Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

13

There's no room for emotion. But I can't help myself. This is family, and damnit, it's personal. My fists ball up and my Sig Sauer falls into my hand, fingers releasing the safety as I run toward the noise I just heard.

Another bark and I duck from the bullet that nearly takes my life. With a twist of my body, I roll to the ground and dive into the brush. The assault follows me, and that's when I know.

Ana has company.

She's distracting Syd and her second is holding me off. Taking their time, picking off the enemy, and taking down Markarov. If I stay here, I'm as good as dead, so I might as well surprise him. A shadow falls on the snow and I explode into action. Launching myself into the air and crashing into bones and sinew (solid, like the ancient bole of a sequoia). My muscles scream at me, but the element of surprise is on my side and I send him flying. He stumbles, cracking his head against an oak tree, finished off by the butt of my pistol.

Dead to the world, but alive in every other sense. Careful probing finds two pistols (Kalashnikov), a knife, and 10 rounds of ammo. I pocket the clips and one of the guns in my waistband. The blade finds its way to my ankle sheath and I hand the second piece to Trish, who has somehow managed to catch up with me.

"I'll take care of him," she says with a leer, gun trained on the burly Russian.

I should smile back, even tell her that everything will work out fine. But this is Trish, and who am I kidding? We both know the truth.

Time has run out.

******

I can hear her sobbing. So distinctive, even after all these years. Memory lends me little, but I remember Elise crumpled at the feet of her second husband (dead from an aneurysm). Now it's a different man, but the song remains the same.

Tant pis. At least she's alive.

Nothing can prepare me for what I see in front of me.

So much blood.

The moon dips from behind a cloud and I spot them.

Did all that come from one man?

Staining the carpet of snow. Crimson black on diamond white.

Jack Frost's abattoir.

And that's when I fall over my own feet (star-gazing). My eyes open and I'm face to face with a dead man. I look further and my breath freezes in my throat when I see the others. Corpses stacked like dried kindling, all sparks of life extinguished.

I start counting and stop at a half dozen, sure that I recognize the waterfall of raven hair that's escaped from its braid. Agent Aileen McKillip, out on her first mission. And over there is her partner…when the anger comes, it burns through my shock and flares like a supernova (Type II). Pushing me to my feet and propelling me down the path of no return.

*****

She's more beautiful than ever, silver hair streaming down her shoulders as she mourns for a man she barely knew. And when she looks up, surprise barely registers in her eyes. "Michel," she whispers, scrubbing at the matchless aquamarine eyes that have inspired an entire generation of painters.

I kneel down, touching her shoulder briefly. "Are you OK?" A loaded question if ever one existed.

"L'aider," she implores weakly.

Too late.

More dead than alive, thready pulse at his neck, viscera gleaming through his fingers. I shake my head, already focused on the final outcome. "Trop tardif," I say robotically. Barely seeing her terrified stare as I spot another track. Two sets of bloody footprints, one without shoes.

The rage cools to a simmering slow burn that lies in wait. Knowing what I'll find when the trail ends.

Destruction greets me at every turn. The splintered remains of branches, charred by the fire that someone used to toast the other. Or the bloody imprint of two bodies in the snow, creating devilish designs as they struggled. And the crunch of shell casings, cracking under my feet like fine bones. A morbid testament of a fight to the death.

The trees and I part ways and the river unfolds at my feet. When I look back, the West Terrace glimmers in the distance. Back where I started, coming full circle to the final showdown.

*****

They're out on the ledge. Shadow-boxers, backlit by a full moon and the star-studded band of the Milky Way.

Grunts of pain as carefully aimed blows meet their mark. The hiss of Ana's anger when Syd gets the best of her. And the death beetle click of my safety.

I raise my firing arm at the exact moment Syd sees me. It throws her off and Ana lands a karate chop against her carotid artery that knocks her flat. And then the focus is on me.

The sight of Ana's smile is a thing of pure evil. She advances a few feet and stops, head cocked in feigned curiosity. "I have seen you before, Mr. CIA."

She walks a few steps closer and I aim the gun at her. "Stop right there," I order, hating the tiny quiver in my voice that betrays my fear.

Ana chuckles. "You think your little gun will stop me, Agent Vaughn?"

She suddenly falls to the ground and comes up shooting. A ball of fire rips through my left shoulder and the pistol drops from my now lifeless hand. I watch in horror as that tiny black bore is leveled at my skull, trigger pulled slowly back by her perfectly manicured finger, its scarlet color matching her vividly contoured lips.

I start to lose my grip on reality and the last thing I remember is the terrible rictus of her smile, a perfect match for the hole that suddenly flowers on her forehead.

*****

Epilogue coming soon