Yin Yang:

The Russians are surprisingly hospitable. They only put a bag over my head to enter the Kresh compound's solid cinderblock walls, and it smells recently laundered. They even let me put it on myself, even though the two muscled men on either side of me are hulkingly, silently insistent.

In my line of work, such treatment is unprecedented.

I hate that I had to abandon my team. We need each other to be cohesive, to give our very best to the job. Now, they will have to suffer through a surprise one-man-shy operation. As the Americans say, it sucks ass. And, as my people say, it sucks ass.

Once thrust out of the SUV, I am deftly patted down and all my weapons are confiscated. "Not even dinner out, first?" I kid.

The Russians are not amused. "Yull get dem bahk," says one of them, a less-than-fluent security agent. "When yoor time eez to leave."

I am led by the upper arms up a set of stone stone stairs that grind with freshly strewn salt, presumably a front entrance. The air inside the house is warmer than outside, but only by comparison. Guilt stabs me as I think about the guys, all freezing off their eggrolls on that God-forsaken tundra. I wish I was with them.

With polite if gruff tugs, I am escorted down several halls, deeper into a wing of the house. I can feel rather than see the doors pass, the windows. I take mental note of each of them, and the number of turns we take. There is no such thing as complete sensory deprivation, I have learned, and every piece of information is a weapon in a suitably creative mind. They would have had to carry me or knock me out to get me lost, but it seems they are looser in their precautions with a willing hostage.

The bag is taken off. With a final unceremonious shove, I am put into a curiously spacious room with no windows, appointed with nice furniture, a bathroom, and a large TV.

Again, unprecedented for hostage situations as I know them. Especially the bathroom.

"Food will be delivered three times a day," says one of the muscled men, tucking the bag into a pocket. He looks more refined than his partner, who must have been the crudely accented one who patted me down. "There is cable on the television."

I look around, then back at them with a nod, shedding my heaviest layer of snowgear. Looks like I am going to be here for quite a while.

The door closes and locks from the outside. I am alone.

Or am I?

I hear movement on the other side of the wall. Bedsprings creaking, floorboards adjusting, scratching. "Hello?" comes a muffled male voice.

My head cocks, and I frown around until I locate the source of the voice: an airvent about a foot from the ceiling, twelve-by-six inches with a metal grate. I drag a chair over to the wall and climb onto it. "Hello?" I reply, unsure.

"Oh, thank God!" comes the sarcastic reply. I can tell now it is an Australian accent. "I thought I was hallucinating or some shite."

"No, I am real," I assure. "I am Yang. What is your name?"

"Shawn. Shawn Sullivan. I'd shake your hand, but, ya know, walls and such buggery."

Why does that name sound vaguely familiar? "It is nice to meet you," I say. I am happy that I will have another person to talk to during my captivity.

"Same here, buddy. Good t' hear a voice that ain't on the telly."

"So, what did you do to get a stay at Hotel Kresh?" I joke.

"Same as you, I imagine. I'm leverage for someone."

My brow furrows. "How did you know - ?"

"Bah!" cuts off Sullivan. "That's Kresh's favorite card to play. He won't threaten you. He'll just hold on to someone close to you, in case you have second thoughts about doing what he wants."

"You sound bitter," I observe neutrally.

"Bitter?" he laughs sourly from the other side of the wall. "Yeah, I guess so. I don't even know if my guy will hold up his end of the deal with Kresh. If he doesn't, I could..." he trails off without any real fear, but I can tell he has doubts. He sounds a little like a man I would know, in that respect.

"Tell me, Shawn," I venture, staring at the wall as though it were his very face. "Are you... military?"

He is stunned to silence for so long, I fear I have just alienated my only friend in this confinement. "How did you know that?" he says, with considerable suspicion. "It don't matter, anywho. Call it what it is, mate: mercenary."

"I am, too," I continue, relieved I have not lost him. "I am a contract escort for Kresh's daughter." Now it is my turn to laugh acidly. It hardly seems fitting to call myself such when I am not the one carrying out the job. "Or I was, until I was put on hostage duty."

Shawn is quiet again, for an equally long time as before. "Yang," he starts. "You just put the words in my mouth."

It takes me a second to put the pieces together, and when they fall into place, they do so with a mentally resounding snap. "You mean - ?"

"I'm one of Trench Mauser's men," says Sullivan. Now I know why his name is familiar! "Is it safe for me to guess you are part of Barney Ross' team?"

"Yes," I say, getting excited. "So that means you're Mauser's leverage, to get him to pay Barney!"

"And you're Barney's leverage, to get him to complete the job," finishes Sullivan. He pauses, then whistles. "Man, this is some deep shite." I hear the sound of beard stubble being scratched rattle down the vent. "Yang, do you know how to play cards?"

"What game?"

"Rummy."

"Yes, but it has been a while."

"Why don't we put our minds together," he says with casual conspiracy. "And see if we can't get face t' face for a rousing game, huh?"

I grin, his rebellious spirit inciting my own. "I agree." We may have to stay here for our bargains to be upheld, but that hardly means we have to roll over in every respect.

"How long you think it'll take you?" he queries challengingly. "I bet three days for me."

I look more carefully around the room, this time, seeing beyond the decor and looking at the framework. "Two days, maximum," I say confidently.

The Australian snorts, but in a friendly way. "Asians. So precocious."

"Precocious enough to whip your ass in rummy," I retort easily.

"Promises, promises," he laughs.

We leave it at that. I drag my chair back to its place, and flop down in it, lacing my boots loosely. I am somewhat underwhelmed. I came here less than three hours ago on a plane prepared to do a job. Now, I have to sit on my hands in a comfortable room for three weeks while my friends risk their lives and limbs. It is not fair for anyone involved.

I remind myself that I volunteered for this job. I made the most tactical sense, as my hand combat specialty would be the least useful out of the repetoire the team carries. Sure, I could have been another sure shot and set of hands: a superb soldier in the company of other superb soldiers. But I still would not have been as useful as the rest of the team.

Does that hurt? Yes, a little. Does it affect my worth? Hardly. I am just as good as the rest of the team. It is just this mission in particular. In the next one, it could be Gunnar who is less needed, or Toll. It is the nature of the ever-changing field.

So I put my bruised pride aside, in favor of devoting my mind to finding a way to shake Sullivan's hand. And then beat that hand in a fierce, no-holds-barred game of rummy.

Mercenaries are a competitive bunch.

Meera:

Around noon, I go outside with my gun and get started on Barney's challenge: shoot a bottlecap from twenty yards. I nail a Blemhein's cap to the range, march off thirty big steps, and aim down my sights confidently.

An hour later, I have slung more lead downrange than in the rest of my practices combined, and I am getting frustrated. This suggestion from you is suitably difficult to keep me occupied. I have a sneaking feeling that was you intention.

That pink cap taunts me, a mere speck. "We will meet again," I swear to it with deadly promise.

I holster the gun and let the hot sun chase me inside again.

January - erm, Airy - is a great sleeper over. At least, by my standards of fun. I hear her car trunk slam and she comes through my ajar door, seemingly straight from work and slightly grimy.

"Hello!" I say cheerfully, hugging her awkwardly because of her bag. She returns the hug, but with less enthusiasm.

"Hey, Meera," she says, sounding tired.

"How was your day?" I ask, looking her up and down. She has considerable dust streaking her dark clothes, and her hair's normal stiff peaks are flattened on one side.

She rubs her temples and huffs a sigh. "Fucking awful. Can I use your shower?"

I point her in the direction of the stalls. Without speaking, she drops her bag, digs out some silks and flannels, and walks off.

I let her go. I know this behavior all too well. When you, Barney, work all day on the plane you act similar to this, despite my assistance. There is little else to do but wait for you to catch your breath. The same holds true now.

So I wait for Airy to resurface. I brew more coffee, dig out all the promised brownies, and turn on the TV for the first time since you left. The cation ray tube stabs my eyes, unused to the light. I settle on the couch and wait.

Airy comes out and is energetic once again. "Nothing like a nice hot shower to wash off the day!" she chirps. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Help yourself," I say. "Brownies, too." This feels natural, even though Airy and I have little history. She and I are the same in a lot of respects, however: tough, against the world in some ways, seeking the collusion of our personalities and society's expectations. Having another woman wandering around is gratifying, more so that I thought it would be. Female energy that I did not know I missed fills the room, and it soothes me in a primal way.

In the village, the women always were doing things together, but excluded me because of my mixed skin. I was kept with the children while they did chores and talked and laughed. I was not given the support system of other women, and now, tasting it for the first time, I find it agreeable.

"Whrere's your sugar, sugar?"

The play on words makes me grin. "Top shelf, second cabinet. What happened to you today? You looked like you got in a fight with a trash compactor."

"One of our box recycling machines croaked today," she sighs. "I'm the smallest person at the warehouse, so it was my problem to climb inside and fix it. I spent all day surrounded by live wires and sharp blades."

I croon sympathetically. "I am sorry."

"S'alright," she says dismissively. "I made it here. The evening's looking up." She toasts me with a steaming mug. "Cheers."

I smile and go back to flipping channels. Yes, it feels very good to have a friend. It feels even better to have a second body to fill the room. "Um, Meera?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure you're aware, but these are gross," she says, waving her brownie with a bite out of it. "What's the expiration?"

"MREs have expirations?" I do not understand. They taste fine to me.

She drops it uncerimoniously onto the counter, and it makes a dry bouncing sound. "I have a proposal."

"Yes?"

"Get on your jammies. We're taking a trip the store."

Sounds like fun, actually. "Jammies?"

"Pajamas. You have to go to the grocery store at this time of night in your jammies."

An odd American custom, but I can acquiesce. "Okay. May I ask why?"

"I'm getting the ingredients for real brownies. You're learning to bake tonight."

"Are they really that bad?" I ask, pattering down the hall.

"Not so much that the MRE ones are bad," she calls from the kitchen. "Just that the fresh ones are so orgasmic."

I blush, paused with my hands on my pajamas. "I see." Having a friend more sexually charged than me can be... an adventure. I change quickly, stick my feet back into my boots, and walk out.

Airy nods approvingly. "Good look for you."

I smooth the front of your hand-me-down shirt. "Thank you."

She looks at my waist. "Um, Meera, what is that?"

I have to look down to see what she means. "Oh, that is my Smith and Wesson .38 Bodyguard."

"Um, why are you carting a holstered gun to the grocery store?"

"Barney made me promise to carry it with me at all times."

Airy nods slowly, still staring at the gun. "I see." She walks over to her bag and pulls out a holster of her own. "I prefer the .45, but hey, different strokes for different folks." She pulls on the shoulder holster, and the gun hangs under her left arm. "Ready, sugar?" she asks with falsetto sweetness.

"Ready, honey," I answer in kind.

She shrugs into her aviator jacket. It looks authentic, right down to the scratches. "It's set to get cold. Do you have a jacket?"

"Yeah." I pull on my leather bike coat from under my bed.

She grins at me. "Even better. Let's go scare the town."

We pile into her VW Beetle and peel off. She introduces me to Beyonce and Lady Gaga. I like Beyonce better. After a few minutes listening to her sing, I start to hum along, then sing along. Failed high notes bring giggle fits, and low notes make us dissolve into snickers. Hand motions are gradually added, to our mutual amusement. "I've found my retirement hobby!" Airy says over the music.

The grocery store is nearly empty, save for one older woman with a fanny pack who keeps ending up on the same aisle as us. Airy flirts with embarassment by imitating her waddling walk when the woman is not looking, much to my muffled amusement.

We peruse the store, and fill a hand basket with ingredients: flour, applesauce, cocoa. Airy keeps a running dialogue about the items, explaining their uses down to the chemical level. When I give her a quizzical look, she admits, "Sorry. Two semesters in culinary school before the military. Some things never die."

She wanders on towards the teas, and misses my smile. Little does she know, she just reminded me of Barney. Some things never die. It makes me think about the diamond-hard love in my chest that is sedately awaiting his return, pulsing like embers under breath.

I vow to make you brownies when you get back. Erm, orgasmically good brownies.

We wind up buying measuring cups and a nine-by-nine baking pan on top of the brownie ingredients. "Barney is such a damn bachelor," grumps Airy. "Seriously, are you going to smooth that man out soon, or what? We're not getting any younger, here."

I nearly choke on my inhale. "I'm sorry?"

Airy puts a hand on one hip, counterbalanced by the heavy basket. "Oh, come on, don't play stupid, Meera, it's not an attractive look for you. I've seen the way he stares. He's completely ga-ga over you."

I reel for a minute. It is one thing to think it to myself: it is another thing entirely to hear it from someone else's lips. "I...uh..."

Airy backpedals. "I'm sorry, girl," she sighs. "I get beligerent when I'm tired. I didn't mean to sound so damn rude."

"It is okay," I assure.

"Have you two gotten anywhere with... that?"

I cast my mind back to a few nights ago, on that cliff overlooking the bay, and your hungry lips and hands. I must get slack-faced and blush, because Airy starts to laugh. "You've kissed him! Oh my God, you did it!" She sticks out a fist, which I bump after a second's hesitation. "I was rooting for you, ya know," she admits proudly. "Old Barney deserves a good woman to mellow him the hell out. I can't think of a better woman for the task than you, Meera."

I beam. "Such high praise," I mutter, blushing afresh. "I love him. I am sure he loves me. I am just waiting for him to tell me." Even as I say it, I know it to be true.

Airy's face softens. "I can tell. It weeps from your pores." Hiding her misting eyes, she examines a box of tea and baskets it. "Lady Grey tea for some real fucking ladies."

The fanny pack woman passes the head of the aisle, casting a furtively disapproving glare our way at Airy's choice of words.

We take one look at each other and start laughing. We do not stop until we are doubled over in the aisle, with tears streaming down both our cheeks.

For some reason, Airy has me hold on to a stick of butter on the way home. Back at the hangar, Airy preheats the virtually unused oven and orders me to find a mixing bowl. The closest thing I have is a World War I German infantryman helmet from your collection, the older variety without a liner.

Airy hefts it critically, poking a finger through the hole near the edge. "Wash that bastard out. It'll do the job."

When I turn back around from the sink, she is sitting blythely at the cargo container table, sipping a Lady Grey.

"Aren't you going to teach me?" I ask, with a hint of panic.

"Nope. I'm going to advise you on technique, and give you my recipe."

I look anxiously at the array of ingredients. "Okay, Airy. I trust you."

"Excellent. First step is done. Now, take the largest cup from the set and fill it with sugar. That is a one-cup measurement. All the other little cups are fractions of one cup. Get it?"

"I get it."

"Good. Level it off with your finger, now, we always use exact measurements when baking. And you know that butter stick I had you hold? Now it's all nice and soft. Put that in with the sugar. Take a fork and mix them."

Airy is an excellent teacher. When I tell her so, she gets a little red in the ears and sips her tea humbly.

At the end of an hour, I have a thorough grasp of the basics of baking and a fair grasp on the recipe for Orgasmic Brownies. When Airy writes down the recipe, I blush yet again at the title. "Barney would get his panties in a twist if he knew I'd taught you that word," Airy snickers evily. She looks at me sternly. "When you two do it, you have to tell me. In gory, graphic detail."

I shrug and put the batter 'bowl' between us for licking. "Do not, as they say, hold your breath."

Airy laughs at my audacity. "You naughty bitch!"

In this intimate kitchen, surrounded by good smells, the word 'bitch' loses its ugly connotations for me. The memories of that hut in Nepal, when the word was spat at me in the vilest way, are permanently robbed of their sting.

For that alone, I count January as my closest friend.

Church:

I consider myself a patient man. I have toured as a sniper, after all. Days of crawling on your belly for miles, covered in a hot ghilly suit, dragging a heavy .50 caliber rifle through bugs, swamp, snakes and thorns breed a brand of saintlike patience that can only come from being in hell.

From a stand of trees about a mile from Barney's hangar, I watch through thermal and nightvision equipped goggles. I've been here for nine hours already, scoping out the place, picking up routines. A bright red blur is moving around inside the hangar for the better part of a day, and I know it to be Barney's little mail order bride, Meera. When she comes outside and shoots some targets around midday, it is confirmed.

"So you taught the little native how to shoot, huh, Ross," I murmur. Leave it to a mercenary.

As the sun slowly treks across the sky, I consider how this fact will affect my plans. I find the impact to be minimal. After all, I plan on giving Meera the surprise of her life. She won't have time to draw, much less get a shot off.

Just after nightfall, a second bright red blur in a VW Beetle rolls up. Right on schedule, January climbs out of the car. I smirk to myself, because it's a perfect setup for a porn movie: a lesbian and a quasi-Nepali have a sleepover.

I had planned on waiting for the lights to go out and the actual sleeping to begin. Instead, fate smiles on me, and not an hour later, the two women get into the VW and drive off.

"My lucky day," I say, seizing the opportunity. There are no security cameras, no one around to watch me lope the mile in three minutes, enter the hangar, and plant a camera shaped like a bolt at a convenient angle to the front door. Once I am sure it is secure in place, hidden, and rolling, I examine the front door carefully.

Ross' paranoia must be strong. The walls are corrougated steel, the door and frame are steel, and the living quarters are protected by a six-digit digital keypad lock. I look over my shoulder, then back at the lock. Yep, the camera has the ideal angle. Now, I just wait for Meera to key the code, and I'll have access.

The day she leaves her little nest on her own, she'll have the suprise of her life waiting for her when she comes back.

As I jog back to my stand of trees, through them, and crank my nondescript black van to life, I have to smile. Things are working out smoothly.

My cell buzzes in my pocket, and I pick it up. "Speak."

"They're here," says my man's sketchy sat-phone voice. "They've acquired the woman, and are enroute to Crios."

"Folllow and do not engage until I give the clear. Confirm."

"Follow with no engagement, confirmed."

"Over and out." I hang up. The night just keeps getting better. I am proud of myself. In the course of 48 hours, I am set up to kill the Kresh woman as per my orders from Langley, and kidnap my enemy's weakest link to make him do it himself.

Give me a fulcrum, says Archimedes, and a place to stand, and I shall move the world.