A/N: Okay, for those of you wondering what's going on with me, here's the story. I just finished a major class, and I now have more time to write. The quality of my work elsewhere has been, to say the least, shoddy. The Crew has become really bad, and I'm just plogging along, scraping together enough words to explain the plot. So, in an attempt to give you people something decent to read, I'm re-writing The Crew. The Crew: Redux is my re-make. Yay. It's got a few new plot elements, and is done in a much more satisfying manner. The character development's been re-vamped, and I hope you're all pleased with the results. For the time being, I'm going to leave the original Crew up, but when I get to where I left off there in Redux, I'm going to remove it.
THIS IS NOT A SEQUAL.
(Insert normal legal crap here. Blah, blah, blah.)
Georgii Fedorov entered the darkened room, his weapon raised in one hand with his torch in the other. He swept along the floor with the light, checking for anything out of the ordinary. It had rained all that day, so a mud trail of footprints would be an intruder's dead giveaway. Finding no such precursor, he turned on the nearby table lamp. The log cabin's interior brightened, but not enough to remove the darkness that came with so rustic a house. It didn't even have a toilet.
"It's clear," the silver-haired wolf announced, holstering his weapon in the small of his back. He lowered his black leather jacket over it and smoothed out the hide. "Come on," he coaxed, not looking back. "It's safe, I promise." Fedorov slowly turned around, taking in the room. The dark blue couch was where it had been left, the bed was still in the corner, the mattress curled into a roll and covered in plastic to keep out insects.
Georgii fixed his attention to the doorway. "Hurry up!" he demanded, his patience wearing thin. Ian O'Connely slowly entered, clutching his dark green duffel bag to his chest. His eyes darted from one corner to the next, paranoia still racking his fatigued brain. "We're miles away from the nearest building in the middle of a huge forest," Fedorov reminded the hound. "There are five other officers outside. You're safe." Fedorov took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a wooden rocking chair. He sat on the couch and motioned to the kitchenette. "Why don't you make something to drink? We keep this place well stocked. You might even find something Irish."
O'Connely placed his bag on the couch and rubbed his hands together, more out of tension than from the cold. He stepped onto the small semicircle of tile that marked the boundary between living room and kitchen and addressed the small battery of cabinets. Fedorov looked around the room one more time before Lars Dahl came in from outside.
"All clear!" He announced with a grin. He closed and locked the door behind himself as he entered, and took off his jacket, his wardrobe identical to Fedorov's. The off-white bear sat on the arm of the couch, watching O'Connely silently prepare two drinks. "He say anything yet?" Dahl whispered to Fedorov, who failed to hear him. "Hey!" Fedorov pulled himself out of his thoughts and turned his head.
"Hmm?"
"Did he say anything yet?" Fedorov shrugged. O'Connely had been silent since they left the city, his head hung loosely in front of him, like he felt bad about doing the right thing.
"Hey, it's better than the last guy we had to baby-sit!" Dahl stifled a chuckle with the palm of his hand. A class with brown liquid and ice was handed to Fedorov. "Oh, thank you, Ian." Suddenly, the lights flickered. The steady drone from the petrol generator outside began to waver. Fedorov furrowed his brow and approached the window.
"Hey!" he shouted, tapping on the glass. Two of the guards from outside were doing something to the red machine. "Stop that!" They saluted casually and backed away. Immediately, the flickering stopped. "Idiots," Fedorov muttered. He turned back around and couldn't help but groan at what he saw. O'Connely's hand was shaking so much he had begun to spill his drink.
"Calm down," Dahl pleaded, putting a hand on O'Connely's shoulder. When Ian wouldn't move, Dahl stood and guided the man into a chair. "Poor guy. He's terrified."
"It's getting to be annoying," Fedorov grunted. He smelled and took a sip from his glass, finding the flavor distinctly foreign. He pointed with his drink, "Hey, bottoms up, comrade!" the desired effect being O'Connely's imbibation of something to soothe his nerves. It didn't work. Georgii checked his watch. Darkness came early during the Russian autumn, and it was only about five-thirty in the afternoon. He had to watch O'Connely for two more days, that is, unless, he got a bleeding ulcer first. But, Georgii thought, I'll probably get the ulcer.
"All watches," Dahl had picked up a walkie-talkie and held it up to his mouth, "this his House, check in."
"North Watch to House, all clear."
"West Watch to House, all clear."
"East Watch to House, all clear."
"South Watch to House--" there was a long delay. "Just the trashcan. All clear." Dahl placed the radio onto the chipped coffee table and stood up. He walked into the broom closet and reached up to the ceiling. He pulled down a tape recorder, pressed Record, connected it to a loose wire, and replaced it in its hidden cubby.
"Okay, we're all set," he said, dusting his hands off on his jeans. He sat himself down again and slowly ran his fingers over the short hair covering his skull. Fedorov was still at the window, sipping at his drink thoughtfully. He watched a line of clouds slide in, partially covering the large yellow moon. One of the other officers walked along the tree line, machine pistol hanging by its sling around his arm.
A draft crept past, making its way up the cuffs of Fedorov's pants. He looked over his shoulder, to the fireplace. He took some split logs from the supply in the corner and placed them on the iron grid a few inches above the dense brick. Using his lighter and some old newspapers as kindling, Fedorov quickly got the dry wood to catch and soon had a small but warm fire burning. Several minutes had passed since he last looked at O'Connely. He didn't see it happen, but as soon as Ian felt the warmth from the flames, his head rolled to one side and he fell asleep in the plush easy chair. He hadn't slept in three days, and it caught up with him rather suddenly.
"Lars," Fedorov whispered across the room. Dahl looked up from the magazine he was reading. He opened his mouth to ask, but saw what Georgii was going to say. Dahl sighed and leaned back on the couch.
"Finally," he said quietly. He used his toe to push the heel of his shoe off, and used the toe of his other foot to take off the other shoe. He stacked his feet on the table and wiggled his toes, cracking the joints and letting out a contented sigh. "Maybe this won't be so bad, eh?" he suggested.
"Perhaps." Fedorov sat on the other end of the couch and did the same as Dahl. He watched the fire for an hour, and tossed another log on. Between the alcohol and the warmth, he was asleep inside twenty minutes.
Fedorov awoke slowly. The room was dark and cool. The fire had been out for some time, and someone had turned off the light. O'Connely had moved from the chair to the bed, and Dahl had taken Ian's place in the far more comfortable chair. Georgii's watch read two-thirteen in the morning. He stood and shuffled over to the window. The watches had condensed into two shifts of two. One slept while the other patrolled. Not exactly procedure, but there had never been any danger at that house. Nobody had ever figured out what it was used for, and there had never been an attempt on a witness's life in the history of the location. There was no need for extreme caution. Fedorov was about to turn away when something caught his ear. It was a high, motorized whine, very far away. Georgii pressed his ear to the frigid glass and listened. It was definitely an engine. Perhaps a chainsaw or a motorbike from the next cabin, a mile away. In the cold, dry, silent air, sound traveled very well.
The son of an Army Major stretched himself out on the couch again, this time removing his holster and hiding the pistol under his jacket. He placed his feet on the left armrest as he rested his head against the right armrest. The fire had raised the temperature of the room to just above twenty degrees; ideal for a comfortable night's sleep. Fedorov's mind wandered back home, to the woman waiting for him. He thought of her face, her eyes, her body, and finally stopped on the ring. How the hell was he going to afford that? He'd proposed just before a major pay cut for the department. Maybe she would settle for a band-aid wrapped in tin foil? No, she deserves more than that. Well, of course she does.
A loud clicking noise caught his attention. It came from outside. Fedorov sat up and walked to the window. It was darker than before, the moonlight blocked by a thick cloud cover. He pressed his face to the glass and looked left and right. A weird lump on the grass caught his attention. Georgii studied it for a moment, unsure of what it was. It wasn't until a part in the clouds let some light down did he recognize the shape. Two of the outside officers were lying on the ground, face down.
"Lars!" Fedorov whispered, shaking his partner awake.
"Gnnwhat?" Lars groaned. Fedorov put a hand over his mouth to silence him.
"We've got a problem!" Fedorov pointed out the shapes and explained what he saw. He found his shoes and slid them on. He picked up his jacket and rushed to the door. "Stay with Ian, I'm going out there." There was no discussion. Dahl crept over to O'Connely and crouched next to the bed. Fedorov unlocked the front door and stepped down onto the soft earth. He ran over to the shapes and knelt down.
"Klim? Burian?" He called their names as he shook each body. He pulled his hand away. It was sticky with blood. Fedorov saw the holes in their jackets. They'd been riddled with bullets. Georgii looked around. Two more weird lumps lay near the van, their fate probably the same as the two he'd already found.
"Freeze!" Dahl shouted. There was a single shot, then nothing. Fedorov rushed through the front door, his stance wide and ready. A lab cloaked in black stood over Dahl's body, holding a silenced Uzi in his hands. O'Connely was curled into the fetal position against the wall, watching the assassin reload his weapon.
"Marvin?" O'Connely asked, his last word cracking in his throat. The assassin finished reloading, pressed the end of the silencer to Ian's head, and fired.
"Shit!" Fedorov cursed when he saw the crimson splash against the wall. The assassin turned quickly, adjusting his aim as he did. Fedorov's eyes went wide and he ducked to his right as fast as he could, to take cover behind the couch. A stinging sensation started in his hip, and began to burn hotter and hotter. From the floor, Georgii clutched at his thigh. He'd been hit. The lab with the uzi stepped around the couch, his masked face hiding everything but his eyes. Fedorov held up a hand with the other gripping his waist. He pushed himself away with his uninjured leg, his heart pounding in his neck. "No!" He pleaded, continuing to back away. "Don't kill me! Please!" The assassin tilted his head to one side, slightly amused at the policeman's attempt to keep his life. Fedorov backed into a wall. Damn! "Come on!" he begged, smiling slightly, trying to endear himself to whatever heart the lab might have. "Don't--" he flinched when the assassin leaned down, bringing the searing hot silencer to the side of Fedorov's face. He wolf shrieked at the new sensation, and tried to push the weapon away. The assassin backhanded Fedorov, knocking him onto his stomach. He coughed twice and turned himself over on one arm. "No, please!" The lab pulled the trigger and didn't let go until the weapon began to click, thirsty for more bullets.
He left through the window in which he came and disappeared into the forest.
