Chapter 2: Alaska

Sands stepped off the plane, trying to look dignified and superior to these two little tan men buried under layers upon layers of fur coats. He had spent the last 7 hours with his head in a paper bag, barfing up his lunch, breakfast, last night's dinner and a beer.

/'We are experiencing a little turbulence. Please fasten your safety belts.'/

Christ, if that was a little turbulence, then a lot would have undoubtedly killed the Agent - could that have been his employer's intentions?- wearing nothing but a leather bike jacket. His lips were chapped and dry, his throat burned and still felt raw no matter how many sips of beer he took, his stomach was god knows where and on top of all that, he was very cold. Under any other circumstances, dignity and superiority would have come natural for Sands, but these were very difficult to accomplish at the moment.

Screwing his attempts of looking just plain cool, Sands got off the old, rickety plane as fast as his legs would take him and emptied his stomach once again, the little package of peanuts he had consumed half an hour ago a sharp contrast on the white snow.

Fucking piece-of-shit plane that looked like it was being held together by masking tape. Fucking CIA for sending him here. Fuck fuck fuck. Already he could feel his nose and fingers going numb, or he was beginning to not feel them. At least it was a distraction from the taste of bile still in his throat.

The Alaskan men stood at the foot of the plane waiting for Sands on their…dogsleds? No way, no fucking way was Sands riding on a dogsled. The dogs looked more like underfed wolves pulling around sticks tied together with string. Honestly; this was an american state too. Why the lack of technology? Lack of cars?

"The truck could not make it through the heavy snow." One of the men said, as if reading Sand's mind. Sands scowled, hated looking stupid. "Welcome to Alaska. I am agent…"

Sands didn't bother paying them any mind. He was cold and he wanted out.

Slowly, taking his sweet old time, he walked to the dogsleds and looked each man over, finally coming to a conclusion.

"Well, shit. There's only 2 sleds. Guess I'm gonna have to go back home."

"No, you sit on the sled. We will take you to the village."

Sands glared. No way was he sitting on a bundle of sticks and getting pulled around by a pack of underfed wolves.

***

Sands was sitting on a bundle of sticks and getting pulled around by a pack of underfed wolves. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, a sour expression upon his face. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this."

"You're going to have to speak up." One dog sledding agent called to him. "I cannot hear a word you are saying."

"Tick, tock, tick, tock." Sands tried to ignore his ever worsening bad mood, but failed miserably. Not to mention the never-changing backdrop of snow was starting to take it's toll on Sands' arguable sanity. "Patience growing thin here, people."

"As I have said before, Agent Sands," So, these fuckers did sarcasm too. Sands was seeing red before he got to the end of his sentence, "You must speak louder if you want to be heard."

Sands rolled his eyes; his throat was already dry from the cold. He could barely speak, let alone yell. "Fuck you." He struggled to pull out his gun from his coat, managing a clear shot through the first man's head, despite his body's shivering. Before the second man knew what was happening, he was dead too, crimson blood staining their pure white, innocent, snowy tombs.

Sands jumped off the dogsled, having a hard time getting his gun back inside his jacket. He trudged over to the closer man and searched his pockets, finding a lighter and some dollar bills. The second man was further away, and Sands didn't bother. He turned around, expecting to find the dogs, but they hadn't stopped with him. They were long gone.

"Hey! Dogs, uh, come! Back here!" Sands waved his arms, whistled, shouted and made an assortment of noises, none of them working. So he resorted to the only word that seemed able to describe his situation.

"Fuck!"

He landed a swift kick in the dead man's side, muttering something under his breath. "Hear me now, fucker?"

***

"So, tell me. How did you managed to actually get here?"

"S-s-sled tracks."

"What happened to your escorts?"

Escorts? What the fuck, those weren't escorts. Don't make laugh. "H-h-had an ac-acident." Ha ha ha, don't sound so convincing, Sheldon.

"Oh? How is it that you are fine and they are all dead?"

In response to that, Sands slowly but carefully raised his middle finger and held it in the doctor's face. He was wrapped in to many blankets, making it impossible to find his way out of them. He also felt pins and needles whenever he tried to move something, ice cold pins and needles.

"Well, look at that. Looks like that might be frost bite. Quick, keep your hand warm." She made herself sound concerned, but really she could care a whole lot less about Sands and his bad attitude.

"F-fuck you."

"Yes, yes, I know you're angry. Just stay here by the fire while I get you something to drink." The blankets were so heavy he couldn't possibly go anywhere if he tried. He was far too tired to even come up with adequate curses. He wasn't going anywhere, and that was the CIA's intentions.

After he killed his "escorts," he walked for three hours before he made it to the village.