Cold.

February of 1993.

Kiev, Ukraine.

Emotional stability is an important trait in a spy. Larry was a poster child for instability, but his penchant for getting things done helped the company overlook that. In cases less extreme than his, it could be the beginning of the end. Nightmares. Irrational fears. Sorrow. Grief. Long days with a bottle in hand, toying with a gun, staring down the barrel.

I obsessed over those thoughts – thoughts of losing it, losing myself. Nightmares kept me up at night, and paranoia haunted me during the day. I was looking over my shoulder too much, suspecting everyone. Was this how it happened? Was this the beginning of the end?

I had one constant, at least. Ukraine. A place I was familiar with, comfortable in. It was bitterly cold, February, and weeks of intrigue and information gathering had brought me to this interview. It was a return to form, making me feel normal again. And it was just me this time, no Larry to whisper in my ear. I wasn't sure I could handle working with him right now. His voice might be the nudge that sent me flying into the abyss.

No, doing something familiar was for the best.

Denis sat there, tapping his fingers on the polished wooden table between us. He was missing half of his left ring finger, and the others on that hand were heavily scarred. Bomb-maker. He reeked of it. He appeared paranoid, impatient.

None of my other leads had panned out. He was my last chance.

"I'm happy that I finally found you," I said in Russian. "I've been waiting a long time."

His eyes poured over me. He wasn't a hardened criminal, not like the other people I had interviewed for this mission, but he wasn't soft, either. His life had clearly had its ups and downs. But he'd made a cozy little home for himself, rigged with explosives. He owned expensive art, real furs, had a hot tub in his living room. Bombs were good business.

"What? Nothing to say?" I produced a folder. Bad guys hated it when you had a folder. It was full of pictures of him, mostly at the auction. "Okay, I'll do the talking. This is you last week, attending what was, apparently, an estate sale. A private event, not open to the public." I flipped to another picture, of a cabinet. "High price for that, don't you think?"

Denis said, "Who are you? Police?"

"Call me Michael," I responded shortly, and then changed my mind. "Michael Westen."

His eyes narrowed.

I continued flipping through the pictures, showing him frame after frame of items going up for bid, culminating in an antique lamp that people were offering millions for.

"You give me a way to find you," Denis said.

"I want you to know my name," I responded shortly, pointedly. I met his eyes, cool and confident. "When I find the team in possession of this… lamp… I want everyone to know what happened to them." I stood up, coming to his side of the table, propping myself up on the edge, holding onto his gaze. "I want you to tell them I did it."

His confidence faltered. "Who are you?" he repeated.

"I'm a man with a goal, and right now, my goal has a roadblock. You. You have information that I need. I could waste my time threatening you, taking off toes, telling you where I'll bury your family." I paused for dramatic effect. "Or, you can give me what I want and be on your way."

"And be killed before I make it home."

"Don't worry about that." I leaned in, and whispered, "Unless you're afraid of ghosts."

He hesitated, "What do you-?"

"I want the next thing you say to be pertinent," I cut in. "I want their location. The Spetsnaz team. I know they have the bomb."

I waited, and waited, while Denis agonized over his options.

Finally, when I thought my approach might not be working, he said, "Komi Republic, in the far north. I can show you on a map."

XxXxX

Komi Republic.

Russia.

The Komi Republic is a territory a million strong, under the rule of the Soviet state. Most of its territory is taiga and boreal forests, the frozen woods. It was harsh and cold that far north, an unforgiving land with hardy people. And, apparently, a nuclear warhead.

Once I was there, the terrain became the greatest challenge. It was easy enough to get the locals to direct me to the northern border, where a team of strangers had ousted a family from their home – half of the family froze to death on their way to the closest village. It was safe to say the locals were bitter. Information was forthcoming. I knew how long they had been here, their comings and goings, the way they got around. All-terrain vehicles with heavy chains on the wheels. And although they were Russian by birth, their accents were harsh and out of place.

I journeyed north with a compass and a map. My borrowed vehicle took me to the edge of the forest, and I followed a well-worn hunting trail into the wilds.

Cold could not begin to describe the way it felt in that forest. The trees dulled the wind, but breathing was like sucking in a thousand needles. I had a bandana wrapped around my face, a mask over my eyes, but the cold prevailed. It made my throat raw, chapped my lips, burned my eyes. I couldn't feel my thighs, my butt, my back. At night I hunkered down in a thermal sleeping bag, zipping myself completely inside, and then emerging like a butterfly in the bitterly cold morning.

Misha was the leader of the team, according to the locals. He must have brought his team out here earlier in the winter. They remembered the family dying around November, but he could have been in the country far longer than that. It was unsettling, to imagine how long Misha had access to a weapon of mass destruction – not for much longer.

As winter came, he hunkered down, figuring it was safe to put it up for auction. Even if someone found out they were up here, they would never travel there in February. Sure, winter was petering out as the month dragged on, but there was a reason Russia had won against France. Only a fool would invade them in the winter. All they had to do was retreat and wait. Foreigners would succumb to the cold, believing themselves too smart, too tough, to be taken.

But Misha had miscalculated.

Most would not risk coming up here, but I had nothing else to do. I threw myself into this mission, determined to do something good to balance out what I had done to Mateo and Jason. Nothing was going to stop me. Something deep down hoped that I never made it out, but the stronger part, the vengeful part, knew that I would make it. I was a survivor.

It was a remote location, difficult to get to, difficult to hide near, so the team didn't bother patrolling. They kept no watch. I stayed behind the trees, stiff from all the waiting. Something about their confidence bugged me.

Out back, under a tarp, lay their prize.

A weapon that could flatten this forest.

I waited until nightfall, when the temperature began to drop sharply. The forest was dark, almost pitch black, but the house glowed. They had a fire going, showing their positions through the windows. I armed myself, steadied myself, and went inside.

XxXxX

Larry once told me that Spetsnaz teams were one of the most elite fighting forces in the world. Tough as nails. Afraid of nothing. Trained to infiltrate, to surprise their enemies, to destroy them before they even thought to defend themselves.

I suppose I would have made a good Spetsnaz.

I left them in the cold, dead wastes beyond the reach of civilization, where even the howls of their spirits would never be heard again.

And as I drove away, I felt them following me, haunting me already.