chapter SEVEN: On the Road

The wind broke around him as he twisted about, doing a forward flip and finding the floor of ice and snow just beneath him. Something blipped on his belt, attached in the back, and a gust of cold air swept away from where he now stood, his toes still above the ground. Tapping the contraption on his belt and unclamping it from where it was, he stepped down in the snow and tossed the little box aside. "Even better than before," he muttered to himself, looking at the gadget with a dull smile – remembering Hell's Outpost, the first time he'd used the Z Force when being dispatched from a helicopter. The image of a friend washed over his eyes, but was quickly batted away as he blinked, his eyes stinging in the cold. Then, focusing again on his surroundings and taking a quick look around him, he kicked a mound of snow overtop the gadget and stepped forward.

The snow fell heavily, quickly. Its descent was furious and hurried, not graceful or beautiful as it was often seen in the States. Back there, snow was an occasional occurrence, something of a miracle, or just the right excuse to sit down with a cup of hot chocolate. In Russia, this area of Russia at least, it was commonplace. In Russia it wasn't important or meaningful. It was like American politics – incessant, annoying.

Snake peered through the haze that fell around him and could see, some distance off, the rough outline of a building. It wasn't terribly large from what he could tell, but it was three or so stories and much longer and wider than he remembered Hell's Outpost to be. Of course, that had been a research facility. Trinket had been one of the more high-profile nuclear development sites from the Cold War – and its meaning alone granted that it would indeed be much larger than Hell's Outpost had been.

From what he could tell, there was no sign of the enemy between where he stood and the building off in the distance. Even if there had been, though, he doubted they'd be able to see him either. The snow was a shield, a veil, and it covered all.

Stopping for a moment, Snake touched his hand to his ear and waited to be connected with Brant, but there was no response. He frowned to himself, looked up in the sky in hopes of recognizing the moon, and dismissed the search before heading off into the snow, his eyes frozen ahead of him where the body of a building slowly became clearer.

~*~

"How'd it go?" Brant asked, opening the door of his truck and hoisting himself inside, a cell phone cramped between his ear and his shoulder.

"I just got out of the meeting," someone answered on the phone. Brant shut his door and pulled a ring of keys from his left pocket. Sliding one into the ignition, the car sputtered to a start. "They understand the situation, but they were hardly enthusiastic. Apprehensive – that would explain their response."

"But they understand what's happening?"

"Yes," the man said. Brant shifted gears and put his foot on the gas, lightly, creeping out of the parking lot and turning onto the street. He accelerated a little and pulled one hand from the steering wheel, taking the cell phone in it and moving it to the other ear for a moment.

"Anything specific come up?" Brant wondered. There was a moment of hesitation on the other end of the call as the man thought back to the meeting.

"Nothing specific," he answered, finally. Then, with an air of playfulness: "The President showed."

Brant cocked his neck. "Really?"

"He didn't have much to say, but he didn't seem the slightest bit worried," he added. "He's taking it well. I've seen him in a bind before, but he didn't flinch once."

"Taking it well?" Brant pondered. "That's strange."

"Not as strange as you'd think. I know him. He's always been good with handling pressure. The FACtion episode was a fine example."

"I didn't think you were lying," Brant apologized. "It did seem strange."

Then, after a pause the other man entered again: "This marks the end of our cooperation."

"I guess so," Brant said. "Keep safe. The next several hours are going to be hectic."

"Good luck with the operation," the other man said with sincerity. "And," he added, pausing for a moment to run his words over in his head, "keep an eye out for Snake. He's special."

Brant pondered the words even after the man had disconnected, but even as he rolled up to the empty office building on William Street where he was to be meeting the director of the NSA in roughly ten more minutes, he wasn't exactly sure what the man had meant by 'special.'

~*~

The car ran well. Not great, but at least it worked. There was a terrible radio station on, its content a mix of jazz and opera that turned out to be hardly original but boringly dull and monotonous. Checking the rearview mirror, Daves saw someone trailing him closely. Rolling down his window and peering out behind him for a moment, the car on his tail – a rickety looking box on wheels, dust and grime accumulating in every groove – slowed a little and then moved into the lane beside him.

He watched as the car went by, two long-haired men beating their heads to some unearthly music that appealed even less to him than what he was currently listening to.  He rolled his eyes and put his back against the seat again, turning the rearview mirror to examine his teeth and presenting it with a grand smile. He ran his tongue over the smooth ridges of his mouth and then bent the mirror it back so that he could see whatever was behind him.

"Fabulous!" Daves exclaimed under his breath. A big black van was rolling on behind him, two men sitting within its confines and staring straight ahead. One seemed to be fiddling with something beneath the dashboard while the driver simply looked on, a vacant glare in his glazed eyes.

Daves sped up a little, trying to get some distance. The van didn't accelerate any, just kept on going like it had. He examined the two men's faces again, hoping to find some indication that they should not be found suspicious. But, as he watched them longer, he saw only more of that stale gaze, that plain, motionless stare.

"Well then," Daves said, loosening a bit and cracking his knuckles against the steering wheel, "let's go for a little joy ride." Putting on his right turn signal, he moved into the next lane. The van did not.

They came to a spotlight and as the lanes became congested Daves peered back to see the van moving into the right lane behind three or four other cars. Daves checked the lights and waited for the signal to go off again.

Turning onto the next street, he coasted down a graceful hill and observed the passing cars and trucks and vans. But when he checked his rearview mirror once more, the van was right behind him. No longer did three or four cars separate them. They were bumper to bumper now.

Daves waited for another intersection and turned left on the next one he came to. The van followed ominously behind, keeping a good distance now, but the fact that it was following him was hardly disguised.

It was a long drive before Daves had reached the inner city. 'Welcome to Noril'sk' a sign greeted him in Russian. Night was falling over the city, and the taller buildings began to glow orange by the window lights. Snow was falling, but only lightly. The past week had been unusually warm for the area, but Daves worshiped the snow now. It was forming a wall between him and his apparent pursuers, as well as a larger gap.

Eventually, they moved out of his sight, at which point he turned off his radio and moved into the left lane, slowing to a halt and then taking his opportunity to pass into an alley. As soon as he had driven in the snow seemed to fade away and darkness washed over him.

He drove down the alley, which was like a ramp, and found it open into a space large enough for a parking lot. Two dumpsters were against two of the buildings that served as walls. Trash was scattered about the dingy stone and concrete and a terrible stench lifted with a path of smoke escaping a nearby vent. Stopping his car, he pulled the keys out of the ignition and dropped them into his pocket. Then, he lifted a heavy black coat from the passenger seat and opened the door of the car.

Stepping out, he swung the coat over his body and slipped his arms through the sleeves. He pulled gloves out of one of the pockets and fit them on his hands before pulling a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches from another.

The match popped to life and singed the end of the cigarette pursed between his soft lips. He dropped the match to the wet concrete and stepped on it, crushing it under his shoe. Then, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he puffed out a great plume of smoke and turned to face his car. Slipping the little thing back between his lips, he unzipped his pants and began to melt away a soda can by his car.

That's when something came through the alley, its lights off and its motor hushed. It rolled over the concrete and stone and appeared in the parking lot-like space, moving up behind Daves who went on releasing himself. The van was big. It was black. And two men sat in the front seats, one fiddling with something beneath the dash board and the other putting his foot on the brakes as his eyes remained motionless on the back of Daves' head.

Pushing a bit of smoke out of the side of his mouth, Daves went on doing his business. The van's door crept silently open and the man in the passenger seat slipped stealthily out, a large silver pistol in his hand. The smoke from the vent nearby became thick and the snow was beginning to come down stronger, more violently, pushing its way into the alley and to the hair on Daves' head.

And as the man took aim with the silver pistol, the other sitting calmly in the big black van, Daves grinned at the soda can beside his car and muttered something.

There was a pang as the silver pistol set loose its first shot, and another as it pricked the brick wall, leaving a sizeable recess where Daves had been. But, as the man readied to fire again Daves was back around, facing him with a heavy black gun in his hand, the one he'd taken from, and in less than a second he'd fired.

The bullet shattered through the man's ribs and punctured his lungs, sending him onto his back. Then, Daves turned quickly, and fired once more at the van. There was a loud noise as the bullet busted through the windshield, followed immediately by a blood-curdling smash and a haunting splash of blood that gave Daves a wonderful sense of excitement.

Turning back to the soda can he smiled. "What did I tell you?" Then, he went over to the man on the ground and watched him gasping, working desperately to hold in the air, to stay alive just a moment longer. But, as his arms wrapped around Daves' leg, gripping tightly at him for mercy, his body failed him and his grip was lost. His body fell limp.

Daves said nothing more, did nothing more, but went back to his car, opened the door, and took a seat behind the wheel. Rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth and shooting one last looked out the frosting window at the horrifying sight that was his own doing, he slipped the keys into the ignition and drove out of the alley and turning back onto the road he would follow for the next couple of hours.

The road to Trinket.