Author's Note: Hey, strangers! It's been a really long time, I know. Thank you for your encouragement, and for not abandoning me. Things are picking up pace, but I know ya'll can keep up. Did you know they're making an Expendables 3? I know!

So take a break from studying for exams, just for ten minutes, and let your mind retreat. Trust me, it does wonders. Hugs to all!

I am a part of the forest I quietly move through, a cog in the wheel of nature that seamlessly rotates to bear and continues the cycle. The breeze blows cold on my exposed, camo-painted face, but I pay it no mind. Winter is riding down on the east coast like a Revelations horseman, and I am trying to fill my tags before the season is out.

My experienced eye probes the forest floor, looking for disturbed pine detrius, indentations, signs. I find the continuation of the deer tracks I have been following for the better part of the day heading for the abandoned farm pond on the back of my property. This buck is massive if I judge by his tracks, and I've laid eyes on him just once this season, and only long enough to count the tines through the morning fog. He's been a ghost ever since: seeming to vanish every time I get close. He's not from my local herd: he's prowling for does, his neck swollen with rut. And now, for the fifth day in a row, I'm prowling for him.

I've spent days learning his patterns, gauging his moods, gleaning his personality from the signs he leaves. He eats from a different place every day, never the same place twice, and steers as far from corn feeders as possible. He is cautious, even when it comes to doe-in-heat urine and bleats, and skulks at the edges of his senses looking for me. He tends to paw the ground with his right forehoof when he feels something is off. He drinks from the same place every morning, though, and that is where I am following him now.

I can smell the water as I approach the pond, walking with a ball-blade-heel motion of my feet to minimize noise. Bucks this old have a sixth sense about the presence of humans. But over a lifetime of hunting animals and humans alike, of trial and error and experience, I have mastered the ability draw my aura within myself, instead of letting my eagerness for the hunt project it like a beacon to the furtive object of my attention. I am little more than the dying leaves' stomata expelling carbon dioxide like a death gasp...

On the opposite side of the pond I can hear the buck rustliing through the brush. From the other side of a bank of rushes, I hear his hooves squish the clay mud, and after a utterly silent pause in which I can envision his palmate ears flicking, he lowers his stately head to drink.

I take my chance to slide my gun to the ready at my shoulder, and rise up over the rushes just enough to glimpse his haunches, bunched from his dipped head. As planned, I have the ideal broadside shot, and I bring my cheek to my gun to take advantage before the wind shifts.

This is a dance between man and beast started before measured time and history. It is a dance every animal understands, and deep down, every man, too. I have earned the right to take this buck's life, by the rules of the dance. I level my eye to the scope.

My cell phone rings loud enough to make both me and buck jump, but the deer jumps comically higher. He scrambles off into the woods, and I sigh. It'll take days for him to calm down enough to be seen. I tear off a glove with my teeth and withdraw the cell from my pocket. Work takes preceedence over pleasure, in my occupation, and that means keeping the cell on audible even in the most sound-sensitive situations.

"Hello," I say into the phone. It is a statement, not a question. I am telling the caller I am there, because if they have managed to get this number, they know who I am. They know what I do.

"Booker. It's Barney Ross," comes the voice coated in static.

I crouch comfortably in the reeds. "Good to hear from you, Barney."

"I wish it was under better circumstances."

I frown. Barney's tone is odd. Soldiers like he and I hide our real feelings in direct inversion to their intensity. Knowing that, I would quantify Barney as pretty wrecked and extremely desperate. "Elaborate."

"A few months ago, I was in Nepal with the team working a job. I come across this - gorgeous woman in this shitty little hell hole. She was in really bad shape."

I grunt. Our definitions of bad shape are pretty much the same, and include dead-on-feet, losing limbs, and FUBAR. We've seen action together, after all.

"But there was just something about her, Booker," continues Barney, the static sprinkling his words as they spill out like an upturned bottle. His telling comes with the ease of a consumed heart simply expelling itself, like lungs do air. "I... I couldn't leave her there."

That tone. It's a new one from Barney, but not to my ears. A man in love. I grunt again, to myself. About time.

"Meera - that's her name, Meera - heals up inside and out. We get along really well, better than great, and then get close." Mercs have precious few people 'close' to them, because 'close' means 'soft spot' to enemies. Barney is head over heels. "Fast-forward to few days ago. Trench Mauser shows up, offers me a job he can't finish in Russia, and he hints that there's a good reason. I accept and make plans." That explains why I can feel the feral wilderness and hear the wind howling across the tundra on his end of the connection.

"When does this get interesting?" I query factually. There's a damn good reason he tracked down my number, which is purposefully difficult to find, and called me.

"A couple hours after that, Church calls me up. Offers me the flip of the same job: kill the client. I refuse, but he overhears Meera and insinuates a threat, the sleazy bastard." His voice hardens like diamond, all sharp edges and crystalline hate. Church is no sweetie-pie in my mind, either. I have several friends aside from Barney that he's muscled and pushed around, and I don't like his adgenda's smell. He's barely tethered to the CIA anymore, and an unfettered man with a secret gameplan is dangerous.

"Here I am in Russia, doing the job, and who should call me? Church."

I frown. I don't like where this is going.

"He's got Meera," chokes Barney. I swear his voice cracks, like a piece of the arctic shelf falling into the ocean. "My client's father has got a gun to Yin Yang's head, making sure I can't leave to go save her. If I don't send proof that the clients are dead in around eighteen hours, he's going to kill Meera slow." He gives what sounds like either a dry sob, or perhaps a hitch of breath from the wind that slices the connection, then reforms it. Shit, this is bad. People like us do not form attachments, romantically speaking. When someone like this Meera person falls from the sky and snatches up a merc's heart like a hawk, it is understood that person is untouchable. That person becomes a part of the merc, to be protected like a vital organ.

Too bad the rest of the world does not abide by that sentiment.

"Damn, Barney," I say, drawn out of my shell by sympathy.

"So this is where you come in," he continues, his voice flat. He's emotionally drained, which is saying something for a man whose job is to remain emotionless. "I need someone to do what I would do if I were there: rescue Meera. Please." Barney never begs. Never. This woman is something special, and Barney is more than a little afraid. "I'll pay you every penny of my cut of this mission if you find her and get her safe."

I study a handful of dry reeds under my hand, and pick them apart at the joints absently, thinking. When I answer, I commit myself body and mind to the mission, because missions deserve nothing less than a soldier's all. "I accept." A friend would do it for free, but I'm a mercenary. Money is the name of the game.

Barney exhales explosively. "I'll wire you the money when I get ahold of a computer. Church called this phone from a cell. If you can triangulate the tower use, you might be able to find him. And check my security camera feeds in the hangar. They're self-contained and hidden in the packing crates in there."

"I'm on it," I say, standing from my autumnal nest. "How much time do I have?"

Barney checks his watch. "Seventeen hours, forty-six minutes." As I set my own watch, I hear his boots stomping through snow. "I've tried to get ahold of other people to do this, Booker. But no one cares, and no one is qualified enough to deal with rogue CIA, not really. You're her only hope."

I smile faintly because I know he's right. Fact, not arrogance. "Consider it done. I'll call you. And Barney?"

"Yeah?"

"If I get the chance to kill Church, should I take it?"

I can practically hear his face settle into the lines of loathing. "Hell, yes. Kill him dead."

I smile again. "You got it."

Booker:

It takes me two hours to get back to my house, tearing through brush like Tarzan, splashing across streams and leaping fallen logs. I have a time constraint. God only knows what a man like Church is capable of when left alone with a woman like Meera. Well, God and my imagination.

I cross my backyard, the target range's dirt piles, jump the small herb patch, and bang through my back door into the kitchen. "Hu-Nee," I call. "I need my third go-bag from the hall closet, pronto."

My wife sets down the plate she's been drying without hesitation. Knowing the contents of the bag, she comments, "An American job?" even as my tone spurs her to swiftness. Bless my wife. She asks no moronic questions. "Odd."

"You're telling me," I reply, not bothering to take off my boots as I walk briskly to the office. My wife is not the type to begrudge tracks on the floor, even though she keeps a clean house as only an Asian can. One of the many things I love about her.

"What else you need?" she calls from across the hall, her accent mulling the words.

"Do you have another first aid kit? The one I've got only covers one person." I get the feeling every wasted minute is another drop of Meera's blood. Church is a sadistic bastard, from what I've heard. I open the computer with a slide of my finger across the screen, and get to work. The powerful modem whirs to life, then hums to full power.

"Yes, it's in our bathroom closet." She walks to the bathroom quickly, and rummages. I hook my cell up to the computer in two places, and in seconds have found Barney's satellite phone signature. He's in Russia, close to the border, deep in the mountains. A really harsh place to be.

"Do you need a set of woman's clothes, too?"

I pause my tapping on the keyboard. "Perceptive thing, aren'tcha?"

"I was guessing, really. Someone from old days?"

I reply as I take the last incoming call from the sat phone and put my motherboard to work on finding its trail of towers. "Barney's woman was kidnapped by the CIA. Yes, to the clothes." Good idea: I have no idea what state Meera will be in if (when, rather) I find her. I jump up while the computer does its thing and slide open the doors to the closet that houses the gun cage, selecting my favorite Uzi from its cradle.

Hu-Nee's tiny feet cross the floor of the master bedroom, and the door for her bureau creaks. "I see." She can infer an entire universe from my clipped sentences. Another thing I love about her: she gets the story on her own, without interrogating for details. "What else?"

The computer plucked the call list from Barney's phone out of the cloud with ease. I'll use the laptop in the car to triangulate Church's phone while enroute to Barney's hangar. I download the fruits of the computer's labor to my phone, remove the cords, and stride to the door. "Nothing. I'll be back in a day or less." One way or another. It would surprise me, frankly, if I failed this job, but stranger things have happened. I can't afford to be lax. Barney would be hard to convince of my sorrow.

Hu-Nee meets me at the garage door, grabs me by the collar, and kisses me hard, stopping me in my tracks. I kiss back just as hard. I demand much from her, but she's taken my lifestyle and profession in stride, and never looked back. She insists I'm worth it. I don't see it. When she does ask me for something, like this kiss, I know it's for a good reason. I always do my damndest to give it to her.

"Happy hunting, Lone Wolf," she whispers, withdrawing.

I give her a brand of smile that only she is allowed to see, shoulder my bag, and enter the garage. The nondescript black SUV with offroad tires and a bull bar squeals backwards out of the garage, and I throw up clouds of dust from the drive on my way out.

Barney:

"Trench, you son of a syphillis-ridden whore, pick up your fucking phone!" I menace from half a world away.

It works. Insulting mothers always works. "Kiss your mother with that mouth?" asks the Austrian snidely.

"Guess where I am?" I growl with false cheer.

"Russia," he replies with equally false gameness.

"Correct," I continue silkily, staring generally west, trying to send my hatred across three continents. "Guess who I just got done killing?"

"The same CIA bastards working for Church that fucked me and my team over for a week," he states.

"Oh-for-two. I guess a week is about how long it takes for your balls to freeze off out here?"

"They're willey assholes!" he defends. "So if you took care of the extenuating circumstances, why are you shitting on my day?"

"Kresh took Yang as his hostage to make sure we do our job. Sound familiar?"

"He's got one of my men held so that I pay you. Yeah, sounds like his trump card."

"This means I can't leave Nadia's side, or his magical UAV will tell him, and Yang dies."

"Ah. The UAV explains a lot. Nadia didn't tell us that during our short coexistence."

"This poses a serious fucking problem, you see."

"Why is that?"

"Because Church wants the Kresh's dead, because they won't sell intel to the CIA anymore. Oh, and to make sure that I kill them both, Church just kidnapped Meera." I pause to let that sink in.

Trench and I are not, repeat, not friends. We've butted heads, competed, and kicked each other's asses for so long that opposition is ingrained in our brains. We've been oil and water since the day we met, and bear the deep sort of grudge for each other that only history can give. The one and only thing that we share is our loose, black-souled, and blood-thirsty brotherhood: the fraternity of mercenaries.

We may hate each other's guts, but we'll honor that brotherhood. After a full minute of silence, Trench's reply is simple and without drawbacks. "What can I do?"

If my heart weren't being torn apart at the seams, I might have smiled. "I've secured the best man stateside I could find to rescue Meera. You can back him up. I'll leave it up to you to coordinate from here. The number is..."

Booker:

I hit the interstate like a bat out of hell, tapping keys on the laptop with one hand and driving with the other. I set the laptop to triangulation, but it's going to take some time with the RAM being less than my home computer. Meanwhile, I'll visit Barney's hangar and eyeball the security cameras. Maybe they caught something useful that will help me find Meera and Church quicker. It's an hour long drive, during which I meditate on the situation with tactical determination. The mind is the greatest weapon, after all. The mind, and my Uzi.

The phone rings again. I glance at the number, then pick up. "Hello."

"I guess you've heard Barney's sob story?" queries a thick Austrian accent from the other end.

"Trench Mauser," I greet neutrally. I've no ill will towards the man, even though Barney and he have been fueding since laying eyes on each other. Trench is one of those men with whom I can pick up where I've left off years earlier. "Yeah, I'm working my leads now. What's it to you?"

I hear him sigh in a put-upon manner. "I've been sent to back you up."

"God help me," I groan. I scrub my face and rearrange my plans. "Can you meet me at Barney's hangar in about an hour?"

"Yeah, me and my guilt trip will see you there. We can compare intel then."

Meera:

Out of sheer willpower and desperation, I continue to work my bonds for...hours. It has to be hours, but I don't make any progress. The sharp edges of the zip cuffs bite my skin afresh with each movement, and my fingers get slick with what I know is blood.

This feels like the hut. I'm back in Nepal in my mind, even though I'm tied up on the floor here. This silence is killing me. No sound at all. My prickling limbs to keep me company. My eyes covered. My stomach and electricity burns aching.

I feel like I'm waiting for my next rapist to walk through that door.

I whimper before I can stop myself, and rest my forehead on the ground defeatedly. I let the tension drain from my quivering muscles. "Barney," I quietly beg the floor. My hot tears eventually soak through the mask and plaster it humidly to my face.