One Week Later

Lubyanka Square, Moscow

"Forget your keys, Sir?"

Yuri Markolov nodded in annoyance, mumbling something about his keys in response to the security guard's question as he hurried up the stairs of the unofficially dubbed Lubyanka, F.S.B. headquarters, heading back to his office.

Finally arriving at his destination, the intelligence officer grabbed the knob, and to his surprise the door gave away without a twist. Markolov disregarded the little voice in his head, claiming that something was wrong and beckoning him not to enter, he waltzed in regardless, figuring it was nothing but mild paranoia after sixteen hours at the office, following which he'd forgotten to properly close his door before he left.

Markolov flicked the lights on; the office was just like when he left it five minutes ago. His keys rested on the mouse pad by his computer. He reached across the desk to pick them up when he noticed something. A piece of black plastic, placed at the edge of the table, hard to notice if not for sheer coincidence.

Before Markolov could wonder what it was, he heard the familiar click of a hammer being pulled back on a nine millimeter pistol.

"The handle broke off when I was adjusting your swivel chair. Don't move a muscle."

The voice spoke fluent Russian, though the accent seemed a bit old fashioned, and it was not a voice he recognized.

"Who are you?" asked Markolov, trying to remain calm.

"I'm the one with the gun. You Markolov?"

"Who are you? Who sent you here?" Markolov demanded to know, on the verge of turning around to look at the mystery intruder.

"Don't turn around. Who I am and who sent me is not important."

"Put your gun down, or you'll never leave this building alive."

"I already snuck in, I can sneak out just as easy."

"You'll spend the rest of life looking over your shoulder."

"I have spent my life looking over my shoulder. In the aftermath of these minutes, the only thing that might change is that you'll be dead. I'm not here to kill you, I wouldn't mind doing it, but I don't need to. So just give me what I want and you'll walk out of here alive."

"You're crazy! I'd die before betraying-"

"No one's asking you to betray Rodinu, It's just one man. A man you're better off rid of anyway."

A hand reached over Markolov's shoulder, holding a folded scrap of paper. Markolov took it and unfolded it, and then read it. His eyes went slightly wide with surprise.

"What… What in Christ's name do you want with him?"

"You don't want to know. But I'd like his address, please."

"I'll need to use my computer."

"Go ahead. Remember, no funny business."

Markolov sat at his chair and switched the computer on, then tapped the keyboard, penetrating security barriers in search for the required information.

"What happened to the statue in the lobby?"

"What?" asked Markolov.

"In the lobby, there used to be a granite statue, ten feet high. Whatever happened to it?"

"It was moved to the museum when KGB closed." Said Markolov as his printer sprang to life.

The intruder slammed the butt of his gun into the back of Markolov's head, knocking him unconscious.

Priest holstered his gun, then took a syringe out of his coat and plunge into Markolov neck and pressed the plunger down, pumping a powerful tranquilizer into his veins as the paper left the printer.

One Day Later

Gotham City, Maryland

"They've been busy." Said Diana Burnwood, standing in Josephine's office, facing a flat screen on the wall.

"First, they settled old business with a former comrade in Ruritania, and then they took out our contact in the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Logistics and Enforcement Department who was vacationing in Vienna at the time."

"Chances are he was discovered by Nick Fury, who got the opposition to do his dirty work." Said Josephine.

"Intelligence would tend to agree. Not that we'll ever be able to prove it, much less act upon it.

"After that they attack two of the four men managing our German weapons development research program. Then there's that other business in Budapest and Sarajevo…. Intelligence have studied the path and timing of these attacks, and have come with a list of the next possible targets should this Eastern European tour continue. Reinforcements have been scrambled to those locations."

"Do we have confirmed sightings?"

"Not exactly." Said Diana as a series of blurry images appeared on the screen, "A security camera caught a picture of Judas Priest outside a train station in Budapest, an hour before one of our safe-houses was blown up."

"No one else? So it's possible he's working alone?"

"His likelihood for success and survival on his own are slim, and his opposition superiors would know that. He'd only be sent alone as a death sentence. Besides, there's another picture of him with someone who may be Lucy Wagner."

"But we're not sure?"

"It's not a good enough picture for analysis. There's also the fact that Kuryakin died from a gunshot, which would suggest the presence of someone else, Jarrah or Sax, seeing as how using a gun is generally not Priest's modulus operandi."

"He was gleefully shooting my men with a shotgun two weeks ago, let's not rule it out."

The Yellow Submarine

"What's good in here?"

Shaun looked up from the ham sandwich he was masticating on as he sat at a table in the completely empty mess hall of the Yellow Submarine. Lana Lang was standing by one of the row of fridges behind him, with a spoon and an empty plate looking through the shelves.

"The Borscht was interesting."

"Borscht? Ew."

"There's a chicken salad on the top shelf."

"Thanks." Said Lana as she slapped two helpings of salad onto her plate, before walking over to Shaun's table.

"You don't mind, do you, John?"

"It's Shaun, and no. Help yourself."

"Thanks, and sorry. I don't think we've talked much over the past ten days." Said Lana as she raised a spoon full of chicken salad.

"I mean your friends they keep crowding me, trying to act like they didn't kidnap me or anything. Probably think they're reassuring me. "

"They're not?"

"I got kidnapped by a vampire and I'm in a submarine full of an international crew of liars who won't answer my questions."

"I'm sorry, did you say vampire?"

"Don't play dumb, I overheard your captain talking to his first mate."

"He's on probation."

"I didn't ask."

"Well, excuse me, then. And how is it that you're taking Priest's… condition in stride?"

"Suffice to say that where I come from, you tend to foster an open mind."

"Really? Where's that?"

"Smallville, Kansas." Said Lana as she took another bite.

"There's a place called Smallville?"

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Londoner."

"Sorry."

"So, who are you people? Really?"

"What you've been told amounts to the truth." Said Shaun as he got up, having finished his sandwich.

"But who do you answer to?"

"No one."

"There's just one type of people that don't answer to anyone."

"We're not criminals, and we're not terrorists."

"Oh, so I assume you're just a working stiff? Do you get paid for what you do, Shaun?"

"No."

"Then why do it?"

"The league killed me wife."

"The League?"

"That's what we call them, the people who had you in their custody."

"And they killed your wife… So you want revenge. You expect me to believe that? It's a bit clichéd, don't you think?"

"Nothing's a cliché when it's happened to you."

Siberia

"Breaking the law, breaking the law… Breaking the law, breaking the laaaaa-aaaaawww…." Priest sang and then hummed the rest through the woods, the location corresponding to the coordinates that Markolov had given him, a forest in the middle of the Urals. Scores of acres of barren land, with nothing in it save for fruitless trees, and a single log cabin in the center of it, with few darkened windows and chimney breathing out smoke.

Priest looked down and adjusted the hood of his parka. Siberia wasn't particularly sunny, and it was late in the afternoon, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Just playing mailman, Priest. He's an old man, he's all alone, and you don't have to kill him. Easy beans. Just this and then it's off to Latveria and then home."

Priest looked up to see that a window by the cabin door was open, whether or not it was open before without him noticing or it was opened just then, Priest didn't know, and it wasn't a matter he was overly concerned with, as suddenly there was a flash of light from behind the open dark window, and the sound of a bang a second later.

Priest felt his kneecap shatter. He fell to the ground, eyes bulging, howling in pain. Blood spluttered from the injured joint, pouring onto the white snow around him, while in the distance a wooden door squeaked open, and a pair of heavy boots stepped out onto a wooden porch.

The pain subsided and Priest reduced his cries to grunts of agony. Already the muscle tissue was knitting back together, though it would take a long time for his kneecap to grow back. Finding this iota of relief, Priest could distinguish the sound of approaching footsteps on the thick snow blanket, about a hundred yards ago. Knowing there was nothing he could do; Priest remained where he was as the footsteps grew closer, until finally the shooter came into his range of view.

The man was old, tall and lean, with a withered face and a bald head, his beard and what little remaining hair he had was long and unkempt and as a white as the snow he walked upon. He wore a pair of heavy leather boots and a buttoned down pale leather duster, and in his gloved hand he held an old fashioned, long barreled revolver.

"Any last words?" the man asked with a voice gravely and deep, as he aimed the gun at Priest's head.

Priest grunted as he got up to his elbows.

"Revolver Ocelot, I presume?"

"I told you people to leave me alone. We have an agreement."

"I'm not who you think I am."

"Who are you, then?"

"I come on the behalf or Captain Raimus."

For a moment, Ocelot didn't seem to react to the name.

"I'd heard he was dead."

"He'd heard the same about you."

"That's true. How is Marko?"

"Good. Good."

"Why did he send you for me to kill?"

"I have a message from him." Said Priest, "Do you mind?"

"Try anything and I will kill you."

"Yeah, okay." Muttered Priest as he took an enevelope out of his coat, and handed it to Ocelot.

Ocelot took a few steps back, and with one hand unfolded the letter, while with the other he kept his revolver steadily aimed at Priest's head. He remained in his stance for a few minutes, till he folded the letter again and stuffed into his pocket.

"Marko says not to kill you." Said Ocelot as he turned around and walked away, "Tell him I said yes, and get away from my cabin."

Next Chapter:

As the last of his seven labors, Priest meets another priest. While the remaining Minutemen escort Lana Lang to the United States for her tete a tete with the man they call Deep Throat.

R&R.