"-!" Alfred was rendered speechless by the other's swift movements. He'd never seen anyone so big move so fast! As his revolver skimmed helplessly over the street's icy surface, the American struggled to keep his footing while retreating backwards. His parka hood had fallen during the attack, revealing his fluttering, sandy hair and giving a better glimpse of vibrant eyes.

His expression of shock was quickly replaced with one of spite. He wasn't going to accompany his foe anywhere. Obedience would only result in death. He had no rights in this country. It's icy people could treat him with nothing but cruelty. At this point, it would be crazier to cooperate then to fight to the death on the spot. 'Today's the day.' He thought bitterly, 'Im going to die. But I'm taking you with me.'

There were several feet between them; Enough so that he could lean to grasp a wood plank within arms reach without falling victim to an attack. He wasn't even going to pretend to listen to the others demands. It was a sorry substitute for a gun - specially against the others weapon. But it had range. He positioned the plank between himself and his giant captor. "Ha, hahaha...Go to hell."

Desperation was one of the best weapons in the human arsenal. Agent Jones had messed up by letting his hostage get the upper hand and now, he had to deal with the consequences of his negligence accordingly. He was ready. His right hand hinted at a dull ache as he tightened his grip on his new weapon. Had his fingers been damaged by Ivan's pipe? He couldn't tell. They felt frozen.

It would have been a lie to say that Alfred wasn't intimidated by his foe's size, but he did his best not to express anything but defiance as he was confidently approached.. As soon as his attacker came within range he swung upwards diagonally, trying for the Russian's thick jaw.

Raising a brow, which was hidden under his ushanka, at the others 'weapon' of choice he shook his head and stepped forward, metal pipe idly resting in his hand.
''Molodoy chilyavek, it is not wise choice to fight me with .../that/. Do not insult me I w-''
He was cut off by the other swiping the plank toward the side of his face. The pipe served as a good shield luckily as he blocked the plank with slight ease, though the side of the metal 'chinked' of the side of his chin causing a small cut to form there. It didn't cause much discomfort; he'd been through a lot worse in times gone by.
Shoving the plank out of his way, to the side with the pipe he took another step forward toward the clearly fuming American.
He didn't however knock the plank out of the boys grasp, the other was holding onto it as if it were some sort of life line.
Moving some stray strands of his platinum hair out of his right amethyst coloured eye he glanced behind the other noticing that still nobody had heard any of the commotion, and it was probably just as well too. Innocent bystanders shouldn't have to witness such things.

''I told you before, you /will/ accompany me for a pleasant walk, da? If you don't... how shall we say...I'll bludgeon you here, right now. Which would you prefer? Slow death? Or prolonged survival?. ''
He'd noted the way the other had flinched as his grip tightened on his plank of wood, perhaps he'd done some damaged to the others hand with the pipe? He hadn't exactly noticed, nor did he care. It would work out in his favour if the other was even partially injured.
Keeping up his usual facade of smiling pleasantly toward his enemy he waited for the others response, reaction, anything. If the other tried to strike, he'd strike back. If the other complied, he needn't kill him yet. After all he had to find out whether the other was worth killing or not first.

'Prolonged survival'? Of what quality? Yes, a 'slow death' would be preferred if these were to be the circumstances of his demise. At least here he had some say in how he died. At least he could die fighting. He'd rather have the sky be the last thing he saw then the dim flicker of florescent lights. Besides, the sooner he perished - or killed his opponent, the less likely it would be that he put other informants or his country at jeopardy with his knowledge.

Alfred lunched. He handled his weapon like a baseball bat. A true yank through and through. His swings were sharp and swift. They were also fiercely erratic. Unlike Ivan's eerily calm method of violence, Alfred's was intensely energetic. Part of the American was still hopeful. Maybe he could still complete his mission - maybe if he injured His enemy badly enough, he could pull him off the street and call HQ. Maybe. Or maybe he could hold out long enough to be shot in the back of the head by a second Russian officer. At least then everything would end quickly that way.

Because his effort to hit high had been diverted so easily, he focused on aiming low: knees. His main objective was to reach the gun that was slowly being coated with fresh flakes of snow a short distance away. Any blow delivered would aid him in doing so - a strike would give him time to dart for the better weapon! For all their flaws, Americans had one redeeming habit: They were resilient. They had never been known to go quietly; they never surrendered.

Having given the other a fair option and waited, the swinging plank was answer enough that the other was stubborn enough not to cooperate.
What an inconvenience, he wasn't going to get back on time for his dinner; his little sister would more than likely be threatening the maids with the cutlery in his absence.
He had enough of this little mans antics and so, narrowly avoiding the others swatting techniques brought the metal pipe down hard on the others shoulder. Though to give credit to the American he too received an awful blow to the knee from the plank. Wincing at the sharp pain it caused he growled lowly (It was more than likely going to swollen in the morning, joy oh joy, but it was a small price to pay), retracting the pipe, this time aiming it at the others head while the other tended to his seemingly dislocated shoulder.

Once the enemy was rendered defenceless and unconscious at his feet the Russian proceeded to haul the other with ease over his shoulder like a sack of coal. He retrieved his belongings in the snow which he had earlier had to drop for the 'show' and also fished out the others gun from the small little snow pile, tossing it into a nearby bin, he wouldn't be needing that, that's for sure.
As he plodded along the alley back out onto the main street he pondered on where was the best place to 'interview' his new prisoner.
Brining him back to head quarters was the safest bet, he didn't fancy taking the vermin home and having it possibly escape and or be anywhere near his little sisters.
So, before he knew it Ivan was walking back through the Kremlin HQ doors, he was immediately greeted by some of his subordinates who congratulated him timidly on his quick 'catch'.

/CRACK!/ Pain exploded throughout Alfred's body, pulsating from his right shoulder. The agony had been so immediate and so intense, that it stole it's victims voice clean away. A sniffled gasp was all that erupted from the American's throat as he crumbled.

He could feel himself falling, as if the event were happening in slow motion. The American reached forward with the uninjured half of his body to soften his fall. His left palm slammed to the frozen earth, giving him means to propel himself a few feet from his foe.

For a moment, it looked as though he planned to spring up and recover his footing, but he was nowhere near that agile. Especially while injured. It would be easy to pinpoint the exact moment when Alfred was no longer able to grasp his centre of gravity. He rolled violently across the snow and landed in a pained heap.

If nothing else, enduring the Ivan's strike had pushed him in the right direction. Alfred reached weakly for his firearm, finger curling around the trigger. God, but it was hard to move. He felt like a fish that had been removed from it's bowl and tossed belly down on the floor. If he could just turn on his back and fire...

Unfortunately, he wouldn't be quick enough. The enemy was upon him before he'd had a chance to get off a round. As he was struck in the temple, there was a horrible ringing noise. He knew he wasn't dying and instead of being relieved, he was consumed with despair. His eyes struggled desperately to focus as black crept from the world's edges to consume his vision.

Dreams nor nightmares visited Alfred during his unconsciousness. The only thing he was even remotely aware of the pattern of movement underneath him. He hung over his captor's shoulder like a corpse. His hair and the fur around the hood of his parka marked the only movement on his person as they rustled helplessly in the wind. The American's glasses had loosened significantly after their scuffle. They were crooked, cracked one corner and likely to fall as he was carried.

To be truthful the platinum blond was shocked at himself for not being as brutal as he'd been to others in the past, then again the fact that the other could possess information worthy of their central intelligence unit was probably why he hadn't delivered any fatal blow to the other. Probably.
He'd refused the help from his subordinates, the man slung over his shoulder wasn't any dead weight to him he just allowed the others to prepare the isolation cell.
Passing down through the many marbled hall ways with gold encrusted inscriptions and sculptures on the walls, accompanied by the red and gold soviet hammer and sickle design he finally reached the less decorative area which was reserved solely for retaining prisoners of war, be it for torture or other methods of interrogation.
Since it was early days into the cold war, this was their first 'live catch' since the previous eight worthless excuses for 'spies'. They'd been dealt with, some of them silenced perhaps one or two were set free he couldn't recall who had been released or who hadn't. It didn't matter.
The only disadvantage to this part of the monstrous building complex was the fact that it wasn't as insulated and cosy.
Though it wasn't necessarily unbearable during the hours of daylight, it was only when nightfall crept in would the inmates feel the deathly chill of the Baltic temperatures.

On his way to the cell the American who had yet to be identified was still completely unconscious, only a few pained noises erupted from the other at random intervals but it didn't seem to faze or irritate the other one bit, it was to be expected after all. Having one's shoulder dislocated alongside a nearly split head wasn't exactly the most comfortable experience.
However unlike the way (rumour had it) the American army treated their prisoners of war, the Russian army did provide for their prisoners medical attention and met their basic needs as human beings so long as they were deserving of it.
Ivan on the other hand didn't deem the other as deserving of anything other than a swift kick where the 'sun don't shine', he'd been rather rude to him earlier. After all he had offered an extended life expectancy hadn't he?
Arriving outside cell 'Vosyem' (Eight) he found the door to be already open and prepared as promised from his comrades.
The room was a plain off grey coloured area in which only a basic bed was provided, a rough duvet was folded neatly at the base of the bed and a matching rough material pillow sat at the top of the bed near the headboard. The window was small and barred, the scene outside was nothing but a snowy wasteland with a view of some distant lights from the now darkening city.
Finally he set the other down or rather dropped the other down onto the bed , he noticed the dangerous position the others glasses were in so decided to take them off the other and set them aside so no major damage would become of them.
Getting a room from the hallway he brought it to the corner of the room after he'd locked himself in the cell. He'd wait for the other to wake, and then he'd interrogate.

And there you have it, chapter 4's done~!
Sorry it took so long to get it published and such, I've been fairly busy and whatnot.
Hope you all enjoyed it ^^