For the first time in the pilot's life, he finally heard his wingman shut up. The last he'd heard out of Merlin besides a missile or guns callout was "Damn, these guys are good."

He didn't mind, but the unusual silence was deafening.

The constant beep of the radar warning receiver had drilled its way into his skull, echoing in his mind, crowding out anything besides the fight at hand. The grey-and-blue Federation Flankers pulled impossibly tight turns, the familiar asymmetry of their tactics laying down a rhythm for the elaborate airborne dance. The Feds would abuse their AoA delimiters while he and his wingman would exploit the lulls in the nimbler fighters' energy. As Cerberus checked behind his plane, he noticed one of the Cobalt Squadron Sk.27s on his tail, sending bursts of thirty-millimeter rounds over his wings. He rolled the stick, pulling into a barrel roll over the top of his flight path. The nimbler Sk.27 would have no choice but to follow; and after glancing at his instruments, his suspicions had been confirmed. The weight of the F/C-15's MLAAs were gone; and there had not been enough fuel to go around, his tank sitting half empty. He grinned to himself.

Set 'em up… He glanced over his shoulder, the Sk.27 having taken the bait. Watch 'em fall.

The Flanker pursued his Eagle, rolling into a scissor pattern with Cerberus' plane. The Federation pilot, though, had another foe to contend with: gravity. As a heat-seeking missile sailed past his cockpit and rocked his plane with the explosion's shockwave, the Sk.27's pilot was struggling to keep pace with the power of his abnormally light Eagle's engines. Feds run their loadouts heavy... the mercenary thought to himself. Never stood a chance in rolling scissors.

The other pilot spiraled with the mercenary, but their loops were erratically dropping further and further towards the ground. What's the old saying? Only way out of rolling scissors is a split-S and a lot of hope. The mercenary chuckled to himself. Not much hope where you're going, Fed.

He glanced towards the top of his canopy, a full view of the other fighter and the ground below, as the Fed flipped that caution-taped switch and punched himself into a ludicrously tight turn to avoid a sharp, sudden stop of a different kind. As the mercenary, suspended much higher in the air, pulled back on the stick and watched the HUD's reticle ease over the Flanker, he smiled. Show's over, son.

A single tap of the trigger, and the rotary gun sent his twenty-millimeter regards.

He didn't bother watching the plane burn. As soon as he had seen the engine explode and the pilot bail, he moved on with the ruthless efficiency of a career killer. Every kill was billable, and even though he most likely wasn't going to be paid for this— all the people signing his checks were dead— not that he, or any other mercenary worth their salt, took checks in the first place. He didn't mind, and he'd gladly do this job pro bono. Killing the man on the other end of the radio would immortalize him forever. Any mercenary who could slay Magadan's dragon— and bring back the flight recorder to prove it— would never have to worry about finding work again. As long as there would be a Federation to hate, people would hate the Federation, and those who did would pay any price they could for the pilot capable of defeating the Federation's most infamous Peacekeeper. Not to mention the immense satisfaction of killing the bastard who had shot down so many of his colleagues.

Speak of the devil. The radio crackled on that open channel, and the self-assured, suave, taunting voice of Zmei, the Magadanian Peacekeeper, the terror of Oceania's skies, the bane of mercenaries, and the greatest adversary the pilot had ever met, broke through the static.

"I should ask, Cerberus." He chuckled. "How much for your wingman's head?"

Fine. I'll bite. "Not for sale, Fed."

"Oh, you can drop the act. Don't bother pretending to have honor. You have nothing more than convictions."

The mercenary didn't answer.

"In truth," the Peacekeeper continued. "I am so, so glad that you two did not take the Federation's generous… counter-offer. A bit too generous, in my eyes. Many of your colleagues may have leapt from their sinking ship. But a rat is still a rat. And I do not believe such a talented exterminator as you needs to be reminded of the fitting end for vermin. Fox two."

The pilot went defensive, evading, dumping flares and watching the missile shoot wide. Missed, bastard. As he smiled, his radar started to tell a different story.

"Shit, Cerberus," Merlin said. "He's on me! Cover me, I've almost got the other one."

"On the way," he replied, turning and burning for the other planes, but he could not stop what was happening. He couldn't launch missiles if he didn't want to risk hitting his wingman, and the cannon was too unpredictable at this range. As he slammed the afterburners, all he could do was watch. "C'mon!—" Merlin shouted over the radio. "Got 'em! Breaki—"

There were two explosions, one ahead of the other. Then there was static.