Note: I've decided to move Aruni's appearance to the next chapter, as the Road to SI is currently underway and Ubisoft may have plans for her there. I already have something in mind for her, but I'll withhold it for now in case I need to change it.
Chapter Eleven - "Last Chance"
Interstate-80, Westbound
One hour later
…
"…I got that, Twitch.", Ethan spoke into his earpiece, his hands still wrapped around the steering wheel. "Have eyes on the- *grunts*…on the truck stop. Is the coast clear?"
"Meghan says two police cars have pulled over about ten minutes ago. Not sure if they're looking for you but assume the worst…"
It sounded like Rainbow was hijacking the CIA's own Sat-Recon to keep an eye on him. Yet again, the Team didn't lack for surprises.
"…I have Grace here with me to tap into their comms. Don't raise a fuss until we know what's what, over."
"Roger wilco."
He finished his sentence just before he could let out another pained grunt. He hoped that Emma didn't hear it, lest it would worry her even more. The Frenchwoman had been on the radio with him since he left Dickinson County. He, on the other hand, had been driving across empty fields and sparse civilization for a while now, wary of any pursuer hounding his heels, despite his current condition. The brown jacket concealed two barely-bandaged gunshot wounds, positively burning in a deep shade of red if he looked underneath the fabric. He hadn't had time to clean them. Worse, he had a special passenger in his Range Rover. Sitting to his right was poor little Agnes Kipper, still unconscious and unresponsive, slumped in her bloodied medical gown. While Ethan himself was not in any immediate mortal peril, the little girl he rescued was another story. Her respiration was slowed, pulse rate weakened. The truck stop ahead could be a source of salvation.
"How are you holding up, Ethan?", Emma radioed again, her voice more somber and anxious. "The nearest hospital's ten klicks away."
"I'll manage; been through worse. Just need to be smart about my next move, so don't worry."
"Putain de merde (Fucking hell), can you stop with the macho-bullshit?! What you need is a doctor! Are you sure that-"
"Gonna be in and out in a few minutes. You worry about my cover story instead, okay?", he spoke with confidence.
As if the tone of his voice didn't prove otherwise. He felt like shit. Exhausted and battered, with barely enough time to recuperate from his earlier skirmish with the assassins sent by the CIA Special Activities Division. He could've avoided the encounter if he had watched his back better, or if he didn't rush into that burning safehouse in vain hope to find Emily Jacobsen. All water under the bridge at this point, though. Ethan shook himself from his thoughts, tossing the self-blame to the backseat, as he reached the truck stop in due haste. He found a rather innocuous place to park his vehicle, away from the gas pumps and the other attractions. Glancing across the windshield, he immediately saw the two idle police cars that Emma warned him about earlier.
"Police cars" was a bit of a disservice, actually. The silver Dodge Chargers bore the unmistakable yellow shield of the Iowa State Patrol - exactly the kind of cops who would be the first ones set loose by the SAD to hunt a fugitive like him. The cars' seats were empty; presumably the officers have already gone inside the truck stop's convenience store, maybe to ask questions about some suspicious brown-haired guy who might have stopped by. Or maybe they were there to grab something to eat. Either way, Ethan realized he was to play the role of an actor, ditching his guns and gear to make himself look like a typical traveler. He grimaced each time he unbuckled a strap or took off a piece of kit; his chest wound ensured that even the slightest gesture was a quick torture for him. Donning a new top on, he then unrolled the window on Agnes's side and had her wear his sunglasses. It created the illusion she was a kid left behind by her dad to sleep in peace. Hopefully, she would look innocuous enough to attract attention, lest a stranger would see her bloody gown wouldn't.
Let's move. Gotta be quick.
Ethan got out of the vehicle and went inside the store, with a grocery list of items occupying his head. Upon crossing the double doors, he saw that the aisles weren't as busy as he thought they were. Nothing but bright lights and drab music attracted his senses, plus the aroma of morning coffee. He quickly saw the source of the scent: there, huddled in a far corner, were four State troopers chowing down on some grub and sharing laughs. Lucky, he thought. Perhaps an APB was not yet issued in this part of Iowa? Regardless, Ethan took advantage of the relative peace and proceeded to grab all the bare essentials he could reasonably lay his hands on, and was done in a few minutes. Adding to this good fortune, he was also the only one next in line at the cashier. The old lady greeted him with a smile, then went to work scanning his items, after which Ethan handed her a wad of bills while wearing a grin of his own.
Unbeknownst to the cashier, the money was courtesy of one dead assassin's wallet. Ethan ensured that each bill he handed her was not stained with that bastard's blood.
"And here's your change, sir. Have a nice day!"
The well-wishing was lost on Ethan, as he walked away from the counter with a purposeful stride, gripping the bag of hand-picked goodies he'd just bought. Other people then entered the store and walked past him, completely unaware of the fugitive in their midst, bleeding underneath his clothes. The brown jacket and dark shirt did a lot to hide the growing red stain on his chest, but his leg was a different story. He could still feel the bullet graze burn as his skin rubbed against the denim. He tried his damnedest not to limp while double-timing it.
Rather than head back to the Range Rover parked outside, Ethan made a detour to one of the outdoor public restrooms in the truck stop. It was a dank and stinky place, in contrast to the soapy smell of the convenience store, but would nonetheless suit his purpose well. Fortune smiled on him once again, as there was nobody else inside. Finding an empty stall, Ethan locked himself in and took out several items from the paper bag. A bottle of whiskey, medical gauze, scissors, and a bottle of painkillers. He removed his jacket and bloodied shirt, wincing in pain as he went, then took a moment to observe the bullet wound on his chest. He gritted his teeth as he peeled away the makeshift-bandage of paper towels and sticky tape, revealing a mulchy, reddish hole that was still oozing out blood.
Lodged within was the rifle round that nearly killed him. Ethan needed to remove it before infection set in. He took out a handkerchief and stuffed it into his mouth, a preemptive measure to help him grunt in silence. Then he popped off the whiskey bottle, tilting the lid close to his wound.
He took a deep breath.
Fuck me, this is gonna hurt…
…
*toilet flush*
Ethan got out of the stinky stall, looking rather flushed and dazed. Any damning evidence of his self-surgery was already spiraling down the toilet bowl, but his problems weren't over. Reeling from his exertions, he made his way to the sink to freshen himself up with a splash of water, for whatever good it did to him. Pain once again wracked his body, prompting him to open a bottle of painkillers and chuck one pill into his mouth. It would take time for the drug to take effect.
That was when he heard sirens from the distance, followed by screeching tires. His earpiece then rang with Emma's panicking voice.
"Merde, you have incoming! Four more police cars are converging on the truck stop!"
"Are they State Patrol?", he asked.
"No, they look like SWAT. I think they're… they're setting a roadblock on their side of the highway."
"Ah, fuck."
His gut sank. He had been counting on the cops' sluggishness for his getaway. Now, the west and eastbound lanes had just been cut-off, or about to be. All the more reason for him to wrap things up before he got cornered. After taking a deep breath, Ethan immediately exited the restroom, his grocery bag held by one hand. Sure enough, there they were: heavily-armed cops in black and blue overalls, hustling and barking orders at one another. The four State Troopers inside the convenience store had finally gotten off their asses too, helping their fellow badges secure the surrounding area. Some started their sweeps, others began erecting steel barriers on the asphalt outside of the truck stop. All of them were on the prowl, hoping to find their quarry.
Ethan kept his cool as he carried on, forwards. He hoped his charade as a truck stop customer would still hold up.
"Twitch, I got the goods with me, headed back to the vehicle. How's my cover?", he whispered into his earpiece.
"Still working on the script.", she immediately responded. "I'm building an AI avatar, Grace is still tapping into the cops' private comms. Give us thirty seconds, over."
Avatar?
"Copy that."
It sounded like an odd list. But any questions he had about it were immediately filed away; his priority was getting out of the cordon forming around him. He reminded himself again to trust on his support crew. On Emma, most of all - running communications and satellite intelligence in an op wasn't exactly a job fit for a former GIGN engineer, but she was handling it like a pro so far. Meghan would've been proud of her friend, if only she wasn't indisposed at the moment. The SEAL was probably taking phone calls left and right to help him out of this terrible bind.
And what a bind it was, as it seemed that his exit window was about to get even tighter. As he hopped back to the Rover's driver seat, he saw a group of heavily-armed cops approach the truck stop's other customers, greeting them in one moment, then asking for their licenses and IDs in the next. Some of the civies looked scared, others were calm. All of them cooperated. Meanwhile, the checkpoint on the road was already in business, stopping a pickup truck that was cruising along the I-80. A slight chill crawled up Ethan's spine, realizing the cops were about to come for him too. He was packing heat, after all: his Glock was stashed close to his feet and his EBR was stowed away in the back, inside its carrying case. Not to mention the fact that he smelled slightly of alcohol, but that one he could easily fix right now.
Acting as subtly as he could, Ethan shifted in his seat and rifled through the other contents of his grocery bag. An aerosol air freshener, a fresh blanket, and a bottle of dexamethasone. He took the first item and sprayed it inside, in tiny amounts just enough to remove the whiskey smell. For the second, he draped it over Agnes's slumped form, further adding to the charade that she was asleep, as well as hiding the blood from her clothes. The third item he tucked into his pocket, saving it for the little girl once they're both out of harm's way.
"Ethan, do you read?", Emma spoke into his radio again. Her voice was music to his ears, considering the circumstances.
"Lima Charlie (Loud and clear). What do you have for me?", he asked her, referring to his cover story.
"You're with a joint Department of Defense-Homeland Security transfer detail from Milford.", she went on, as though she was reading from a screenplay. "Agnes is a VIP, headed to, uh… Omaha, Nebraska… to get her into Child Protection."
"Got it. I suppose Meg helped you write that shit?"
"*sigh* Don't think even I understood half of what I just told you. You Americans love your jargons so damn much… Think you can work with it?"
"Gonna give my best shot. Over and out."
And he would have to give it his best. As soon as Ethan was about to turn the ignition, two state troopers approached him from his left side. They didn't look too friendly. One of them, a twenty-something man with shades, waved at him and tapped at his window. Naturally, Ethan rolled it down. Inspired by the old woman manning the cashier earlier, he gave a small smile as a greeting, to which the other man reciprocated, but only by a little.
"Mornin' sir. License and registration please?"
Nodding in response, Ethan pulled out the wallet again and took out what was asked, plus a Pentagon-issued ID just for good measure. Of course, none of these were legit; they were part of the guise that the Team graciously provided him before he left Hereford.
"I'm with the DOD. Everything alright, officer?", he played along.
"We, uh, got a call about some perp on the run from Dickinson County. Orders are to stop everyone along the Interstate…"
It would seem his bullshit story was working. The officer walked in front of the Range Rover, getting a good look at the plates, corroborating what Ethan just said. Clearly, his plates were government-issued. The officer then walked to the right side with a flashlight on hand, to watch for anything amiss in the vehicle's tires and underside. All seemed in order, until he drew attention to Ethan's little passenger, seemingly fast asleep.
"…Who's she? Your kid?"
"Nah, a VIP. Fetched her from Milford.", Ethan tersely responded. "We're cross-state, headed back to Omaha."
"Really? Dispatch didn't say nothin' about no VIP supposed to cross at this time."
"Ehh… I'm on short notice."
The shades-guy raised an eyebrow. He walked back to radio his dispatcher about the details that he just heard, taking several steps from the Rover. Ethan relaxed his muscles and acted cool, anticipating what would happen next. Act naturally like a truck stop customer would. He didn't want to tip off anything to the the cop's partner, who was a slightly older fellow. He was a bigger guy, grim-looking and rocking an M4 and a plate carrier. Instinct immediately told Ethan that this man was a more serious threat - direct eye contact with him should be avoided, lest he be zeroed in for another rifle shot to his chest. It took a few more seconds for the younger fellow to finish his little chat on the radio, at which point he headed back to the vehicle and handed back the driver's credentials.
However…
"Sorry sir. Gonna have to ask you to step out. Hands away from the steering wheel."
"What!?"
"Out of the vehicle. Now.", the trooper ordered again. "We're just gonna have a look inside; won't take long."
Busted. They'd seen through his ruse, or perhaps another police protocol was in play. Regardless, Ethan felt vulnerable, blind-sided by the sudden turn of events. The younger officer already had his right hand reaching down his hip holster, while the older one was nestling his thumb near the safety on his AR. Panic started to bubble.
Before he knew it, Ethan was already laying down an escape plan. Grey eyes quickly scanned left to right, reconnoitering the area around him in a span of milliseconds. There were only two cops in his immediate vicinity, plus four more manning the roadblock outside of the truck stop. A small opposing force, by all accounts, that could be scattered easily once he floored the gas pedal and aimed his hulking vehicle at them. They wouldn't be stupid enough to open fire, considering there was a kid sitting beside him. And if they'd still persist, he still had his Glock with him, ready to dispatch the cops with grams of lead to their legs and arms. They wouldn't expect such audacity. And he would be fast enough to pull it off, or at least that was his instinct told him. He could reconsider his course, but the younger cop was approaching his vehicle ever more closely.
Ethan sighed in his thoughts. This was going to be it. A gunfight. Years of Spec Ops work were now nudging him to consider aggression against fellow Americans, those who were only doing their damn jobs. As appalling as his plan seemed, he didn't want to be nicked today either. A different mindset took over, and he was about to reach downwards on his seat, where he kept his 9mm taped underneath the steering wheel, his brain calculating the best angles for wounding shots…
…
"Don't worry, Ethan.", Emma suddenly radioed, stopping his chain of thought. "We got your back."
He didn't know what she meant, but it seemed like she overheard their little dialogue. Just then, a third state trooper came running towards the two cops, with a smartphone on hand.
"Dewey!", the guy yelled. "Someone wants to talk with ya!"
The officers were dumbfounded by their colleague's words. Ethan felt the same, especially when he managed a glance at the handheld device's screen. It looked like a video call, from a brown-haired woman wearing office clothes. Looked incredibly important and 'official'. The young cop had no choice but to answer her, unknowingly turning his back to Ethan, and thus giving the driver an even better view of the caller in the tiny monitor.
Ethan squinted his eyes. He could've sworn the woman on the screen looked familiar to him, but memory was elusive at the moment. Instead, he let the cop speak.
"H-Hello? Can I help you, miss…?"
"Chris Lakin, USCIS…", the chick introduced herself.
Right then and there, Ethan felt his heart briefly freeze. The face was uncanny, but the voice was more unmistakable, belonging to one Meghan Castellano. But she looked different. Very different. In lieu of blonde hair, she had wavy brown tresses on her head. Caucasian features were replaced with something of a darker shade and complexion. Eyeglasses further sold the fake identity, but there was no way she did all this with makeup. Only then did he recall Emma's earlier words. Script, comms, AI avatar. Underneath his cool facade, he started to smile in his mind like an idiot. Team Rainbow just surprised him for a second time.
"…I've been told you just stopped a federal vehicle transporting a little girl, there at your checkpoint in the I-80?"
"Well, uh, yes ma'am. Driver's one Ethan Mallory. Is he-"
"Yes, and the girl he's with is a CSPA candidate sent to us by Homeland Security.", Meghan spoke with authority, befitting her guise. "Could you please let them pass? Her parents are already waiting for her here in Omaha."
"Sorry ma'am, but-"
"No buts. Or do you want me call the governor, right fucking now? Tell him Iowa State Patrol is blocking my agency from doing its job?"
That last sentence was a real kicker, prompting the officers who heard it to have their faces flustered and sweaty.
"I-I… No! No, ma'am. Sorry, our mistake."
Such was the pains of bureaucracy. The young cop with the shades tossed the smartphone back to his colleague, rather hastily so. He then turned around and went back to Ethan's side, tapping at the door to signal him he was free to go. Poor kid was sweating bullets. Little did he know that the driver knew a lot more about what was going on than anyone else in the cordon.
Holy shit. It actually worked!
"Let 'em through!", the cop then yelled at those manning the roadblock outside.
They immediately heeded the order, and pulled away some of the steel barriers to open up a path for the vehicle. Ethan drove past them without looking back, his heart still racing in adrenaline-fueled excitement. He couldn't celebrate just yet. As soon as his Range Rover crossed the barricade, his rearview mirror showed even more flashing lights coming from the horizon, all cruising along the I-80 with their sirens echoing behind. These guys only had seconds between themselves and their erstwhile target - their disappointment would be through the roof. Even for a level-headed person like him, Ethan couldn't help but be elated as he placed as much distance between himself and the truck stop. Soon enough, he was a tenth of a mile away from the nearest set of flashing police blinkers. He spoke into his earpiece again, vibrantly, as though he was a teenager who had just gotten away from a prank he pulled.
"Haha! Jesus Christ! The fuck was that?"
Emma giggled to herself, so much that the radio caught her chortle. It seemed she also shared with the revelry of duping other people.
"Grace tapped into their database, got her hands on that guy's phone number. I combined Iana's Gemini Program and my AI to build a life-like avatar for Meg. Neat huh?"
"You're all welcome by the way.", The Korean hacker called her colleagues out from the background, audible enough for Ethan to hear. He was more than happy to agree.
"Hehehe. I'm gonna buy you guys a round once I'm back…", he jested, still relieved at the huge weight lifted from his shoulders. "…And a free ride if someone passes out again."
"*sigh* Mon Dieu (Oh my God)…"
"Yeah, not sure we should talk about gettin' shit-faced right now, brother.", Meghan butted in. "Also, congrats! You just made Harry choke on his tea."
Ethan then heard a quick round of laughs ensue on the radio. It was well-earned, he thought to himself, considering the danger he bullshitted out of. And Meghan just ruined someone else's career this day with what she spewed. God-forbid there really was a 'Chris Lakin' somewhere in Omaha. At the end of it all, though, the danger was not yet completely over. The laughter died as soon as it came, bringing the atmosphere back to where it was just a few minutes ago. Ethan kept his eyes on the road while he talked into his radio, having remembered the cost of his little pit stop. Losing the cops only solved half his problem, albeit temporarily. And he had already burned precious time that should've been spent for the other half: to get answers about the ambush he survived earlier today.
"What's the skinny, Valk?"
"Sat-Recon lost track of that car you saw at the safehouse. Crossed the stateline to Nebraska half an hour ago, then the tracker went offline."
He let out a sigh of disappointment, remembering just how the SAD operated in the homefront.
"That means they ditched the car, probably bleach-bombed it too.", he said to her. "They could also be scrubbing the feeds from the highway cams right about now."
"You sure?"
"Very. Give me their last known pos, then I'll come up with a gameplan after I- *grunts* …after I rest up."
He clutched his chest yet again. The painkillers clearly hadn't taken effect yet, as Ethan still felt a burning sensation in his wounds, albeit much more subdued than before. The fleeting joy had only distracted him from it. It started to feel that his whiskey-treatment only bought him some time for minor respite, but at least the risk of infection and gangrene was a lot smaller now. Out of instinct, he opened the glovebox in the Rover, quickly realizing that he didn't bring an IFAK with him. Another grocery list formed in his head to rectify that.
"Check.", Meghan replied. "Grace intercepted multiple calls from the car before it went dark; managed to trace the callers to somewhere in Utah… and SoCal."
"You're shittin' me? California?"
"Uh-huh. The messages were heavily-garbled, so they must definitely be using CIA encryption."
"*sigh* Goddamn.", Ethan clenched a hand around the steering wheel. "At first, we're chasing leads and bank accounts… Now this? Sounds like a kill-team's after me."
"They could just be bouncing off the calls from a satellite as a precaution. We'll get back to you if Grace cracks 'em, over."
"If? I think you mean when.", the hacker corrected her.
There was little doubt about Dokkaebi's skills. However, the nature of the spooks' phone calls was much more suspect. Utah and Southern California. Quite a ways away from their operation in Iowa, but proof enough that these bastards had their tendrils far deeper than he thought. If these guys were operating in multiple states at once, they clearly had the resources to comb the rest of the country for a poor bastard like himself. There's no doubt about: whoever or whatever the White Masks were calling themselves now, they're running a conspiracy far more sinister than anyone could ever fathom. Should that be the case, perhaps not even Team Rainbow's best hacker could do enough to gleam much-needed answers. Ethan kept his misgivings to himself.
"Roger that. Just do your thing, Grace. I'll be waiting."
*click*
For the moment, none of this was his concern. He still needed medical attention. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes on the road, content in knowing the immediate danger from the cops had finally passed. For the first time since leaving that blasted safehouse, he could lower his guard, perhaps drive at a slightly more leisurely pace. Once again, he saw nothing but empty fields and sparse civilization for miles ahead, as though the truck stop was the only notable landmark in this stretch of the I-80.
He gritted his teeth, reminding himself of his mission: to locate Emily Jacobsen and interrogate her about her comrades' plan. Or at least, get her to shed light on the intel that Team Rainbow had been gathering so far. Suspicious bank accounts, sporadic terrorist attacks… now, a conspiracy within the Central Intelligence Agency was added to the pile. It was as though their defeat in New York just a year ago was nothing more than hiccup. But how did they recover this quickly? Who's leading them now? Only one woman held the key to unravel all this - the same woman who was instrumental in Freedom Day, and one whom Ethan carelessly trusted with his life before. He hoped he would find her in the safehouse; the only thing he got was a fight for his life and a little girl who didn't deserve what had befallen her.
He looked to his right. Agnes Kipper looked fast asleep, peaceful and alive, but Gustave had told him her condition was a lot worse than it appeared. It was bad enough for her to be the daughter of the White Masks' scapegoat, the CIA had to trump all that by sentencing her to the worst death possible. Though perhaps this shouldn't come as a surprise, seeing that Adam also used to work for the CIA like Emily. His kid was therefore a loose end. Ethan felt a gnawing sense of duty over her, the longer he let the facts fall together in his head. He also felt anger, an urge to kill any man or woman responsible for her plight. He couldn't help but picture his own kid forced through the same torture, and it only strengthened his disgust. Hard to believe he used to work with the these bastards, now knowing full-well what they were willing to do on their own countrymen.
Perhaps luck would be on his side a bit longer. Perhaps with that, plus some divine intervention, Agnes might shed light on the things that had been happening so far. The chances of that were nil, but even a ten-year-old kid could have some grasp of the truth. She did get a good look at their leader in Morocco, after all.
"Hey, Ethan… You still there?", his radio buzzed yet again. It was Emma.
"Still."
"Gustave says he's on his way back from the Infirmary. He'll tell you what to do with the dexamethasone."
She was talking about the other bottle of pills he bought today, the one that was tucked into his pocket.
"Copy that."
"Listen… You're still gonna push through with this op, with no backup? I-I mean…"
A smile formed in his face. After the crap she pulled over the state troopers, she was doting over him instead of patting herself in the back.
"I've come too far to turn tail now, Em.", he said bluntly. "Got a target painted on my ass. Besides, I can't just leave Agnes behind - the CIA wanted to liquidate her for a reason."
"*sigh* Affirmative. I just thought I'd… uh…"
The line felt dead for a few seconds. She seemed to have frozen over her microphone. Puzzling, since he himself expected her to rant about him saying some macho-bullshit yet again.
"Yeah? Go on.", he egged her.
"F-Forget it. I'll tell you when you get back here, okay?"
"Suit yourself… Raise ya again once I reach the next rally point. Over and out."
The conversation ended more abruptly than he thought. It was odd, almost like a portent. There would be time to worry about it later, though, as he needed to get himself and his little ward somewhere safe. Somewhere he could rest, recollect, and mend his wounds as best as he could. A roadside motel sounded like a nice place to lay low, probably somewhere in Nebraska. His eyes trailed up, looking at the rearview mirror once again, seeing if there were any blinking lights tailing him. They had been gone for a few minutes now, with how much distance he had driven at this point. Yet somehow, he didn't feel completely at ease. A couple of seconds felt like several minutes, as his eyes didn't move away from the mirror's reflection.
In truth, he was looking at himself. As though he wanted to tell a dare, if he was in another person's shoes.
Last chance, Ethan. There's still time to turn back.
He gritted his teeth. The first word that came up to mind was the same as before: 'No'. Somewhere in a different reality, this would've been suicide. The truth of the matter was, he had nowhere else to go. Least, that's what he wanted to tell himself…
…
"You doing okay over there, my friend?", Gustave Kateb finally radioed him.
It was yet another person Ethan was happy to hear from. It warmed his heart to know he still had good people in his corner.
"More or less, Doc. I got the medicine with me. This supposed to help Agnes wake up or what?"
"Not exactly. Here's what you need to do…"
He shouldn't let them down. Not when he's on the right path.
…
"The Kanal"
Brunsbüttel, Hamburg, Germany
…
There's nothing like enjoying a Bolivar Belicoso in a chilly night, leaning on a rail beside a scenic river, the slight breeze blowing over one old man's blondish hair. Still, Pyotr "Peter" Andreyevitch Kovalenko would rather be elsewhere than here, like a sleazy dive or a fancy gourmet restaurant. He felt like he was way out of his element tonight. The hand he tucked into his leather jacket was shaking, as though there was a gun pointed behind his head. Might as well be, considering what he was about to do here. To see himself act like an amateur again when it mattered the most was rather frustrating, and frankly embarrassing by his standards.
But he had every reason to be anxious. Just to the other side of the Kanal was the headquarters of the JBCF: NATO's Joint Baltic Command-Fehmarn battlegroup. And moored behind the canal locks of that naval base was the unmistakable silhouette of the USS John P. Ryan, which made the headlines several days ago. For the FSB to pull him out of his undercover job in London this quickly, this haphazardly, he was sure to be roped into the geopolitical chessboard once again. But on the other hand, infiltrating Puissance Group PMC's headquarters was nothing compared to the real stakes of the game, something that even the scummiest online tabloids were quick to remind him about:
…
"Escalation? Senate to Pass Bill Sending 10,000 US Troops to the Baltic
WASHINGTON - Senator Patricia Darcy aluded this morning that the Senate is discussing a bill authorizing the deployment of 10,000 US Army troops and Marines to the Baltic Sea. Such an action, she said, is a measured response in the event the Kremlin continues to deny responsibility for the eco-terrorist group Earth's Hope, which have launched several attacks in Europe and America over the past few weeks, including an attempt on Senator Darcy herself…"
…
It felt like the Cold War, all over again.
He sighed and closed his smartphone, then turned to his right. Leaning on the rail beside him was a woman in her forties, donning a bright green coat and black leather gloves. She was pale-haired, fair-skinned, yet her face showed the hallmarks of decades spent fighting a shadow war against the West. She looked at Peter as he puffed another smoke from his cigar, giving him a wry smile. He frowned at her, for there was nothing soothing nor friendly about her gesture. She had an imaginary leash around his neck, one that was held even tighter by an FSB sniper team positioned somewhere in the outskirts of Brunsbüttel. Should Peter's meeting tonight go awry, a message would be sent to the Americans with one trigger-pull.
And speaking of which, they were about to send one to his earpiece.
"Belaya mashina, pod yezzhayet. Nalevo." ("White car, inbound. To your left.")
Peter turned his head and immediately saw what the caller relayed him. Coming over the road was an ivory-colored W177, windows tinted. Knowing tonight's itinerary, though, he expected two people to be inside that car.
"Ya vizhu ikh, priyom." ("I see them, over.")
Enjoying the final seconds of peace, he took one last puff from his cigar, then flicking it off into the river below. He still felt tense, as though the snipers' crosshairs were pointed at him despite his companion's assurances. Glancing at her one last time, he saw the woman keep her composure, tucking her hands into her coat's pockets as the white sedan approached. She was also looking forward to this meeting, perhaps more so than Peter himself. The car approached the two of them, slowly, then backed up to park by the sidewalk. When the engine turned off, two figures quickly exited the vehicle and began walking towards Peter. A dark-skinned woman and a mustached Caucasian man as they appeared under the street lamps, both wearing fine executive suits, contrasting the Russians' heavier coats.
At this point, Peter felt a lump in his throat. He feared that he was about to sign his own death warrant…
…
"Aurelia. Collinn.", he greeted them.
Aurelia Arnot only glared at him as she walked. Understandable, since not many people in the world know that the US State Department was in Hamburg tonight. She, in particular, was "officially" still in Washington DC tonight as far as the press was concerned. At least the other person with was more receptive to the greeting, who seemed to have a genuine smirk behind his mustache and Glance Smart Glasses.
"Howdy, Pete. Been a while."
The Russian smiled back and cleared his throat. Formalities were now in order.
"I appreciate you coming here, despite the circumstances. This here is-"
"Gospozha Shipovnik, in the flesh…", Aurelia quickly cut him off, crossing her arms. "…a.k.a. "Madam Rosebud". Director-in-Charge for FSB Counter-Intelligence."
Peter felt his heart skip a beat, recognizing that his old friend had quite a bit of hostility in her tone. Pensively, he looked over his shoulder to see how his superior would react. Sure enough, the other woman wasn't at all fazed.
"My, my. I see you've done your homework, Director Arnot.", she smiled back, flaunting her Ivy League, non-accented English. A by-product of having lived in America herself.
"This isn't a social call, "comrade". I've half a mind to order Security on you two. A couple of Russian agents, here in Hamburg to spy on a NATO base…"
Aurelia had her eyes bearing down on the fair-haired woman, walking confrontationally. Soon enough, the space between the two of them narrowed to just a few feet. The light underneath the lamp made their faces very clear, that they were acquainted with each other. Or worse.
"…But I don't think you're that stupid to be this close to our turf. And to be so far from home."
"Oh, don't mind us. We just hope you had a wonderful meeting with the JBCF.", Rosebud smiled, mocking at her veiled threat. "I sure hope your Supercarrier doesn't have First Strike authorization to bomb St. Petersburg in the coming weeks."
The Americans were taken aback by her words. As if on cue, Aurelia glanced at Collinn and tipped her chin, to which the man responded by clasping a hand around his wristwatch. Instantly, his glasses were covered in a bluish hue, which Peter had seen him do at Kafe Dostoyevsky several days ago. The trusty bodyguard looked around his surroundings with a hand buried into his suit, presumably to where his pistol was holstered, as he used his enhanced vision to scan for potential threats. He didn't know how right on the money he was. Collinn searched high and low for possible threats, while Aurelia took a deep breath and turned to Peter, this time with her brow furrowed. So much was said in her silent stare, and Peter could do nothing but look to the side, in shame.
Right then and there, he felt years of friendship between them were about to go down the drain.
"I'm sorry, Aurelia. I had no choice."
"Pyotr told me everything. You two had been talking with each other, behind our governments' backs.", Rosebud walked forward with hands clasped, amused by the small victory she'd just won. "Whatever his reasons are, though, we now find ourselves in an… interesting predicament."
"What are you on about?"
There air was tense. Aurelia started to back away, slowly, as though she was raring to make a break for the car behind her. Still unfazed, Rosebud reached a hand into her green coat, prompting Collinn to finally pull out his gun from its holster and rest it beside his hip. Peter felt his eyes grow wide in shock on their own, dumbfounded by the weapon and by his boss's cheerful disregard towards it. Just as then, the off-site snipers radioed with utmost urgency.
"Sokol (Falcon)!", one of them called to him. "Proshu razresheniye otkryt ogon (Requesting permission to engage)."
Peter knew better. He scratched the back of his left ear twice: a secret signal for the sniper team to stand down. They were there to protect him and Rosebud, not to assassinate a high-ranking American. Needless to say, the Aurelia and Collinn both didn't need to know that several men with SV-98s were watching them all this time. Rosebud, in turn, pulled out an unmarked white folder from her coat and handed it to the other woman. Cautiously, the latter took it from her grasp and opened it up.
It was a case file.
"Carlos Rojas.", Rosebud spoke. "Smuggler and gun runner for the Alianza de los Pueblos Patrioticos, and an associate of Earth's Hope."
"…"
"He's linked to the hijacking in Australia and the Spire bombing in Aarhus. Nighthaven's Special Intervention Group returned him to us a few days ago, as a corpse."
"I'm not sure why this concerns me."
"Don't be coy, Director Arnot; I know it was your people who raided that rebel camp in the Amazon. You may no longer be in charge of your taskforce, but I know you're still in the loop."
Peter prayed that Aurelia would see the truth in the papers she was holding. Rojas used to work with the KGB as a munitions clerk, until he went rogue in 1972. A greedy little bastard, yet was smart enough not to jump over the fence and join the Americans' payroll. Didn't change the fact that his Soviet ties were prime fodder for an imaginary conspiracy being peddled in the White House.
"We placed a hundred million rubles on Rojas's head because he was a loose end.", Peter added to Rosebud's words. "We didn't know he was working with the same people behind the attack in Denmark."
"And? You're telling me this… why?", Aurelia coldly turned to him.
"It is in everyone's best interests for us to come clean on this one.", he continued. "The White House may have been misinformed that we had a hand on his-"
"Are you telling me you don't give money and weapons to terrorists? Since when have your people been innocent of that?"
Her words to Peter seemed to have rubbed Rosebud the wrong way, seeing that she stepped forward and dropped the mocking smile from her mug. Could be just a natural response, from a superior towards her subordinate.
"Don't act as if you're clean. This is different.", the Russian woman firmly said. "I assure you we have no ties with Earth's Hope, nor did we try to kill Senator Darcy. Whatever leads you're tracking down right now… even Interpol will tell you the Kremlin is uninvolved."
"Heh. The FSB being honest?", Collinn chimed in, as he holstered his handgun. "That ain't somethin' y'all hear every day."
"Honesty is certainly better than you breaking into the Lubyanka Building to learn the truth, and then turning it into a shooting gallery. Like what you did in '81."
The shit-throwing had commenced, as Peter feared. It was all too similar to his argument with Aurelia over the phone a few days ago; quite hypocritical of him to disapprove of it now. Thankfully, the harsh words soon subsided before they got out of hand again, end this risky gathering without any agreements being made. There was a long silence - enough of it for both parties to consider their next words very carefully. In the meantime, Peter made another sly finger gesture for the FSB snipers looking into their little powwow from afar. He combed the left side of his greyish-blond hair, seemingly to wipe off sweat, but really to signal the snipers to give him a status report.
There was no response.
"Cut to the chase.", Aurelia suddenly spoke out. "Why are you here?"
"FSB is convinced that America is preparing for war.", Rosebud answered her. "All these terrorist attacks were orchestrated by Orson Rose to frame us, divide the world's attention, and put the pieces into place."
Peter closed his eyes, knowing an opportunity for his boss to throw him under the bus once he recognized it. She just made a hasty accusation using information that he himself had not yet completely verified. And right now, he could feel his erstwhile friend shoot daggers at him with her gaze, possibly contemplating multiple ways to kill him in the future. But who could blame her, whose trust he had tarnished?
"*scoffs*I can't believe you of all people are buying into that horse-crap. Langley told us that Orson was a temporary asset; cut ties when he left for Puissance."
"I know, Director. We're not as 'stupid' as you say we are. But if you expect us to do what's right for the world, I need to know the Americans plan to do the same."
"The hell you talking about?", she frowned.
"Assurances. That the US Navy is truly in Hamburg to keep the peace. That Orson Rose is truly not one of your own. Things will be a lot easier if certain fears are finally put to rest."
Her biggest worry was actually the John P. Ryan. Weighing more than a hundred twenty thousand tons of high-strength steel, with enough space to hold two Navy air wings and a battalion of Marines, the vaunted Supercarrier spelled trouble for Peter and Rosebud's superiors in Moscow. So much so that the vaunted Director of Counter-Intelligence herself had flown down to this part of Europe just to get a bead on things. The fact that she and her lackey was only a stone's throw away from the biggest powder keg in Europe right now, just across the Elbe, was more than enough to inspire fear in the latter's heart. Quite unbecoming of a veteran FSB agent.
Peter felt his heartbeats get stronger. He's sure could use another smoke at this point, and so he took out another cigar from the case tucked beneath his coat. However, his fair-haired companion caught what he was doing, and quickly asked for the one in his hand. It was her way of tugging the leash around his neck, so to speak, which the Americans didn't seem to catch. While Rosebud took her first whiff, Peter subtly signaled the snipers a second time to radio back and report their status. Again, they didn't respond. This time, he recognized something was off. He placed his Bolivar Belicoso into his chest pocket, realizing that something strange was afoot. He looked over the horizon, to the direction where his silent spotters were supposed to be. He looked for anything to catch his eye, while the two women continued their chat.
"Is that all?", Aurelia asked. "I'm still waiting for the punchline."
Rosebud smiled again, happy to have the chance to ask the real question she had been meaning to. Looking at the American woman straight in the eye, she took off the cigar from her lips, then exhaled the smoke from her nostrils…
…
"Zero Protocol. What is it?"
…
The silence lasted only as long as the cold breeze that briefly blew.
"We know it's a contingency plan, in case America is attacked again like in Freedom Day.", she continued. "But what does it have to do with your forces here?"
Aurelia kept her lips shut, clenching one of her hands into a fist. Peter wanted to say something to assuage her, but this time he relented. He might have owed this woman his life for what happened in Beirut almost a lifetime ago, but they were still on opposite sides of the game board. She should've expected something like this to happen somewhere down the line, where their duty to their flags would trump over any friendships they have made. Her eyes wanted to flinch, as if she herself was having doubts on what her mind was telling her to do.
Before she could open her mouth, though, someone else spoke in her stead.
"It's not a plan. It's a switch.", a gruff man called out.
All eyes immediately turned to where the voice came from, with Collinn pulling out his sidearm yet again. Peter reached for his own GSh-18, but quickly realized he was too late. He couldn't believe his own eyes: a grizzled-looking man had emerged underneath one of the street lamps to the south, wearing a bulky jacket. He had a thick greying-brown beard and a strange set of three-eyed googles on his forehead. He walked towards them, unflinchingly, clutching a sound-suppressed rifle with one hand. Peter recognized it as an SV-98.
It was the weapon from one of his snipers.
…
…
"Samuel Fisher.", Rosebud called out.
Peter felt a chill crawl up his spine. He had heard that name before, somewhere in an after-action report from the Foreign Intelligence Service in Moscow. He wanted to ask who this man was, but he already had his eyes on the Russian woman.
"Don't worry about your guys. They're sleeping."
"I told you to hold position, Zero.", Aurelia called him out.
Turned out the FSB weren't the only ones with an armed backup tonight.
"The Russians want an honest chat, face-to-face; I say it's only right we return them the favor…", Sam spoke back to her.
Without warning, he tossed the sniper rifle to Peter, who was lucky enough to catch it before the buttstock busted his chin. It was a rude gesture, but he held back an angry response. He felt something in his old bones, that for some reason the other man's sudden appeareance felt like a brush with death. The mind could only wonder what he had done to the snipers.
"…I see the Federal Security Service hasn't yet given up on old habits, Shipovnik."
"Hmph. Not when people like you are still alive."
"Be more subtle next time.", the mystery man scoffed. "Count your boys lucky they're only coming home with a headache tonight. Consider this a professional courtesy."
"Don't be full of yourself, starichók (old man). This is the first and last time I'll ever let you stand this close to me."
Tempers were about to flare again. This time, though, Peter was having none of it. With the rifle lowered, he stepped in front of the man rather than wait for him to argue with his lady boss.
"You said Zero Protocol is a switch?", he asked.
The other man glared in response, two pairs of old eyes sizing up each other. This might be their first meeting, but Peter could already tell that Sam Fisher was someone who would carefully chose his meetings. A soldier, a shadow, but ultimately leashed like Peter was. And as expected, Sam then turned to glance over his shoulder, over to Aurelia as though to consult with her. They spoke to each other with naught but their eyes, leading the woman to sigh and give him a quiet nod. Collinn saw what they were doing and shook his head, briefly chuckling to himself, as he went back to their white car and leaned back on the hood. Sam had asked for permission, something which was granted unto him after a quick, wordless deliberation.
"It authorizes every American asset in the globe to launch a simultaneous, coordinated strike on anything deemed 'a threat to national security'."
"That sounds pretty much like most of the world, da?", Rosebud blurted out, seemingly unsurprised by his revelation. "And yet, Russia is first on the hit list."
"Because someone wanted you to be there.", Sam replied. "Can't say you didn't have it comin'. Still, Fourth Echelon also thinks your inclusion's premature."
And there it was, as Peter had always suspected. There seemed to be another player in this little game, perhaps someone high up the totem pole in the White House. Peter was relieved to know something else about their enemy, yet still he remained quiet in his thoughts. His mind struggled to fathom how this kind of animosity towards his country was entirely possible. Could this much bad blood between their peoples lead to war, just a button press away? When the Americans passed their law for Enhanced Domestic Defense almost year ago, the answer to that question might not be a good one.
But there was still hope. There was still time. More importantly, though, at least Aurelia and her people were now on the same page as Rosebud's division in the FSB. The opportunity for collaboration was ripe, the intentions of both sides were honest for the time being. Peter turned to look at his superior, who seemed to have not enjoyed her cigar one bit. He couldn't blame her, though, as the answers she sought were not completely to her liking. He could already see what was going on in her head: to save Russia from a rogue cabal of warmongers, she would have to risk more than her life. Name and integrity were about to be put to the test. He smiled in his head, knowing that the woman finally understood the true price of patriotism. Perhaps that should put her in her place, the next time she pulled another stunt like tonight.
She was not even halfway done with her cigar when she took off her mouth and flicked it into the Kanal.
"I shall order every agent I can spare to find Orson Rose…", she stated. "…Once they do, we'll let you have a chance at him."
"*scoffs* How kind of you.", Aurelia crossed her arms again.
"Kill him, capture him… What matters is you do the deed. Because if the Politsiya beat you to Mr. Rose, I'll have no choice but to tell the Kremlin that he's a CIA operative."
"Hah! Ain't this rich.", Collinn blurted out from behind. "Offer help with one hand, then threaten us with the other."
Rosebud made sure to give him the deadliest glare she could muster. Then, she looked at Peter, who had an amused grin of his own. He realized too late that his boss didn't appreciate his gumption. Yet again, there was a lump in his throat.
"As a sign of our truce, Pyotr will be going with you.", she turned to the three Americans. "His cover in Puissance should give your people access anywhere the PMC is contracted to protect. Any Russian-made asset you need, or passports, I'll provide through him… You have my word."
"Your word? Heh. Of course."
"Collinn! That's enough.", Aurelia chastised him.
"What you think about us is irrelevant.", Rosebud stood her ground. "All I know is this meeting may well be our last chance to stop a war our countries don't need."
Thus, an uneasy alliance was born. Judging by her frown, the dark-skinned woman didn't look too happy with the agreement. He motioned for Sam to come to her side, discuss some matters only among themselves. Peter felt the urge to join in, but he realized his place. He was an agent of the FSB tonight, not a good friend of Aurelia Arnot. What was previously a tenuous yet amicable bond, it was now collateral damage for the sake of keeping the peace.
He couldn't make all the words she was saying to Sam - only 'JBCF', 'Harry', and 'Program'.
Peter sighed to himself, thinking what the road ahead of him would be like. He was still working undercover for the FSB after all, living a double-life as an executive for the Puissance Group. He took out his smartphone again, to look at the PMC's crest. The silver emblem of a bucking horse represented a different life for him, one that was adventurous and debonair. And he was about to throw that all away. Rosebud glanced at him, her cold blue eyes matching the nighttime air over Hamburg. Her gaze was all that he needed to know that his life was all but forfeit until he proved himself again to her.
Aurelia was soon done with her private talk.
"My op, my rules.", she told Rosebud. "And as much as I value Pete's honesty, I don't trust him enough to put him in charge of everything."
"You wish more cooks for the broth? Then perhaps you should send Senaviev, Melnikova, or any of our people now working for you. Makes things easier at my end."
"To save your skin, you mean. You'll have an excuse to report this mission to Moscow as a Spetsnaz operation."
The woman gave a hearty laugh, impressed by her counterpart's astute deduction. Then, she started to walk away, the business already concluded. Peter wasn't compelled to follow; he knew what would happen to him after tonight. It didn't stop his boss to give him one last tap to the shoulder, then a lean to his ear.
"Udachi (Good luck), Pyotr Andreyevitch…", she spoke softly. "…ne razocharuy menya snova (and do not disappoint me again)."
"…"
The woman chuckled and resumed walking; Peter didn't dare look at her eyes again. She then gave her guests a few parting words.
"I am afraid tonight is to be our only meeting, Director Arnot. Will you keep in touch in the meantime?"
"No.", she said bluntly.
"Haha! Very well… I look forward to fighting your people again, once this all blows over."
This was it: the point of no return.
The Russian woman got into her car and revved the engine, driving off to their pre-designated rendezvous. Peter thought about his men, whom Sam Fisher quickly put out of action tonight. But then, the realization immediately set in. He shouldn't care about them anymore. From this moment on, he was out of the agency's good graces, and could easily write him off as a traitor or a rogue agent if he fucked up this new mission. Such was the fate of any patriot, no matter the flag they're fighting for. He walked towards his new comrades, who didn't all look to thrilled to have him on board. But that was to be expected. He was more worried about his old friend, who was surely still pissed about him spilling the beans. He wanted to make it up to her, that much was certain.
The Cuban cigar in his pocket felt incredibly tempting right now, and so he pulled it out to savor its flavor. He spoke after a puff, firmly believing this would be the last opportunity for a friendly chat with her.
"Well, Aurelia. I guess that's that. I'm at your disposal."
"Hmph."
"Welcome to Team Rainbow, partner.", Collinn shook his hand. "Can't wait to see how long you'll last."
…
Author's Notes/Comments: Belated Happy New Year, everyone! Man, 2020 has been a huge pain for all of us, and I'm ashamed to admit it did a number on my freetime, let alone my writing schedule. Writing this chapter has been quite difficult due to several IRL issues, but I'm glad I managed to squeeze it out before February. There ain't much action here since I'm saving it for the next chapter. I have to say, though, that Sam Fisher's inclusion has given me another way to spice up the spy segments in this story. You can expect to see more of him in the future.
Here's to hoping that 2021 will be a better year! Cheers!