This whole thing will be over before we know it."

It was a lie, of course, because Michael was a proficient and unrepentant liar. But really, no matter how well this mission went, things would probably never be over.

-o-

When Billy woke, he wasn't sure what time it was. Looking about blearily, he noted that the TV was on low, an infomercial still showing on the screen.

Frowning, he pushed himself upward and immediately regretted it. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he blanched, fighting to keep it under control even as his head started to pound. He laid very still for a second. If he couldn't remember the time of day or night, he could still remember the whisky.

The whisky. It had been cheap but it had gotten the job done. After his visit from Rick, he'd decided that more than a nice buzz was in order. He'd opted for drinking his way into oblivion.

Opening his eyes, he looked around the flat wearily. At least that was one thing he'd succeeded at.

Slowly, with calculated effort, he levered himself upward and sat back gingerly. The pounding in his head intensified, but really, it was nothing but a tickle. If he could survive a Morovian torture chamber, then he could survive a bloody hangover. All to his utmost chagrin, of course.

There was no rest for the weary. Or the drunk or the broken.

But this much wasn't his fault. He'd already endured unsaid amount of torture. He was under no obligation to endure the heartfelt pleas of the new guy. As if Billy needed Martinez to remind him again and again what he'd given up, what he'd never get back. The kid would be better off without him anyway. And Billy would be better off without them, in the long run. There was no need for pretense. No need for anything.

Though, really, Billy would be better off dead. Since that was apparently not a ready option, he would settle for drunk.

His stomach roiled and he half considered bolting for the bathroom. But he was too lazy to vomit. Some food might help to settle it but the mini-fridge was a good five feet away and Billy was uncertain that his legs would support him that far.

And really, all such measures would do was keep him sober.

His mates were off and about in Morovia. Moving on. Sobriety was entirely overrated.

Grunting, he wondered if there was still enough whisky for breakfast. He vaguely remembered tipping the bottle back and spilling some down his shirt front but surely he hadn't managed to drink the entire thing.

Fumbling, he lurched forward, picking up the glass and squinting at it. It was empty, but he'd given up the glass soon after Rick had left.

He shuffled things around, knocking a tub of leftover rice on the ground. He scattered wadded up napkins and a pile of books fell on the floor. The change in position agitated his stomach, and he had to brace himself heavily to stave off the nausea.

Sitting there, he breathed with force, ignoring the way his arms shook. He felt weak and lightheaded. Shock or exhaustion or just hunger; it didn't matter. Nothing would matter with a bit more to drink.

Hands trembling, he saw the bottle on the floor and picked it up clumsily, grinning. "There you are, mate," he crooned at it, almost losing his balance as he bent. His hand slipped on the table, sending the file to the floor in front of him, papers spilling out.

He stared at it for a moment, one hand still braced on the table, the other wrapped around the bottle. The clean, white pages. State secrets, smuggled out and spilled in front of Billy. That seemed appropriate suddenly, far too appropriate.

His life was lonely and miserable but still not without irony.

At least, these spilled secrets were ones he could still put back.

"If only it were actually this simple," he mused with a bitter huff, as he took another drink and tossed the papers one by one back on the table.

-o-

On the ground, there was no time to get settled, which was really for the best as far as Michael was concerned. They checked into the motel, did enough to establish their cover, and while Rick and Casey set up the room with the appropriate communication and surveillance equipment, Michael stole out for one last meeting with Illyich.

The shop was no busier than before, and the street was still mostly deserted. One of the windows in front was boarded over, but the open sign was still turned forward.

The bells tinkled when Michael entered, but Illyich wasn't there when he came in. Curious, Michael slowed his pace, sweeping the store's front room visually. Cautiously, he moved closer to the counter. When no one came to greet him, he rang the small bell.

There was a rustling, and Michael tried not to show how tense he was when Illyich finally came out.

He'd gotten to know Illyich better than he cared to over the last year, so it was pretty easy to see that the other man was not faring so well. He looked older than the last time they'd met - hair grayer and posture just starting to slouch. When he saw Michael, there was immediate recognition, but it took him a long moment to smile. Even then, it didn't seem to reach his eyes.

"Old friend," Illyich said. "I did not know if I would see you again so soon."

Michael gave him a look. There was something different in this, something just slightly off. The words were right, but the tone wasn't what he'd come to expect from Illyich. Slimy, overly exuberant and conniving, yes. But reserved and downcast, not so much.

"From our last visit, I assumed things were pretty pressing," Michael said. "Speaking which, that site is still good as far as you know?"

Illyich nodded, but his gaze didn't quite meet Michael's. "Yes, yes," he said. "Nothing has changed." He paused, looking up hesitantly. "You are to go, then?"

Michael nodded. "We're considering a run," he said. "Seems like you're ready for this insurrection to be over."

Illyich sighed. "I told you. War is no good for old men," he said. "And I am feeling very old these days. Very, very old."

Michael attempted to smile. "Well, hopefully not much longer then," he said. "If you have nothing new for us..."

Illyich shook his head. "No, no," he said. "Nothing new. But the dangers - they are serious, yes?"

"Thanks for the concern," Michael said, a little bemused. "But we know what we're doing."

Illyich's brows knit together. "You are sure?" he asked.

"Of course," Michael said.

"What of your friend?" Illyich asked. "The tall one. From Scotland."

Michael swallowed hard, but there was nothing but actual concern in Illyich's eyes. Uncertainty, wariness, and actual concern. "He's okay," Michael said finally, offering the partial truth for what it was worth. He cocked his head. "What's with the sudden concern?"

Because it was sudden, just like the shift in Illyich's behavior. Just like the emptiness of the shop, the ready acquiescence.

Illyich offered him a feeble smile. "Curious," he said. "I like to think that the good guys win sometimes, yes?"

Sometimes, but not always.

This time, though. They had to win this time. They could never make what happened to Billy better, but maybe they could make it so it wasn't in vain.

"We've got this one under control," Michael said. He nodded around the store. "Hopefully business will be back and booming in no time."

Illyich looked around his shop. "Yes, yes," he agreed. "That is what I've been trying to do. That's what I thought matters."

Michael sighed, reaching into his wallet. "So tell me," he said. "What fine product do you think I need to buy today?"

Illyich lifted his hand and waved it in the air. "Take what you want," he said. "This time, it's - how do you say? - on the house."

Michael gave him a look. Things were getting worse in Morovia if Illyich had lost his competitive edge. It was clear that Illyich wanted this to be over. In truth, he wasn't the only one.

Still, Michael pulled a few bills out of his wallet and laid them down. "Things will be better soon," he promised. "You'll see."

Illyich smiled at him. "I hope so, my friend," he said, looking sadly at the money. "I hope so."

-o-

Billy didn't mean to look.

He was trying to put the papers back on the table without spilling the rest of his whisky. It was all making him rather uncoordinated, especially since he had no desire to sit any further upright if he had his preference. It would have been easier to leave the file on the floor, but when Rick finally got his senses back, the lad would want them back and spare himself an internal review and possibly a reprimand.

But as it was, Billy was making a bigger mess than before, and as the papers flittered off the other edge, he realized it would less effort to just sit up than it would to keep at it in this haphazard approach.

With a groan, he straightened, bending over much to his stomach's many protests, retrieving the bulk of the papers in his stiff hands. He'd been neglecting his exercises, and it showed, and he winced as he did his best to straighten the papers into something resembling a pile.

The order was all off, though, and the page on top was an intelligence profile of an asset. The words were too small to read in the dimness and given Billy's unfortunate state of quasi-drunkenness, but the photo was unmistakable.

A grinning, fiendish face, with bright eyes and bushy gray hair.

Illyich.

Billy's breath caught in his throat and his stomach twisted with fresh intensity.

A cobblestone street with a late summer breeze. The hairs on the back of his neck-

Prickled. His skin crawled and he tried to breathe, tried to breathe, tried to-

The smell of hand-rolled cigarettes and the taste of a cool drink while the people walked on by. It all had a certain amount of-

Character. These were details he knew, details he'd wanted to forget, details he'd last spoken in an interrogation chamber with a cattle prod jabbed into his side, the voltage so high his teeth chattered and his vision turned white as he told them everything he knew, everything-

There was an old bridge and a gentle river. "Rest easy, mate. I'm a-

Professional. This had been Billy's job, this had been the mission. The last mission, the only mission, the-

Illyich was nervous man. "The intel was good?" On his way out, he met Billy's-

Gaze. Eyes locked, knowing. Illyich had known, even when Billy hadn't. Illyich had known-

Billy wasn't alone in the alley. He took a left turn. Then a right, zigzagging within the labyrinth of old and narrow streets in hopes of shaking off his tail. Left, right –

But there was nowhere to go. Billy was face to face with his worst enemy, the thing that had taken everything from him. His job, his mates, his sense of self. Everything. And Billy wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. He wanted to drink all the alcohol and take all the pills. He'd tell them everything they wanted. Anything, at all, just to avoid this. But there was nowhere to go. No escape-

– dead end.

Tears burned Billy's eyes, his throat so tight it hurt. Dead end. Dead end, dead end-

This time, there was no place left to go. No defense left to mount. Just one last dead end that Billy was left to face alone.

-o-

Michael had never been overly fond of Morovia. He'd lost most of his sympathy for the country when one of his own was abducted from the cobblestone streets and tortured to the brink of death. But, on this journey, Michael was struck that time had not been kind to anyone in the country.

The population seemed depressed, and fewer people braved the streets in their business garb. There were noticeably more beggars, and a growing number of evident dissidents, some more articulate, some more inclined to pull a gun and start firing if provoked. Illyich's behavior wasn't particularly strange given this climate. General Vereychek apparently didn't just approve the torture of capture foreign agents and suspected enemies of the state; he seemed inclined to gain control of his country by destroying the morale of his own people.

To Michael's mind, it was just more reason for the son of a bitch to go down.

In this, he was thorough. The entire team was armed with cameras and notebooks. As aid volunteers, they were mostly left alone on the streets, even by the armed soldiers on patrol throughout the city. They took pictures wherever they could, documenting the growing poverty, the increased destruction, and the disruption of normal life.

They had a growing pile of incidental intelligence before they even launched their assault. None of it was exactly actionable, but the UN liked to humanize conflict before they acted. These images might not sway a government to act, but they would have some impact on the worldwide understanding of Vereychek's potential rule and the inevitable humanitarian disaster that would ensue.

Of course, for Michael, there was only one reason why bringing stability to Morovia mattered. And that was Billy, alone in his motel room back in the States. They couldn't save Billy anymore, but maybe they could make his loss matter.

Michael wasn't so blind to know this wasn't just for Billy, though. It was for him. Their failure to save Billy would cripple them, and undo everything Michael had worked so hard to build. Higgins wouldn't have to disband the ODS if they failed this mission; they'd fall apart all on their own.

So the stakes were high. For Morovia, for the ODS, for Michael.

This was why Michael was in rare form. His efficiency impressed even Casey and his forethought had Rick scrambling to keep up. By the time they were ready to head out to the location Illyich had indicated, it was the most prepared Michael had ever been.

He'd scouted the area, checking the access roads. He'd documented the nearby activity and charted potential emergency extraction points. He had everything in order, and he'd briefed Rick and Casey twice a day with the same, simple plan.

And he had to just hope like hell it was enough.

As it was, it was too late now. They were in the car, parked at the designated warehouse two miles out. It was the best shelter they would have before reaching the site, and going by foot would provide them a better chance at stealth in case they needed it.

Parked, Rick and Casey set to work. Rick was gearing up, checking his camera and his folders as he repacked his bag. Casey had gone around to the back, pulling out the spare tire and rolling it around. "This seems like a waste of time," he muttered.

"They're not exactly laid back in Morovia," Michael reminded him. "We need our cover to be impeccable. No lapses."

With that, he took his pocket knife, slashing the rear tire. The car listed, the air hissing explosively.

Casey came over, now with the jack. He made a face. "And you think they're going to demand evidence of a blown out tire?"

"I think they're going to be curious that we requested a visit to an outlying township and then didn't show up all day long," Michael said. "Car trouble is a viable excuse."

Casey grunted, setting about to changing the tire. "Except that we can change a tire in two minutes," he muttered.

Michael watched his progress, shrugging. "Aid workers come in all types," he said. "We're entirely too focused on serving the good people of Morovia in their struggle with democracy to worry about simple life skills."

Casey scowled but didn't argue. Rick came around, shouldering his pack now. "I think we're good to go."

"Batteries all charged?" Michael asked.

"On all the cameras," Rick confirmed. "And I have a few back up ones, just in case."

Michael nodded his approval. "Good," he said. "We'll want to take whatever we can grab and take pictures of what we can. This isn't a time to be discerning. Assume everything is important. We'll sort out the irrelevant details later when we make a formal file to pass along to the UN and other international concern organizations."

With a nod of his own, Rick wet his lips. "You sure we'll be cleared for the walk over?"

"As clear as we're going to be," Michael confirmed. He glanced at Casey, who was tightening the bolts on the spare tire. "You ready?"

Casey looked up at him, hands moving efficiently. "This is a total waste of my skills," he said.

"Yeah, well, cheer up," Michael cajoled. "We're about to do real spywork here, just like you want."

Casey finished, pushing up and offering Michael a dark smile. "About damn time," he said. He reached down and snagged his own pack. "So what are we waiting for?"

"Nothing," Michael said, because none of the rest mattered now. Not the people on the streets, not their need for vindication. Not even Billy, depressed and broken, in a motel room back home.

Just the mission.

For better or worse, there was only the mission.

-o-

Billy read.

It wasn't necessarily a choice; it was more like a compulsion. A sadistic form of self-torture. One word after another, making sentences, filling pages. Details that made up a story. A story that had cost Billy more than he had known he could lose.

The worst story-

It started in Morovia. The country was small and unstable, broken off from the former Soviet Union. Its position and relative instability had made it a safe haven for a variety of questionable activities. The CIA had been establishing a network there for years, keeping track of a wide range of fanatical groups in an effort to control one of the region's major supply routes.

-they were just about ready to go home. Rick had drawn the short straw, and Billy was the one who got to pay off the asset. He was free of dirty socks and got to indulge in one last drink, one last breath of fresh air. The last one. Last-

The country had been ruled by Boregrev, a dictator using a loose guise of democracy by calling himself a president and being elected by rigged ballots. He'd stayed in power for years, and much of his control had come from his paramilitary attack dogs, the Narodny Dzida.

-they weren't officially part of the military, but they were still an established network. People feared them and whispered about their methods. When people disappeared, the Narodny Dzida was often to blame. Not just folklore. But cold, hard cells and blood-stained interrogation rooms and-

When Boregrev died, the entire country lapsed into disarray. The suddenness of the death left no clear transition plan in place. While some groups had struggled to push democracy forward, other groups had not been so inclined to wait. They saw the weakness and pounced.

-and they did whatever it took. Beatings and flogging and drowning and burning. Their methods were precise, not always in execution, but in the theory. Water on stone, wearing away until there was nothing left, nothing-

The coup put General Vereychek in power, and much of his control was directly attributed to the Narodny Dzida. Though the shift in power was tentative, Vereychek was maneuvering the Narodny Dzida into solidifying control. Soon, there would be no turning back for Morovia.

-some things that broke couldn't be fixed. Buildings could be built, but countries were harder to restore. Bones could mend, but the soul-

Any attempt to depose Vereychek would be an unsanctioned act of war. An assassination was too dangerous. The CIA was about intelligence, and intelligence could make a mission.

-intelligence could break a mission. It could break a man. It wasn't supposed to break a spy-

They needed this mission. They only had one asset left in the region. The rest had been dismantled.

They didn't say why. They talked about setbacks and compromises, but they didn't say why. They didn't talk about abductions in alleyways. They didn't talk about three months of torture. They didn't talk about state secrets being wrenched from a broken man, one piece of information at a time.

One piece of information at a time. It made an impressive file. A frightening file.

It wasn't so impressive when it was lived.

They couldn't fail in Morovia. If they did, all would be lost.

Billy knew about that. He knew what it was to lose everything. He knew what it was to fail.

His team was going to fix it. His team was risking everything to clean up Billy's mess. They couldn't fix Billy, but they were going to fix what he'd broken in his weakness.

It was his fault.

It was his fault.

And suddenly, he wasn't in his flat anymore. He wasn't on his couch, half drunk in the States. He was there-

In the cell, stinking and starving and wasting away to nothing. He was nothing. A broken, pathetic man who had betrayed everything he'd ever believed in, everything that mattered. They had abused him and hurt him and taken his dignity, but it was Billy who had given the last bits of himself over.

It was Billy who had given in.

He'd let them win.

Breaking was nothing more than unconditional surrender. Talking was nothing more than unmitigated defeat.

Breaking. Surrender. Defeat.

Billy stared at the pages until the words ran together, until he couldn't even see. He stared until his hands trembled and his throat constricted. He stared until the sobs came, tearing out of him, and each tear that was wrenched from him hurt more than the last.

This wasn't a file documenting a mission.

This was a file documenting Billy's failure and its immeasurable cost.

And nothing else.

(The rest was silence.)

-o-

Their advance went well. In fact, it went off without a hitch. They cleared the remaining distance with no sign of danger, and when they reached the fenced exterior, Michael was almost unnerved by how easy it was.

But this was why he had planned. He had set up this mission flawlessly. He just hadn't expected it to go, well, flawlessly.

There wasn't much he could do about it, though. It wasn't like he could abort the mission because it was going too well. That was failed logic, even for the ODS.

Still, as they seamlessly infiltrated the fence, Michael's senses were on alert, keen to every passing element. He listened to the sound of rodents scurrying away, the sound of long forgotten trash blowing across the cracked cement in the wind. There was a whistling noise through the darkened windows. It was unsettling, but not to be unexpected. It all fit with Illyich's description of the place: an abandoned arms facility.

The doors were locked, but Rick made short work of them. Billy would have been proud...

Michael didn't let himself think about that. He couldn't. He had to think about the mission.

On the inside, he nodded to Casey, who hung back to take the rear. Rick stayed in the center, gun drawn, while Michael edged around to take point. From here, they were mostly flying blind. The satellite shots had given them a good sense of the exterior, but the interior layout was unknown to them. Michael had to trust his instincts as he led them through the hallways, snaking his way along until they got to a large open area.

It was darkened, with crates and boxes askew. There were two large garage doors on the far end, which indicated this was a shipping and receiving area.

Casey fanned out instinctively, scanning the perimeter while Michael worked his way forward. Rick moved center, and within a few short minutes, they all came to the same conclusion. The place was clear.

Vacant though it seemed, Michael found himself struggling to let his guard down, keeping his gun drawn even as Rick holstered his, trading it for his camera as he approached one of the nearest containers. He moved the lid, looking inside.

"Empty," he said, shifting through the packing material inside.

Nearby, Casey had picked up a clipboard, flipping through the attached pages. "But not completely cleared out," he said. "They left one of the manifests."

Rick moved closer, unshouldering his pack as he glanced it over. His eyes went wide. "That's some heavy duty weaponry," he said.

Casey snorted, flipping another page. "Nothing like what we picked up with our sting operation during our first mission here," he said.

Michael frowned, crossing the distance but keeping his gun out. He glanced over the list, too, making a face. "We'll definitely want to take that," he said. "That kind of list goes beyond simple military protection."

Rick had veered off, going through another crate. "These aren't just packing crates for weapons," he said. He nodded down to a small, metal box. "This looks like it was for medical supplies or something."

Michael walked over, his stomach going cold. "Or chemical agents," he said.

Casey joined him. "Biological warfare," he said.

Rick gaped. "There's at least several hundred cases of this stuff," he said.

Michael nodded. "Take the pictures," he said. "Get a good look at the scope. And keep looking. Let's see what else they've got in the works."

From there, they worked in silence. Each discovery was documented. From the crates, they could make out the number of weapons and with the various manifests they found, they were building a good picture of exactly what capabilities the Narodny Dzida had.

Well, not a good picture. But a complete picture. Michael had known this group was dangerous, but none of their intelligence had suggested that they were operating at this level, that they had this much firepower. They had had a comfortable position with Boregrev's backing, but these shipments weren't old. They had known the arms trade went through Morovia, but this was starting to look less like a stopping point and more like a point of origin.

In the back of the room, Michael got to the office area. Carefully, he opened the door, keeping a mindful eye on his teammates, who were still scouring the loading bay.

The office was in disarray. There was still a desk and a chair, but the top drawer was open, the keys still inside. They'd left in a hurry, just like Illyich had said. The top drawer was cleaned out, as were the ones below it. But on his way out, Michael noted the closet. Curious, he opened it, surprised to find more filing drawers.

They were full.

The top few were more shipping manifests, some dating back several years. There was a drawer filled with files from other transactions - food shipments and vehicle repairs, a few requisitions for uniforms and recruiting papers. They'd want to take these with them, for sure.

He was about to go get Rick and Casey, when he opened the last drawer.

His Russian was rusty, but the rough translation wasn't too hard.

Intelligence Files - Duplicates

Frowning, Michael pulled open the first file. It was a man he didn't recognize, middle-aged and Scandinavian. The initial photo seemed to be a stock passport photo, but the ones behind showed the man handcuffed. The subsequent pictures showed the man in various stages of undress, evidence of abuse on his body. The accompanying report was a photocopy of a hand-scrawled paper, but Michael made out the gist.

Date of capture. Interrogation tactics. Intelligence gained. Date of death. Place of burial.

Michael felt his breath catch.

These were the files of the people they'd interrogated.

Whatever this place had been, it had served as a centralized location for some of the group's more serious work. The original copies of the intelligence files were undoubtedly stored closer to the place where they'd found Billy - or were destroyed entirely. But if they'd left in a hurry, they would have been more concerned about getting the ammunition and other weapons. And if they thought they might be back, scorching the place wouldn't be a good idea. Especially if they thought their power was growing.

The date for the blond man was four years old, so Michael skipped back. He worked his way through the years, until he found ones from a year ago. There was the woman they'd rescued, and the Russian man. Michael kept flipping until he found what he was looking for.

William Collins, CIA. Former MI6.

The first photo of Billy was taken on the streets of Prensk. He was healthy and whole, complexion ruddy and his suit still nicely trim. In the photo, he was sitting in a chair, nursing a drink, the briefcase by his side and Illyich at his back.

The next photo showed Billy tied to a metal chair. His suit was still in one piece, but he was unconscious, a hand fisted in his hair as his head was held up.

After that, the photos got worse. The bruises started showing up, cuts and welts and burns. His clothing started to get tattered and bloodstained, until it was mostly gone altogether.

Through his burning eyes, the notes were even hard to translate, but Michael made out the highlights.

Captive continues to show defiance, will not confirm or deny anything. Tactics used: beating, whipping, electrocution. Recommend more focused efforts.

The photos got more graphic still. Billy's destroyed back, his hollowed out face. His eyes started to look wild, his figure gaunt. His hair was overgrown, his stubble lengthening into an unkempt beard.

Transfer complete. Sleep deprivation has had a pronounced effect. Still will not confirm or deny. Recommend psychological pressure.

Billy started to look unfamiliar, almost alien. His eyes almost bugged and his fingers were curled. The clothing didn't cover much now, his body was smeared with blood and filth, and the defiance was fading from his expression.

Isolation recommended. At least one week without any light or human contact. Meals once a day.

After that, the photos were almost gruesome. Billy's skin was papery and white, his jaw clearly broken and his hair in clumps. He couldn't sit upright anymore, and he looked exhausted. Broken.

Captive refuses to confirm or deny anything. Execution recommended.

Michael had to look away, forcing air out through his mouth. His fingers were clenching the paper so tight that he was almost crumpling it. He'd known what they did to Billy. He'd seen what Billy had looked like when they found him, he'd been there through the catatonia, the vacancy, the near-suicide and the depression. Billy had told them he'd broken-

But it hadn't told them this.

To know it was one thing, to see it...to see how Billy had been taken apart, bit by bit. To see how he had been stripped of his dignity and his humanity. How he'd been abused and used and still hadn't given in.

He hadn't given in. These notes were over two months into Billy's captivity. He'd lasted two months. Two months of torture, waiting for a rescue that didn't come.

The next photo showed Billy, almost devoid of life. He looked dead, his eyes open but almost unseeing. And the notes were longer now.

Captive has confirmed his identity as William Collins, CIA operative. He has explained his mission in Morovia and delineated the assets in the country. Information has been passed along to the active divisions for containment. He is now very cooperative. Torture tactics are likely unnecessary but do produce immediate results.

Michael was shaking. He couldn't breathe. The last note was clearest of all:

Captive has been exhausted as a source of information. Interrogation was time consuming but ultimately successful. Dispose of as convenient.

And that was that. As if that was the end of the story. They'd taken everything from Billy and left him to die when he was no longer useful. It was beyond cruel. There were no words for it, only Michael had done the same thing.

He hadn't tortured Billy, but when Billy made it clear he wouldn't be a part of the team anymore, they'd left him all the same. He didn't want Billy to die, but he had made no more efforts to help him.

And Billy needed help. Billy deserved help. Spies were trained, but they were only human. In an interrogation chamber, Billy wasn't a spy. He was just a person. He was just Michael's friend.

He was so engrossed that he didn't hear Rick until he came up behind him. "You find something?"

Michael startled, looking up. Casey came in right behind Rick. "What?" Casey asked. "You're having a party and you didn't invite me?"

Michael met his eyes. Met Rick's eyes. "I found it," he said.

Rick frowned. "More information about the group?"

Michael held out the file. "Billy's file," he said. "I-" He cut off, his throat choked. "You both need to read this."

-o-

It was hard to say how long he sat there, staring at the pages. Time hadn't mattered much to him since he'd been rescued, but he hadn't zoned out quite this badly in a few weeks.

But he couldn't help it. The terror was almost paralyzing. Every breath felt strained, his entire existence almost surreal. He'd always remembered, but he'd worked hard to leave those horrors in his nightmares, to separate himself from them. It had cost him all he was, but it had been the only way he could even function day to day.

He had no such luxury now. There it all was, in black and white.

The mission that started this.

The mission that ended this.

He was trembling, and his cheeks were wet even if he couldn't remember crying. He didn't want to remember. He wanted to forget. He would do anything to forget-

The alcohol, the sleeping pills. Anything, anything, anything.

Billy's panic spiked but he found himself immobile. He'd done everything he could to escape but there was no escape. There was no escape.

Just the facts now. The file laid them out, cold and simple and true. Not just the first mission, but this one, too. His friends were going to clean up his mess, starting with an arms cache.

An arms cache.

Billy's mind flashed, almost against his will. He used to be good at this, at making connections, putting pieces together. It came back to him without his consent, not that that should have surprised him. Even his own body, his own mind betrayed him in the end.

An arms cache. The original mission had been an arms deal. Between the Russians and a group of Basque terrorists. They'd finished that mission, nabbed the goods but they'd never found the buyer. They'd wanted to get the intelligence back, to transfer the weaponry over. They'd planned to find the buyers later-

Fingers stiff, he glanced back through the report. They'd never found the buyers. They'd probably never even looked. They'd been too focused on finding Billy...

There was something to that. They should have found the buyers. Basque terrorists were not to be trifled with, but there had been no leads. Like they didn't exist...

He frowned. That wasn't right. Something wasn't right. This file wasn't right.

Because the mission - had been too easy. The Russians had been sloppy and the arms had been almost comically antiquated. Too old for much use in the most current circles of terrorist warfare. A convenient score for America's spooks.

Convenient.

Billy flipped to the last page again. Convenient like an abandoned arms cache. They looked good on paper and made for a documented intelligence gain, but the actionable result was negligible.

Almost too good to be true.

Nothing was too good to be true. Because they weren't good and they weren't true. And the best missions ended in disaster. In a cobblestone alleyway in Prensk-

Like a sacrifice fly ball, to borrow from the Americans. Sacrificing one thing to gain the other. A few outdated weapons for an actual operative-

Billy shuddered.

He was being paranoid. It had been an accident. It had been a slip up. Someone had neglected something, someone had cut the wrong corner. Maybe the bad guys had just gotten lucky. Maybe Billy had just been sloppy-

His heart started to race. In everything, he hadn't considered that. How he'd been captured. He'd been so focused on rescue, so intent on not breaking, that he had figured he could sort out the operational failures later.

But later had turned into much later which had turned into never. Which had turned into Billy, half drunk on his couch, staring at a mission report he wasn't even supposed to have.

It was all wrong. And it had been wrong since the start. It had gone too well. It had been too easy. There was always a price to pay.

All of his senses were alive, his mind working faster now.

What if they'd never found the buyers because there never were any buyers? What if the weapons were just a pittance to draw out some operatives and leave them ripe for the picking?

But there was no evidence of that. There was nothing in the file to indicate that. There had never been any sign of a cover up. They'd checked the intel. They'd vetted it. They'd trusted the source-

Illyich.

Billy froze, his breath catching.

Illyich.

Old friend.

Illyich had provided the intel on the weapons. And Illyich had provided the intel on the ODS' current mission. Michael had said he was the only asset. Billy had assumed the old man had just gotten lucky, but no one was lucky with the Narodny Dzida.

How was it that Illyich was the one who had given this information and he was the only asset still standing?

Old friend.

Billy had sold him out. He could still remember it. He remembered yelling his name, describing his shop, explaining the information Illyich had sold to them and how much they'd paid the man. He'd said it all, right down to his favorite cafe on Prensk's main street, and Illyich was still there.

Luck, Billy told himself. Some people got lucky.

The Narodny Dzida wasn't about luck, though. They didn't leave loose ends. They used you until they were done, and then they left you to die.

If Illyich wasn't dead...

Then he was still useful.

If the man had given them one operative...

Billy's stomach turned violently, and he felt dangerously lightheaded.

Maybe he'd just given them three more.

-o-

They were on the clock for this mission - they had to be back at a reasonable time or their covers would be compromised - but none of them could move. They put the papers down on the desk, standing over them together, going page by page. They could just take it and go, but none of them had it in them.

They couldn't look away. Not even if they wanted to.

Rick started the translation, reading off the simplistic notations in a tinny voice that seemed to echo in the abandoned room. He wavered over the details, choking a little when they described Billy's deteriorating health. Next to him, Casey started to get stiffer, fingers clenching into fists as the report described the methodical attempts to find Billy's weak spot.

When Rick finally read, "Captive probably still hopes for rescue. This is the biggest obstacle in obtaining his intelligence," Casey was trembling so hard that Michael thought he might fall over. Rick broke off, taking a shuddering breath before continuing. "Recommendation: unrelenting, prolonged efforts until hope is futile."

They kept reading, looking at the pictures, seeing the way Billy was worn down - quite literally. They saw him transform from the optimistic, verbose man they'd called a friend to the emaciated, broken thing they'd rescued.

Then, Rick shook his head, turning away. Startled, Michael followed him. "Hey," Michael said. "What's it say?"

Rick turned, and his face was white. He shook his head. "I can't," he said. "What they did to Billy - to make him break-"

"It doesn't matter," Casey said tersely. He was still staring at the papers. "These sons of bitches need to pay."

The sudden weight of the revelations suddenly became clear to Michael. Rick was about to lose control - he looked ready to cry or throw up, maybe both. Casey's indifference had hardened into rage - the most vibrant, unadulterated feeling he'd seen from the other man in months, almost a year.

This changed everything.

And yet, it changed nothing.

Michael gathered himself and went back to the papers. He started collecting them. "Pack as many of the files as you can," he said. "Take as many pictures as you can. I want this stuff to be documented."

"You can't possibly mean we're just going to leave," Casey said, almost seething now.

Michael glanced at him. "If you can find someone to kill here, I won't stop you," he said. "But if we want the people who did this to pay, then we're going to have to go back and regroup and find out a plan of attack."

Casey regarded him carefully. "Our orders-"

"Are to retrieve the intel," he said. "And we are. What we do after that is entirely our own business."

There was a smirk of satisfaction on Casey's face. Rick blinked rapidly, though, still breathing raggedly. "And the file?"

Michael picked up the last of the photos before promptly dropping them in metal trash bin. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his lighter. Reaching down, he flicked it open, touching the flame to the top page. He watched as the fire took, and Casey and Rick drew near as the papers curled, the photos warping as the fire consumed.

"If Billy's having trouble leaving this behind, we'll have to keep helping him," Michael said. "It took them three months to take him apart. If it takes us three lifetimes, we'll stay there as he puts it back together. This won't beat him."

The fire leapt, and the papers turned black and then disintegrated.

"It won't beat us," he said, with a fresh certainty.

They stood there together, watching as Billy's three months went up in flames. It wasn't much, but it was something. It was a start. They couldn't build a future until they burned away the past.

When the fire died down and there was nothing but ash, Michael looked up again. Rick still looked shaky, eyes wet. Casey was focused, expression unrelenting. This time, there was no false hope. No naive expectations. Not everything that broke could be fixed, but some things were worth the effort.

And, God help them all, Michael would make that effort, no matter what.

With that much done, they redoubled their efforts. Quickly, they finished packing, taking a few more photos before gearing up. Then, Michael led them out, moving down the hallways expertly until they reached their exit. Flanking the door across for Casey, he nodded, and they went out together, guns up.

Then, they stopped abruptly.

Because in the glaring light of day was a circle of two dozen armed men, all donning uniforms, with their guns aimed straight at Michael and his team.

-o-

It was a strange feeling, foreign and familiar. But once Billy's mind started working, he found himself unable to stop it.

The intelligence looked good, which was, of course, entirely the problem.

Things that looked good in Morovia, rarely were.

It would be easy to write it off. After all, Billy hadn't been an active member of the CIA in a year now. His skills were rusty, his finely tuned sense of paranoia indubitably dampened. There was a reason he hadn't tried to get cleared for duty, not even in a nominal capacity. He wasn't the same spy anymore. He wasn't even the same man.

There was no way his judgment could be trusted. There was no reason he should be trusted with anything of importance. Old wounds were always more prone to reopening, and Billy had too many wounds to ever be trusted in the field again.

And yet, though he'd spent the last year in pieces, he'd spent so many more before that putting them together. He could take two and two and somehow come up with five when the situation called for it, and, more often than not, he was right.

Sitting there, alone on his couch, unshaven and rumpled and still craving alcoholic oblivion, he knew he was right.

It was the same way people knew they were in love. He just knew. His instincts were still there, hidden and confused much of the time, but still there. Maybe spywork was a bit like riding a bike - a skill one never really forgot.

Sometimes Billy wanted to forget, but the information was too glaring. The inconsistencies too real.

His team - his friends - the ODS - they were in danger.

For a few moments - maybe much more than that - he sat, clutching the papers with that horrifying realization. There was nothing more he could do, after all. Disgraced and disgruntled, Billy had no clout, no feasible means to prove his point. Moreover, what did he actually have to justify his doubts? Just the knowledge of his own duplicity and the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach.

It could be just another flashback. A conflation of horror and trauma brought up by the report that he was redirecting away from himself. It could be a sign of his ever-clear unfitness for normal society.

Or it could be he was right.

But how? And in what way? If Illyich was the one who had sold him out, why had he agreed to work with Michael and the others again? Why hadn't he turned on them sooner? What had changed?

The political situation, of course. The CIA hadn't had much presence in Morovia, and without a concrete mission, perhaps they were seen as benign. Once they wanted to do something actionable, perhaps that was the time Illyich and whoever he might be working for stepped up their game.

Maybe that was why Illyich's information was sparse. A feast or famine, of sorts. Only the feasts were empty calories. Enough to appease the CIA's interests while simultaneously tracking its operatives and gleaning fresh intelligence for the other side.

And Billy had walked right into it. Paid off his own captor. Probably financed his own damn torture.

But what now? Was the location a fake? Would Illyich tip someone off? Would the team make it out of there alive or would they simply be tagged as CIA for future reference?

There was no way to know. But Billy did know that the danger was real. If the report was to believed, the Narodny Dzida were ramping up their efforts. If they wanted to consolidate power, they needed to quickly neutralize outside threats.

Only the Narodny Dzida didn't simply neutralize threats. They exploited threats. Turned them into assets. No one knew that better than Billy.

But, sitting there, he didn't know what he was supposed to do about it.

What he did know, however, was that he had to do something. For his team - for his friends - for the ODS. Because when people were captured in Morovia, the lucky ones just died.

The unlucky few, however - well, time would tell what happened to them.

-o-

They'd been up against bad odds in the past. The ODS had gone toe to toe with small armies of militants, bodyguards, and other heavily-armed opponents, in the face of improbable numbers, and triumphed. But in those instances, they'd been able to employ other tactical advantages.

They also hadn't been ambushed.

Michael could deal with long odds, and wasn't against a little risk, but even he knew when resistance was tantamount to suicide. And when he was surrounded on all sides by men pointing guns at him and his unsuspecting team, he knew his options were limited.

Slowly, he raised his hands into the air. After a moment, Rick, face drained of color, did the same, eyes wide in confusion. For a few seconds, Casey didn't move, and Michael had a fleeting fear that the older operative would snap and try to take on those impossible odds out of sheer rage at what they'd seen in the files. But after an agonizing series of heartbeats, Malick raised his hands in surrender, though murder remained in his eyes.

Michael gave Rick a sidelong glance that, though wordless, remained fraught with meaning. Keep your cover. It was unlikely that they could convince a small army that a few aid workers just happened to be poking around an abandoned weapons cache, but it wasn't impossible either. So long as they kept their covers, they might get lucky.

Might.

Rick blinked, then nodded, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed his anxiety. Michael glanced to his other side at Casey, but the human weapon stared adamantly forward.

Within moments, the militants swarmed them and frisked them. Their hidden weapons and surveillance gear were taken, as well as their cameras and all other equipment that had been critical to documenting their findings for the mission. Orders were barked and Michael let himself be manhandled toward one of the parked Jeeps, feigning an expression of bafflement in order to preserve his cover as a poor, confused aid worker in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn't be sure they'd buy it, but he could be damned convincing. And the confusion wasn't even entirely feigned... the operation had been going smoothly. It had been going well, at least in terms of semantics. They had been thorough and committed and professional, and as someone yanked a black cloth bag down over his head and tossed him into a vehicle, shouting at him in some slavic language, he found himself trying to figure out just where they'd managed to slip up, to be sloppy enough for this to happen...

He reviewed the details of the operation up to that point in his mind during the drive, in part to try to fathom a possible intelligence gap, and in part to distract himself from the cloying smell of the bag, the cold feeling in his stomach, and the rapid rate of Martinez' breathing somewhere close behind him. They bounced over potholes and sometimes something hard and cold and quite reminiscent of the muzzle of a gun poked into his back. He tried to think of any potentially compromising holes in their covers, or anything suspicious they may had done coming in through customs. But he came up blank. All he could think of instead were the grainy photos of Billy's hollow face and twisted hands, images of his friend and colleague beaten and bloodied, tied to a chair while some twistic onlooker chronicled the slow deconstruction of of his humanity with clinically detached notes...

The jeep rattled over uneven ground and distracted and emotionally-compromised as he was, enough of Michael's fevered-brain remained focus to recognize that they were going over the large and uneven cobbles that characterized the northern streets of the city. They were heading back into Prensk, then.

Back toward whoever was in charge.

When the small caravan stopped Michael could hear men moving and the clatter of guns and ammunition all around. He briefly heard Rick's voice pleading that this was "all just a big misunderstand–"

– and then a meaty thud and a grunt as someone struck the younger operative, shutting him up. Michael winced, but knew their best chance was to hold tight until they weren't blind and unarmed and surrounded, and could possibly talk their way out of trouble with someone who had enough authority to be bothered to listen.

He tried to pay attention to their surroundings – to count the paces even with the hood blinding him, so he could backtrack and get them out if the opportunity arose – but the problem with having a fevered brain was that it simply wouldn't shut up. His thoughts raced, from their arrival in Morovia to their latest intel trade with Illyich to the weapons manifests to Billy to how the hell did this happen to where the hell they were being taken to how he was going to explain this all to Higgins and Fay and if he'd even need to, because right now the odds of leaving Morovia were looking pretty slim–

The guards that had been hauling him along, one gripping each arm with enough force to bruise, both let go abruptly, causing Michael to stumble and derailing his runaway train of thought. The bag was removed from his head, and a hand on his shoulder shoved him awkwardly down into a metal chair. Beside him, Martinez was blinking furiously as his eyesight adjusted to the sudden removal of the blindfold, and Casey was gritting his teeth, eyes flitting around the well-lit but spartan and unfinished room, already scanning it for potential points of egress.

Michael began to do the same, but found his gaze drawn instead to the man who was leaning casually against the desk – the only furniture in the room apart from the three chairs the ODS currently found themselves in – hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face. He wasn't young, but wasn't quite old, though his short, neat hair was silver and the corners of his blue eyes crinkled when he smiled. He looked familiar, like a pleasant neighbor or a favorite uncle.

He also wasn't what Michael anticipated, though this entire mission was taking a turn for the unexpected. He'd been prepared for someone brutish like Vereychek. This slim, unthreatening man was oddly unsettling.

Michael cleared his throat. "I don't know what–"

The man's grin broadened and he raised a hand. "No."

Michael blinked. "No?" He looked so damn familiar...

"No," he repeated, hopping up into a sitting position on the desk, looking for all the world like an easy-going college professor about to give a lecture. "You are going to try to say you do not know what this is about, yes? That you are, ah, relief workers, and were all in wrong place at wrong time. Am I correct?"

"It's true–" Rick began to interrupt.

The uniformed man tsked his tongue, cutting off Martinez' protest. "You take very interesting photos for aid workers, if that is the story you are trying to adhere to." He reached into one of the desk's drawers and pulled out a few prints. Even at a distance, Michael recognized the mission intel. "The continuation of this ruse is foolish and a waste of our time. So I say no. No to silly lies. It is saving everyone time and grief; wouldn't you say, Mr. Dorset?"

The use of his name came like a punch to the gut, but Michael managed not to flinch. Even if their covers had been blown wide open, that didn't mean they couldn't get out of this...

… it just meant the odds had gotten a lot worse.

If their covers had been this badly compromised, it had to mean a leak. There was no way the ODS was this clumsy, this sloppy. Someone had betrayed them...

He was still formulating a reply when the door opened and one of the soldiers murmured something in Russian, of which Michael caught the words 'information' and 'commander', but little else. The man sighed, shaking his head. "Yes, yes, give Leonid his thirty pieces of silver and send him on his way," he replied, waving a hand peevishly until the door closed.

Leonid. Leonid Illyich.

"Son of a bitch," he heard Martinez whisper under his breath. Michael couldn't help but silently agree.

They'd been sold out. Betrayed. Handed over to the Narodny Dzida.

And as the relaxed smile reasserted itself on the commander's face, Michael remembered where he recognized the man from –

– Rick flipped frantically through his notes as they looked over the photos on the most recent Morovian intelligence file. "Looks like his name is Rezin. Head of intelligence. There's not much on him, though. Used to be a violinist–"

Intelligence. Michael found himself thinking of those clinical, inhuman notes attached to Billy's file and suddenly the smile on Rezin's face seemed far less avuncular and far more predatory.

"You will forgive the intrusion. I am sadly quite busy, these days, but I am making time in my schedule for you gentleman, yes?" Rezin said.

"We're so sorry to be an imposition," Casey drawled from between clenched teeth beside.

Rezin laughed, and Michael's skin crawled. "Nonsense! It is my pleasure, yes?" He steepled his fingers together and smiled at each of them in turn. "I am having feeling that we are all going to become very good friends..."