XXVIII.

Optimus got a bad feeling. Something wasn't adding up. Something wasn't making sense. The American uniforms, for one thing. The fact that all of the orders issued to the Russians were in English, but what little chatter there was was in Russian. The whole scenario—it had bothered Prowl, as well. But it was nothing he could, as the humans said, put a finger on. The Russians were accommodating enough, and certainly a tough group. They had, with a hundred apologies, refused to let the Autobots give them a ride any distance to the Tunguska AO, choosing instead to run alongside. And unlike the Americans, they ran in grim silence. Faster than the Americans—every soldier, fully combat loaded, averaging four minute miles. For miles. Well, he couldn't blame them really for not wanting to get too close to the Autobots. The unknown quantity. But still…just something off about it.

A mile out, they slowed, flattening themselves to the ground, advancing slowly. Surprise seemed the best tactic. Sideswipe had grumbled, but Prime wanted a better idea what they were up against.

"There he is," Sideswipe's voice burst in his audio. Looking where the mech pointed, Optimus saw Starscream's tall figure, gesticulating at a smaller figure. Barricade? The Russians hadn't said he was here. Another thing that simply didn't add up. Sideswipe spotted Barricade an instant later, from his derisive snort. "He'll be easy. Someone else can take him. I want someone worth my time." Sideswipe snicked his blades out of their housings.

"I got him," Ironhide muttered. "Got a bit to settle with that four-eyed freak." He looked over at Flareup, who frowned, but readied her own weapons.

Kozakh crawled over to Optimus. "What now?"

"We want to keep Starscream on the ground as long as possible," Cliffjumper said, from next to Prime. "He's airborne, he's too maneuverable."

"We can rally jets," Kozakh said. "I did mention air support." A slight downward quirk of the mouth, as if mildly annoyed that the Autobots might not have paid attention to his briefing.

"Yes," Prime said. "But I would prefer to keep as many humans out of our fight as possible." He frowned. He'd prefer to keep the Russian soldiers out of the fight, too, for that matter. "I shall engage Starscream." He cut off Sideswipe's protest with one hand. "You and Flareup are the fastest. You should head to the salient and deal with…whoever we have to deal with there."

"Hope it's Blackout," Sideswipe said. "Have yet to kick his skidplate." He gestured to Flareup and began skirting the jet's position.

He made a hand gesture. His men popped up from the light-forest floor. While the Autobots had been talking, Kozakh's men had been creeping along, almost invisible. "We can begin the assault at any time," Kozakh said.

*****

Barricade shook his head. Starscream was still convinced, half-convinced, that Barricade knew more about Skywarp than he was letting on. His own damn fault, really. Broke Ironhide, yeah, but also broke something else. Something that almost mattered. Blackout had said Starscream was jealous of him? Starscream wasn't jealous. And right before he'd left the jet, Starscream had clumsily, awkwardly, tried to apologize. As if telling him about Skywarp made what Barricade had made him to do Flareup all better. Stupid warriors—he'd never understand their moral calculus. Still, time to put on a happy face. Another show, friendly up. Because, yeah, that had worked so well last time.

"A token, only," he said, handing over his handful of junk to Suvorov. Really, a token. Junk. That's what this whole deal is, on both sides, I suspect.

Suvorov wasn't impressed. "What," he said, with some finicky distaste, "is this, my friend?"

Barricade smiled easily. Jerking Suvorov's mind around was just the break he needed from all that Starscream angst. "Small mech," he said, stepping closer, so Pyotr could feel every inch of the difference in their height. And remember, I am a small one, Barricade wanted to say. "Can't exactly fit a planet buster in my undershorts." He snorted at his own joke. He'd have to tell that one to…oh. He didn't have anyone left who was talking to him. "Besides, this is the kind of stuff the Americans got. Apparently nearly went mental at the chance to dissect a limb." Part of his mind flicked back to Starscream, the unwilling donor. Damn jet wasn't exactly a willing donor of anything except his perpetual bad moods. Honestly didn't know why he cared.

Stop it, he ordered himself. Losing focus. Suvorov. The Russian looked at the blackened pile with some distaste—it would probably stain his suit. He turned and nodded to his driver, who began loading the parts into the trunk of his car. Barricade's eyes narrowed. Something was going on here. Suvorov wasn't normally at a loss for words. He watched as Pyotr tugged up the sleeve of his suit—chrono check, apparently—and pulled some sort of face at his driver. The driver ducked into the trunk, apparently busy arranging the junk parts. Suvorov's phone rang.

He made a good show—entirely fake, Barricade realized, but by now he was caught up in the little show they were putting on. Just for him. Didn't he just feel special? He'd puzzle out the why later. Meanwhile, Suvorov's face ran the gamut of looking puzzled, then alarmed, then angry. He snapped his phone shut.

"Time," he said to Barricade, "to put, as the capitalists say, your money where your mouth is." That sounded…unpleasant. Barricade blinked, allowing himself to look bland and slightly stupid. Never outfoxed an enemy with him thinking you were smarter than he was. "The Americans," Suvorov explained, a slight tinge of frustration in his voice. "They are here. With your Autobot enemies."