I woke up coughing, spitting blood into the trashcan next to my bed. Sunlight streamed into the room through the closed blinds.

I was still alive.

Fucking great.

I laid there and stared at the ceiling. For a long time until a knock sounded, followed by the door swinging open. I thought it was Mom and Dad, maybe my sister, Jen. They spent more time here than at home; I'd sent them away yesterday. I was so tired of them seeing me like this, but I'd done it before, and they'd come back, never giving up on me even though I'd given up on myself.

But it wasn't them. It was Doctor Chambers, my oncologist for the last two years, young and pretty, jet black hair and huge green eyes. Single for reasons no one knew, she should've had guys lined up around the block. We joked that we'd have a drink if she was still single when I got out of here.

A fool's dream.

She was holding a manilla folder, and…crying? Her green eyes were water falling all over the street clothes she was wearing, and she looked out of breath.

Had she been running?

"I think…" She tried to suck in a breath, shuddered, and broke…

"I think you owe me a drink."

The world fell away beneath me, I struggled to sit up, and she was right there, dropping the folder in an avalanche of paper, her arms encircling me and pulling me off the bed.

"Angie…" I only used her first name when we were alone, just like I only texted her at night when my thoughts turned evil, "What are you saying?"

And then she broke every rule in the book and kissed me, and I knew she didn't even have to say the words.

But she did, breaking the kiss and pressing her forehead to mine.

"The tumors are almost gone….Zack…Do you understand what this means?"

I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come, so she kissed me again. Holding me at arm's length and smiling through her tears.

"It means you're going to live, you beautiful sonofabitch!"

She yelled the last part so loud that people were peeking in the door, making sure we were okay.

My voice was gone, what little strength was left in my limbs fled, and I sagged against her, my breathing went ragged, thick, and then the burning in my eyes started. I felt it coming, and I was powerless to stop it.

I buried my face in her chest and wailed, the most beautiful relief shooting through me like lightning.

And Angie held me as I came apart.

"A-are we interrupting?"

Mom…

I looked over Angie's shoulder, and my family was standing there, looking confused and a little scared at the sight of the two of us bawling our eyes out.

I felt the strength that my body didn't have welling up inside me, and I pushed myself to my feet shakily; Angie steadied me before letting me go.

Ten steps.

Ten steps across the room that seemed like a country mile, but I made them all, collapsing into Dad's arms, his blue eyes shining with concern as I hugged him.

"Tell them, Angie," I rasped, my abused throat raw from crying.

I felt my dad waver and almost drop when she told them. Remission, the bold treatment, our next to the last-ditch effort, had shrunk the tumors, pulled the cancer from the lymph nodes, and the surgery to get them out of me was already scheduled. Recovery would belong, but I would live.

I could hear Mom and Jen sobbing.

Dad shook as he held onto me, his grip tightening to the point of pain.

Darkness closed in, and I passed out.

I laid on the cool tile until sunlight shone through the windows, rising only to check again if the body was still lying in the gutter; it wasn't; there had been some movement around three am; I didn't want to think who would abscond with a dead body but in a place like this? I wasn't putting shit past the locals.

The shooter had been young; I'd put him at late-teens, and that fucked with me more than it should have; he'd have killed me for getting in the way no matter how old he was.

I dug out a smoke and checked my pupils; they approached normal; thank God for small miracles.

I made my way up to the neglected second floor, pushing open the door to what was supposed to be my living space, a bare mattress on a steel frame that reminded me of the month I'd spent in jail outside of Khartoum, rolled up for some bullshit by government soldiers.

Ah, good times.

My head pounded as the door creaked open. I'd grabbed my suitcase on the way up; it flopped onto the bed, bringing up a cloud of dust. I unzipped it all the way, pulling out a bag of saline and a line.

I spiked the bag and slipped the needle into my arm, feeling the rush of cold liquid as I gently hung it on the corner of the bed frame, sliding to the floor.

The best cure for a hangover.

I mulled over last night, the way things had come down, fast and bloody.

My reflexive anger at Balalaika and her men for breaking contact was gone.

They were protecting their Captain. I couldn't blame them for leaving me on the curb; you got the Precious Cargo out of the ambush zone first; everything else was ancillary. I'd once floored it through an ambush outside of Afrin, leaving three Red Crescent vehicles to get shredded behind me; the load of wounded women and kids I had in the back of the makeshift ambulance took priority.

It didn't make it any easier to live with; I just told myself it was a wash, lives for lives.

"You're a good man…I love you."

Mom's voice whispered in my ear, and I shook my head violently, ignoring the pain from my tugging stitches, and reached for my suitcase; there was a pill bottle in the front pocket that was calling my name.

I'd forgotten them in all of the excitement—a bad move.

...Trauma like this? There are no guarantees about symptoms, but we can expect anything from hallucinations to dizziness, even bursts of anger. It's imperative that we work on a treatment plan to suppress these effects before they appear…

Someone knocked downstairs, and the Doc's words faded, then they tried the buzzer, sending lightning bolts through my abused brain.

It was official. God had it out for my ass.

"Fucking…"

I hauled myself off the floor. Completely forgetting the IV.

Blood and saline drew a high arc as the needle ripped out of my arm.

"COCK…SUCKER!" I yelled to the empty apartment, starting for the door with blood in my eyes.

Someone was gonna fucking die.

I bombed down the steps, heading for the front door and damn near ripping it off the hinges.

"What the fuck?!… do…you…want."

The scarred Sergeant from last night stood there.

And there I stood, in my boxers, shirtless, covered in tattoos and scars, still bleeding a bit from my head wound, looking for all the world like a fucking psycho.

My shoulders slumped; all the fight rushed out of me, replaced by resignation.

"Son of a bitch," I whispered

He smiled, the barest flicker, but it was there.

"The Kapitan requests your presence."

I nodded, sighing, "Allow me a minute to get some clothes on, Sergeant, please come in."

He breezed by me, opting to stand in the lobby, keeping an eye on the street.

I took the stairs as fast as my abused body would let me after getting shot in the head, downing an entire bottle of Kentucky red-eye and staying up for over 36 hours. I dug through the suitcase, throwing on some jeans and a wife-beater, the leather rig followed, I slid the 1911 into the holster and two spare mags opposite, my old and faded safari shirt went over top of everything, light enough to keep the heatstroke at bay and still cover the weapon.

Hardly business wear.

I clomped down the stairs in my battered Salomons, ready for whatever Balalaika had planned.

"Sorry, Sergeant, I didn't pack anything formal; I didn't imagine I'd need it."

His eyes flicked over me before returning to the street, "No need, Mr. Briggs; the Kapitan does not stand on formality. Let us go."

I fell into step behind him, locking the door behind us and following to the glistening Benz that waited curbside. Sweat rolled down my back; the humidity was like a punch in the face. I missed Iraq; at least that was a dry heat.

A couple of kids ran by on spindly legs, brushing past me, laughing.

I instinctively patted for my wallet; you couldn't trust street kids, no matter what language they spoke.

Not like I could blame them, I'd rob me too if I hadn't eaten in a week.

The stoic Russian pulled the back door open and gestured for me to get in; the cold air coming from inside did his job for him. I slipped onto the cool leather with a sigh of relief.

He climbed behind the wheel, and we were off.

I leaned back in the plush seat, watching Roanapur whip by. Hookers stood on corners, beggars infested every alleyway, the weak and the downtrodden.

Exactly who I was here for.

I smiled a little; the only thing I had left was trying to help. If I lived through today, I'd give them everything I had and more.

I dug for a cigarette, "Sergeant, do you mind if I smoke?"

He glanced in the rearview mirror and shook his head, "No, go ahead, please…and you may call me Boris."

My zippo snapped shut, and I blew out a cloud of smoke, "Fair enough, Boris, call me Zack."

"Very well, Zack."

We were quiet for a minute before I asked the question that was burning me as we pulled to a stop at a red light.

"Is your boss going to kill me?"

His eyes widened a little in the rearview; he almost looked shocked.

"Nyet. No, why would you think this?"

I shrugged, "I showed up, someone made a move on her outside the clinic, if I'm in her shoes? I'm wondering if the unknown had anything to do with it."

"You saved her life."

He said it simply, like saying the sky was blue; it was a statement beyond reproach.

I lit another smoke, and a small voice whispered from the dark corners of my brain.

She could always change her mind.

The prospect excited me.

Coward, my mind hissed.

I kept my eyes on the squalor passing by outside the tinted windows.

Anything to distract me.

The rest of the ride passed without incident or another between me and my stoic escort. We pulled into the parking lot of a dated but well-maintained building. Concrete walls and chainlink fence with concertina wire strung up ringed the exterior, armed guards at the gate, and a massive wooden sign adorning the roof.

Bougainvillea Trading Company

The guards waved us through; after a mercifully brief walk across the scorching parking lot, we strode through the lobby; the place looked like a bog-standard office building, if it wasn't for the stone-faced guys with guns every ten feet, I almost would've bought the ruse. Boris gestured for me to stick close as we headed for the elevator.

The ride up was spent in comfortable silence; however, I was uncomfortably aware of the 1911 banging against my ribs, time, and some consideration, making me question my decision to come armed.

The doors slid open, revealing a long hallway, a heavy-looking door at the far end flanked by a sharply-dressed guard. He nodded as we approached, speaking to Boris in rapid-fire Russian.

"Is this the American who saved the Captain?"

Boris nodded, and the guard broke into what I'm sure was his version of a grin, yellow teeth from too many years smoking, set in a friendly face.

He extended his hand, trying at English.

"I… am… fuck how do you say it in English? is good… to meet…"

When I answered in Russian to put the poor guy out of his misery, his eyes bugged a little.

"The pleasure is all mine, my friend," I shook his hand, smiling, "Call me, Zack."

He recovered quickly, his smile returning, "I am Alexei. Thank you for saving our Captain; she means…a great deal to all of us here."

"I'd do nothing differently, Alexei, but you don't need to thank me, right place, right time. Or wrong time, I suppose."

I pointed at the side of my head, and he chuckled, "Still, you intervened, and that means something," he looked at Boris, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression; the big Sergeant nodded.

Alexei was all business when he returned his gaze to mine, "Arms up, Zack, procedure is procedure."

"Fair warning Alexei, I'm armed, if I may?"

He nodded, his hand edging to his hip; I pulled off my overshirt and shrugged out of my rig, passing it to him slowly before raising my arms again; he patted me down quickly.

"He's clean, Sergeant."

Boris nodded, "Thank you, Alex. Zack? Knock, and you may enter; the Captain wanted to meet with you privately."

That set the bells ringing a little, "Understood, Sergeant." I gave Alexei another nod and a smile, stepping past him to rap my knuckles on the heavy oak.

"Come in!" Came Balalaika's smooth voice from the other side

I pushed the door open and stepped into the wolf's den. The office was surprisingly normal; a few bookcases lined the far wall, a map of Roanapur dominated the space behind a large desk where the head of Hotel Moscow sat, scribbling something on a notepad; she looked up when I shut the door. A smile breaking across her face.

"Ah, Zack, come, sit." She gestured at the chair across from her.

The tone of her voice was almost saccharine, and that worried me, the display last night when she'd threatened to end my shit for stepping a toe out of line, that was the real her, whatever this affectation was, it was just that… false.

I slid into the high backed leather chair and waited as she dotted some I's. She stalled for a moment when she finished, gently tapping the pen on the paperwork.

Trying to find the words was a weird look on her.

Finally, she huffed, "Last night was…unfortunate… I don't say this often, but thank you. How are you feeling?" Her blue eyes fixed on my green ones, her tone sincere.

Was this real life, or am I being fucking pranked?

I stuttered like a cold engine, "I-I'm fine ma'am, exhausted and a little hungover. My head hurts a bit. But I'll live."

She slid her hand into a pocket, coming out with a steel case, drawing a cigar from inside and lighting it, setting the ashtray between us. I took that as my cue and lit up.

"I am… happy to hear it." She blew out a cloud of smoke, and her expression changed; the light fled from her eyes. I was facing down the trained soldier again, the mob boss that terrified anyone in this city that had a bit of sense; it was like the flick of a light switch, "Now I have to ask, why did you put yourself between the shooter and me, moreover, who trained you? CIA? MI6? Or maybe SVR? Have you come to finish the Motherland's dirty work, Comrade? Tell me why I shouldn't tie up the loose end and kill you right now?"

She slipped in and out of Russian at the end, watching me for a reaction.

"Nobody does what you did without some kind of catch; what's yours? Are you working with Chang? Sacrificing the pawn to get close to the Queen?"

"Get this bitch,"

Jen's voice hissed at me. My head started to hurt, I felt my anger begin to rise, and something snapped.

Balalaika would skin me alive to prove a point and forget my name the next day, and I was about to give her all the reason she needed, but I was too far gone to care.

My voice rose and venom laced every word.

"I gained a lot of experience protecting innocent people from animals like you. Want to hear the worst part of all of this?"

She held my gaze with that lifeless look, "I can barely contain my excitement."

I chuckled mirthlessly, fuck what came next… I took a drag off my smoke and ground it out in the ashtray.

"That kid probably had every reason in the world to want you dead, he was probably the good guy here, and I blew his fucking head off to save your miserable life." I spat the word at her.

"I'm starting to think I made a mistake, that I should've let you take that bullet instead of catching this little souvenir," I pointed at the still bloody wound," So spare me, please, I've been through hell already, lady, and it doesn't look anything like you. Am I clear?" I sneered, throwing her words from last night back in her face.

I was panting; somewhere during my rant, I'd stood up, planting one hand on her desk and leaning toward her, jabbing my finger in her face. I was sure I looked murderous.

She hadn't budged; her blue eyes blazed at me, her scars coloring along with the rest of her face; she was white-knuckling the edge of her desk with one hand, the other held a Stechkin Automatic, the barrel locked on the bridge of my nose.

Well and truly fucked now, boy-o.

I dropped my hands, straightening up and grabbing my cigarettes, lighting one as she rose; the gun never wavered. I took a deep drag, leaving the smoke hanging from the corner of my mouth, met those blazing blue eyes, and closed my own; I heard her stop around the desk, felt her get close.

I waited for it.

And waited…

The shot never came, but the pistol did the moment I opened my eyes, whipping me across the jaw hard enough to knock me to a knee, drawing a line of blood across the floor. My cigarette flew into the ether as I took the hit.

"Fuck…" I growled, angry that she hadn't just done it already. I chanced a lookup, and she kicked me in the face, breaking my nose with a crunch and opening the graze back up with a pop of broken stitches that made me want to puke. I rolled onto my side, feeling the blood running over my face.

"You. Little. Fucker. Who do you think you are?" Her voice was low and deadly.

I tried to get up, and she kicked me again in the ribs this time.

She hits like a fucking freight train.

"The only reason you're not a stain on my carpet right now is that you interceded on my behalf. That only grants you so much credit; I will ask you one more time. Who are you?"

I spat blood on the floor, my open wounds screaming, "I'm an aid worker from Med-Rescue International, I couldn't give a shit about-" The second my voice started to rise again, she kicked me like she was going for a penalty shot and I felt a rib crack.

"Keep your temper with me before I lose mine."

I sucked in a breath, keeping my voice level as blood ran down my throat from my busted nose. "I'm not here to endanger your operation, I'm not a spy, and I'm not a cop, I'm just trying to do something good… That's all."

I was pleading with her now, old memories welling up.

Either kill me or let me work, just don't kick me back into a world that has no place for me anymore.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Something dropped onto the floor next to my hand, something floral printed.

I grabbed the handkerchief and pressed it to my bleeding face, ignoring the superficial wounds opened up by her blows and focusing on the graze, gently pushing myself off the floor, waiting for the hit that never came. A hand grabbed my shirt and roughly pulled me the rest of the way up, spinning me around and slamming my hips into the desk.

Balalaika got right in my face, so close I could smell her perfume, and I felt the barrel of her weapon slip under my chin. Her blue eyes were flat, dead.

"You're alive right now because I'm in a good mood; I hope for your sake that you're telling the truth."

I stared back at her, trying to stay tough, but all the fight was gone.

"I know you have no reason to trust me… and whatever comes of that is what comes…but I've been nothing but truthful." I swallowed blood, feeling a little sick at the taste of iron; my voice warbled a bit, raw from smoking and exhaustion.

I thought she might shoot me anyway. But she pulled the barrel away, letting go of my shirt and stepping back. Leaving me to sag against the desk, I reached up slowly to set my nose, the sharp crack of it slipping back into place followed by a rush of blood. I pressed the handkerchief against it, tilting my head back, feeling blood start to pour down my throat.

I heard the tinkling snap of a Zippo, and a hand bumped into my shoulder, offering me my smokes; I slipped one between my cut lips, digging for my lighter.

"Allow me." The snap of her Zippo sounded again, and I pulled on the cigarette until it glowed.

"Thanks."

I chanced a look over at her; she was leaning against the desk next to me, staring ahead blankly when she spoke; her voice was wholly in control.

"I know a good deal more about you than you may realize, which is another reason I'm willing to forgive that little tantrum."

The remark stung, but I kept my mouth shut, and she continued.

"Your sufferings are hardly my concern, until they are; if we are to continue our business relationship, that will be the last time you ever raise your voice to me."

I blew out a cloud of blue-tinged smoke and nodded, "I was out of line, and I apologize."

She surprised the hell out of me when she leaned over and knocked her shoulder into mine, drawing my gaze. She reached a delicate hand up to sweep her hair back and tug her collar down, revealing more of her swan-like neck and the burn scars that covered it.

"Don't feel too poorly about it. I had to learn how to keep my mouth shut too."

My eyebrow raised of its own accord at the small show of humanity and camaraderie, "Point well-made, ma'am."

She let her collar go, brushing her hair back over the scars and sighing, a long-suffering sound as she regarded the wall in front of us.

"Balalaika."

I almost fumbled my cigarette, all formality forgotten, "Come again?"

She looked over at me, holding my gaze, "Call me, Balalaika."

I stared right back for a long moment, finally blinking slowly.

"Okay,…Balalaika."

A smile ghosted over her lips, and she reached into her suit jacket, withdrawing a thick envelope, holding it out to me.

"Something for your trouble."

I shifted the handkerchief to my other hand, plucking the envelope from her perfectly manicured fingers. Trying to open it while holding pressure proved difficult; she watched me for a moment before huffing, taking the envelope, and slicing it open with a fingernail.

"Before you hurt yourself."

I couldn't help the chuckle that slipped out of me, giving her a wan smile through the blood, "Wouldn't want me to get hurt, would we?"

She gave me a thin smile that was almost sheepish in return, and I counted it as a miracle before handing the envelope back.

Bills cascaded from inside, all hundreds, even my addled mind could tell that there was a couple of grand here. The shock must have shown on my face.

"Consider it payment for handling yourself admirably. You didn't come here with much, did you?"

I shook my head, racing to catch up with the tonal whiplash.

She stubbed out her cigar, returning her gaze to mine, "Wonderful. Now, I believe our business is concluded for the moment. We'll be in touch, Mr. Briggs." An elegant hand waved me toward the door.

I took my cue and headed out, pausing when my hand touched the knob.

"Zack."

"Hmm?" Her questioning hum came from over my shoulder, and I glanced back at her; she regarded me evenly.

"Call me Zack."

Her lips quirked imperceptibly, not quite a smile, "Very well, Zack, Until next time."

I stepped into the hallway; Boris and Alexei both pulled a double-take when they took in my ruined state.

"Bozhe Moy," Alexei whispered. Oh my God

I nodded weakly, "I think we came to an agreement."

Boris darted forward and caught me as I started to crumble, pushing me back to my feet.

"Thanks."

He shook his head, "Crazy fucking American. You should know better."

I nodded, his reaction told me he'd heard the whole thing, but he knew his commander well enough to know she had it in hand. I didn't know if I was offended or not. I smiled, hissing immediately as a few more cuts made themselves known, "Now you tell me."

A few hours later, I was in the shower in my little hovel above the clinic. blood sluiced off me, swirling down the drain, as I braced my hands on the wall, trying to stay upright.

I'd restitched my face and done what I could for everything else with what little I had. A couple of painkillers and my regular pills went down the hatch, and now I was feeling right as rain.

The world was blurry, and that was just how I needed it after the insanity of the last day or so.

I finished up, toweling off and stumbling into bed; the song of Roanapur played from outside my window, someone argued in the street below, gunfire ripped the air off in the distance, and sirens raced by.

No memories came knocking as I drifted off, just blissful numbness…

And blazing blue eyes.

The buzzer woke me up, ripping me from a dream I couldn't remember but left a smile on my face despite the interruption; I rolled for my cell, a little after two in the afternoon. I'd been out for over twenty hours.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and a thin t-shirt, throwing my gun over it, totally unconcerned with how it looked, wandering downstairs as the buzzer sounded over and over.

"I'm coming! Hold your fuckin' horses," I finished, muttering the last bit lest I piss off someone else.

I opened the door and found myself face to face with a decidedly Asian dude, longish black hair and dark eyes, dressed in a button-down and slacks like he was headed to the office, a small polite smile on his face.

Behind him was an absolute hammer of a woman, dark hair and amber eyes that lifted ever so slightly at the corners suggesting some Asiatic there too; her lips were twisted into a scowl.

She was dressed in a tight black crop top and unbuttoned jean shorts that left very little to the imagination, mile-long legs encased in old Jungle boots. I clocked that she was armed; two stainless Berettas hung under her arms in a custom shoulder rig.

The Asian guy opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"About fuckin' time! You have any idea how long we've been ringing the bell?!"

And she wears the pants.

Trackin'

The kid continued like she hadn't just jumped in, "Hello Mr. Briggs, I'm Rokuro Okajima, and this is Revy Lee, we represent the Lagoon Company on behalf of Ms. Balalaika, and we're here to deliver some supplies."

I leaned around them, spying a moving truck and offering the kid a smile.

"I was told to expect the supplies closer to the end of the week. But this works for me, buddy. I appreciate it. Can I get you guys anything?"

The woman, Revy, was fuming behind him. She looked as nuts as I felt half the time, rolling her eyes at my question, "Rock, when you two are finished blowin' each other, I'll be in the truck, doing some real work."

She turned on a heel, heading for the open bay of the rig. I'm not ashamed to say that I looked.

I wish I had a swing like that in my backyard.

"Rock" looked a little sheepish, "I'd like to apologize for my colleague; she can be a little…"

"Acerbic? Bitchy?" I offered.

He chuckled, "Both, but I'd stop short of mentioning it."

I nodded, grinning, "Yeah, I'll keep it to myself. Let me grab a couple of bottles of water, and we'll get to work." I stuck out my hand, "Call me Zack. Rock, is it?"

He nodded, shaking my hand, "A nickname, one that I can't escape, it seems."

I walked back into the lobby, beckoning for him to follow, heading for my office, "I don't know why you'd want to, pretty sick as far as nicknames go." I popped the fridge, grabbing at the few bottles of water I'd stashed there, tossing one to Rock.

A thud came from out front, followed by a loud growl, "ANY FUCKIN' TIME NOW, BOYS!"

I raised an eyebrow at him, "Oh, I like her; such a delicate flower has no place in this shit hole, truly."

Rock cracked up as we hustled to help out.

A few hours and tongue lashings from the short-fused chick later, we'd unloaded everything and packed it into the building; I had a full suite of supplies, from surgical to pharmaceutical. The overflow was securely in the basement, and it was time for a fucking drink.

I tossed a bottle of water to Revy, and for the first time all day, there was no snappy comeback as she caught it smoothly, downing half the bottle in one go, nodding her thanks. I leaned on the door frame, sweating through my clothes; Rock, who'd ditched his tie and rolled his sleeves up, stood opposite, the A/C from inside washing over us both.

I broke the silence, "So Rock, is there a place to get twisted close by? I need a beer, big time."

He nodded, "There's the Yellow Flag; it's about six blocks that way," he pointed off to the North, "It's rowdy, but a decent place to have a drink. We're all regulars there; I'd say it'll keep you satisfied."

"Fair enough," I dug in my pocket; no matter what, I was a country boy at heart, and nobody does that kinda work without getting a little extra.

"I know Balalaika paid you already, but here." I peeled off a couple hundred for him and a couple hundred for Revy.

"Ms. Lee?" I called out, "C'mere, please?"

I could hear the eye roll from the other side of the truck, "Ms. Lee, huh? I'm not fuckin' you, no matter how polite you are!"

"Jesus, she's really dainty, huh? That's not an act she puts on for new people? So refined." I muttered.

Rock coughed, trying to camouflage his laugh as Revy came swinging around the rig.

"Fuckin' what?" She stopped, planting a hand on her hip, but her angry eyes lit up when I handed her the folded bills.

"Thanks for sticking around to help; a lot of people would've ditched the shit and bailed, so there ya go, drinks are on me."

She whooped a little, throwing an arm around Rock, beaming at him. "Hear that, Rocky baby! We're gonna get fuccckkeed up!"

Rock managed a weak smile through the borderline headlock.

I smiled at the little interaction, remembering the way she'd oriented herself around him all day, covering him even as they moved boxes. He was fucked, even if he didn't know it yet.

"Happy to help guys; I'm gonna pull some inventory and lock up, go do some drinking of my own; you guys said the place was called Yellow Flag?"

Rock nodded, rubbing his neck now that Revy had let him go, "That's it. As I said, we're regulars; maybe we'll see you there."

"Sounds good, bud; thanks again, guys."

Revy waved me off, hopping in the rig without a word; Rock smiled, "Anytime, Zack. Have a good evening."

"You too, man, good luck with…" I jerked my head at the cab, "All that."

His eyes got a far off kind of look that you usually saw on soldiers after a fight, the thousand-yard stare.

"Yeah…I need it."

I laughed all the way back inside as the truck rumbled off.

The place was starting to look like an honest to god clinic, I'd still have to scrub the floors like a bastard, but she'd shine eventually.

My cell pinged; I'd almost forgotten about it in the chaos of the last few days; a text from Dave lit up the screen.

Still alive?

I opted just to call him back; he answered after a beat.

"Hey kid, thought we lost you."

"Nah, not yet; I had some issues, though."

Concern laced his voice, "What kind of issues?"

I leaned against the reception desk, "Someone took a shot at our benefactor, I stepped in and caught a graze for my trouble, then a fucking beating, but that was all me; I lost my cool and paid for it. Bottom line up front? We're supplied and ready, no lasting bullshit."

His sigh was legendary, "You never cease to amaze me bud, I should've laid it out; the Russkies are nothing to fuck with, but we needed a foot in the door, and they were it."

"Don't beat yourself up brother, what's an ass-whoopin' between friends?"

"Tuned your ass up, huh?"

I snorted, "And that was after I almost took a hot one to the face, had to stitch myself up and everything. Like I said, I lost my cool, hadn't slept, little hungover, and I put the whole fucking op in jeopardy, acting like a pissed off teenager. Balalaika damn near busted my ass into a coma."

"The boss did that to you?" He sounded taken aback.

"Oh yeah, have you met her?"

"No. We set the deal up through her second in command. But her reputation is...rough."

I shifted the phone to my other hand and lit a smoke, "Well, she's something… about six foot flat in heels, and she hits like a bus—no harm, no foul, though.

He laughed, "I worry about you sometimes. I really do. But I'm glad you're okay, kid."

"Me too, bro. It could've been a real short trip. But I'm gonna do my best."

"I know you will, Zack."

I smiled; Dave and his family were an anchor I desperately needed.

"So, when is my back up getting here?"

That's…complicated. Africa's heating up again, fucking Boko Haram is up to some mess; the Red Cross is trying to handle forty thousand IDPs. And we're trying to help."

Internally Displaced Persons, refugees in their own country, shit was rough all over.

"Scumbags, I guess that means I'm on my own?"

"It means you stand fast, do what you can until we can spare some extra people."

I nodded like a dope before remembering that he couldn't see me, "Can do, will do. Just like Rio, I had a great time there too."

"We remember Rio very differently."

I chuckled, "Yeah, but if you can't laugh about it, what's the point?"

"The less I have to watch you almost die, the better."

"Seconded, listen, I'm gonna go get drunk in a pirate bar."

"God in heaven…I…just be careful."

"No promises, thanks for checking in, brother. I'll keep you updated."

"Please, Kathy and the boys send their best, by the way."

I smiled; I missed them all.

"Give 'em my love. Stay safe, brother."

"You too, man."

I killed the call, grabbing my overshirt off the desk and slinging it on; a quick check of my stitches in the mirror surface of the front window, and I locked up on my way out.

Heading for the Yellow Flag.

A/N: So you don't raise your voice to Balalaika. Period. Rock and Revy make an appearance, and our boy is headed into the Lion's Den!

A reviewer rightly called me out the last chapter for making it seem like H.M. ran from the battlefield. In this chapter, I addressed that, but I wanted to go a little more in-depth to explain my point.

In military units charged with Close Protection of a VIP, when shots are fired, the first priority is to get whoever they're guarding away from the area. No real unit would stay and slug it out unless there was no other choice, and I wanted to portray H.M. as the highly trained soldiers they are in this regard. I wasn't trying to make the MC out like a badass while everyone else is just a pack of chumps, and I certainly didn't mean for it to come off like Balalaika and her guys rabbited out of anything other than highly planned and rehearsed tactics.

I hope this satisfies. Chapter Three will be out soon!