Tuesday, March 13th, 2018

A classified location in Scotland

Arina Smirnova Roskov awoke after an indeterminable amount of time.

It took a few minutes for her eyes to focus due to the light which streamed in through a window with partially closed curtains. Arina's mind told her that the room was familiar but then she realised that something was different.

"Привет. Я Наоми. Хорошо ли спалось?"

Arina turned to see a young girl sitting in a chair beside the bed.

"Ты давно спал. Я начал волноваться. Вы готовы позавтракать?"

Apparently, the girl was called Naomi. She could not have been much more than ten years old, a fact which Arina reasoned meant she could not be much of a threat. She also spoke good Russian, albeit with a trace of a foreign accent – British? In response to the girl, she had slept well, and long enough to cause concern, she figured.

"Да, я сделал."

She was also very hungry.

"Я голоден, да."

"Хороший!" Naomi responded with a broad grin. "Ванная там, десять минут?"

The young girl then stood up and left the room.

That same time...

Vengeance Air Facility: Thetis

Rylee was unsure how the upcoming mission would play out.

She was not about to receive a stamp in her passport for entering this country as they would not be going through any passport control. Indeed, they were going in the side door into what was very much the heart of the beast – or the bear in their case. She and her team were expected to prevail against all odds. Odds which were not stacked in their favour by any stretch of the imagination. Her team could be decimated, and she might never see her mother again.

"She's overthinking the mission, isn't she?" Simon asked rhetorically.

Tanya simply sighed – it was expected. She could read her friend's facial expressions like a book, and she took everything on herself as the leader of Zeta Squad. However, the seriousness of the mission explained why Rylee felt ass she did; two of their kind and another were at risk. Naturally, the usual weapon of choice would be the Special Air Service but apparently it was generally frowned upon to invade a sovereign country (not that Mindy gave a damn) such as Russia who might respond rather badly to such a forcing of its borders. Tanya and Simon knew that Rylee's biggest worry was that they were disposable. They were assets along the lines of the immortal Mission Impossible:

'Your mission, Zeta Squad, should you choose to accept it... As always, should you or any of your force be caught or killed, the Government of the United Kingdom will disavow any knowledge of your actions. Etc. Etc. Etc.'

Tanya sighed again and grinned to herself as she considered that little quote and how dire their situation could end up being should all go to hell in a hand basket as it usually did.

..._...

They were to form a Special Activities Tactical Team or SATT for short.

A rescue mission was being urgently planned and they were to execute that plan. There were multiple phases to said plan – none of which really appealed to any one of them.

Phase One

Entry.

A relatively easy phase: they would jump out of an aircraft flying over Russia at some 38,000-feet in a commercial aircraft corridor and perform an extremely hazardous wingsuit flight to cover some seventeen nautical miles from the drop point, northwest of Nizhny Novgorod, to their destination which was exactly one mile from their targets. Their targets being: Jake, Charlotte, and Debbie.

Phase Two

Assault.

Contact with the enemy was best avoided but that would not be easy, and lives could be lost – preferably on the opposing side – but it was a possibility. They had to go in. They could not leave their friends to a certain death at the hands of the Russian FSB. They all knew that Charlotte and Jake would both come for them if their positions were reversed.

Phase Three

Extraction.

Assuming phase one and phase two went off without a hitch – that though had Tanya almost laughed but she knew that they had the skills to accomplish the mission and that was all which would be required. The plan, should it still be intact by phase three – wistful thinking, Tanya grimaced – was to move half a mile to the southeast where some form of air transport would whisk them some four hundred and ninety nautical miles to Ukraine where British forces were undertaking a 'goodwill' mission a short distance short of the Russian border and those combined Ukraine/British forces would take them 'into custody' for violating Ukraine sovereignty without permission.

It all sounded so simple – on paper.

A classified location in Scotland

Arina Roskov found fresh clothing waiting for her – it was new.

Once she had washed and dressed in the adjacent bathroom, the girl tentatively pulled open the bedroom door to find herself in a small hallway with several doors leading off in all directions. For a moment she just stood, unsure of what she should do but then she heard voices coming from a door to the right which was partially ajar. She pushed the door open and found herself in a cozy room with pleasant views outside, comfortable armchairs, a large sofa, and a big TV. The girl was there, along with another, younger, girl.

"Здравствуйте, Арина. Войдите," the girl – Naomi – from before said as she stood up from a chair and threw a book onto the seat. "Это Кейтлин. Голодный?"

Arina gave the younger girl – Kaitlin – a wary look and nodded. Naomi waved for her to follow, and they passed through another door and then into a massive, combined kitchen/dining/living area. There the smell of cooked food met her nostrils.

"Бекон?"

"Да. Яйца тоже," Naomi replied as she waved Arina to a chair at a wooden table where a place mat and cutlery awaited her.

A smiling woman, standing a few feet away, in the kitchen, emptied a frying pan of bacon onto a plate followed by two fried eggs.

"I don't speak Russian," the friendly woman said with a smile. "But enjoy – oh, some milk."

The woman placed the plate of food in front of Arina before she bustled off to a large fridge and poured out a glass of cold milk which she then brought over to Arina.

"Спасибо."

Arina dug in; she was famished.

Two weeks earlier...

Thursday, March 1st

Back to the classified SVR facility
Nizhny Novgorod, Russia

Valeriya/Charlotte screamed as she was doused with ice cold water from a metal bucket held by one of the two soldiers.

She shivered in the already cold room as the water soaked her blouse and the top of her jeans. She was barefoot and her feet were very cold on the bare concrete. Her mind filled with anti-interrogation steps and in theory, she should be able to hold out for a time. Then she yelled out in pain as a hand grasped the long hair which hung loosely around her neck and fell across her shoulders, yanking her head backwards so she was looking up to the ceiling. Only, it was a face she saw and not a pleasant one.

"Валерия, это? Можно я буду называть вас Валерией?" Colonel Tarasov said calmly. {'Valeriya, is it? May I call you Valeriya?'}

She took a moment to consider her options but then she realised that she had to be the girl she hated, the girl she had once been, the girl she had sworn never to be again, the girl she had promised Cassie never to be again. But if she was not that girl then she might never see Cassie again. She could remember that night over a year ago like it was yesterday, and she could remember, word for word, what she had been made to read out loud – words which had almost sealed her fate back then. The words had come directly from her own Urban Predator file:

'...The girl has also developed an intriguing, if sometimes undesirable ability to manipulate and turn people to her advantage...'

'...From the age of ten, Grey began to twist people, both instructors and her fellow Predators, as she talked herself out of trouble or into a more desirable position. On numerous occasions, Grey has demonstrated a cold selfishness and a Machiavellian motivation to assist her with her progress as a Predator. Of the three personality traits for the so-called 'dark triad', Grey has demonstrated the aforementioned Machiavellianism trait and there appears to be a limited set of psychopathic tendencies beginning to surface. For the moment, though, there have been no obvious signs of any narcissistic tendencies, but that may change as Grey gets older. Instructors have been warned not to tolerate her manipulation and to put a swift stop to any outward attempts at manipulation which may be deemed a danger to instructors, predators, or the program in general...'

To survive, she had to become ruthless. To survive, she had to become the Machiavellian personality which she had thrust down deep inside, never to resurface. To survive and to help Debbie to survive, she had to truly become Valeriya Mikhaylova, a young Russian girl, who would be scared witless by her treatment. While she wanted to fight back, that moment was not the right moment, so she turned on the water works which to her was as easy as turning on a tap.

"Я. . . Я Вал. . . Валерия Михайлова," 'Valeriya' responded full of fear but then she caught sight of her 'mother' hanging from the far wall and screamed out, "Мать!" {'I . . . I am Val. . . Valeriya Mikhaylova.' 'Mama!'}

Colonel Tarasov frowned as he glared into the blue eyes of the frightened girl; he saw something but what he saw he had no idea. The girl could be genuine. Maybe she had no idea that her mother was a foreign agent. No – not possible. Or was it?

"Отпустите ее! Охотники, идите на работу." {'Release her! Hunters, go to work.'}

Yakov grinned to himself as he watched the girl released from the table and then punched by the female Охотник in the side. The girl fell to the floor with a scream of pain and scrunched herself into a tight ball, her arms protecting her head as the kicks and punches rained down from seemingly every direction. It was obvious that the girl was suffering, and suffering badly but she was not breaking; Yokov knew who and what the girl was, but he was unable to betray her – why? Ah, yes, the bitch meant something to Jake. Indeed, Jake was angry and trying to come to the fore, but Yakov was not having it and he mentally shoved the nekulturny bastard back down into his subconscious. After just three minutes, the beating ended which was a major let down for everyone watching, as the girl received a blow to her head and flopped unconscious on the concrete from her tight defensive ball.

Instead, the Охотники were directed to the naked woman who soon began to writhe in agony.

..._...

The beating had lasted another hour before Colonel Tarasov had become bored and besides, both prisoners were unconscious which was no fun; he enjoyed the screaming and the begging.

Yakov had left the viewing area with mixed emotions but as he walked down the corridor back to his room, he came face to face with the 'two cretins' as he had dubbed them. Yuri and Anastasiya were of a similar age – actually, they were both fourteen and just two months older than Yakov/Jake. Where they had originated, Yakov/Jake had no idea, but he had found out that they had both been under Doctor Drylov since they were ten years old. While a part of him felt sorry for what they had endured, another part of him enjoyed the thought of their suffering. It had been the two of them who had attacked him one night, many months before and while he had broken Yuri's nose and caused Anastasiya some intense pain in her left leg since, he had not actually dished out any major retaliatory punishment – mainly due to Yakov who tended to follow instructions and obediently stayed away from the pair. However, at that moment, Jake was simmering upwards as Yuri spoke – in English.

"You enjoy that, you little fuck?" he said spitefully.

Yes, he was taller by a few inches and broader, but he thought of himself as better and that was too much. As for Anastasiya, she was the conscience for them both and tended to stop and think before diving in half cocked. Yakov, being the arrogant bastard he was, was certain the girl had a thing for him, despite the very opposite being more accurate.

"Leave it, Yuri," the girl warned, knowing that fighting would get them all into trouble.

"Isn't it obvious?" Yuri smirked. "They're here for him, but they failed. They are failures like him. Predators are..."

He never got to finish his sentence as a fist struck him full in the face, smashing his nose and causing blood to explode into the air. Anastasiya dodged the blood but fell afoul of Jake's right foot which caught her in the chin, sending her back against the concrete wall of the corridor where she smacked her head. Jake – he had come to the fore and forced Yakov down – dove at Yuri again, punching, and kicking the older boy until Yuri was on the concrete floor, struggling to respond. Jake was not allowing any response from Yuri, and he pushed in, grinning as he heard a rib snap. Then...

"Что происходит?" a familiar voice demanded. "Яков, слезь с него и возвращайся в свою комнату." {'What is going on?' 'Yakov, get off him and get back to your room.'}

Jake scowled at Doctor Drylov and stepped back from Yuri who struggled to sit up while Anastasiya was grasping the back of her head in obvious pain.

"Хватит ныть, девочка! Иди в лазарет, мальчик." {'Stop whining, girl! Get to the sickbay, boy.'}

Jake did not say a word as he headed off down the corridor.

..._...

Six days later...

Wednesday, March 7th

Charlotte was still struggling to believe that the mission had gone to shit so fast.

It was day seven of her incarceration and she was feeling it. She was so tired it was unreal. Never could she remember being so tired. The sleep deprivation had taken its toll and her entire body ached from the violent interrogation methods employed daily. The day had begun as every day had begun. She had awoken to a blazing white light coming from a light fixture sunk into the concrete ceiling above. The light was never turned off, but she was always so tired she did not care as she tried to sleep. The only thing that had woken her was her bladder and the cold. She forced herself to her feet, releasing the thin blanket which had kept a modicum of heat close to her body during her time asleep. She shivered as she hobbled over to the metal toilet, and she sank down onto the cold metal seat and peed. She had not worn much clothing since the second day – just a T-shirt and what was left of her boy shorts – and she had not eaten properly since her arrival – just the bare minimum which was shoved through a slot in the cell door along with a steel cup of tepid tea. Those items arrived as she wiped and flushed the toilet. She forced down a mush which was supposed to be Kasha (Russian Porridge) but was bland and mostly tasteless. She knew that she had to eat to maintain some semblance of energy and she washed the final specs of the porridge down with the tea which was actually enjoyable despite the tepid temperature.

She knew what was to come as a key was shoved into the lock of the cell door and turned with a metallic click.

..._...

She stumbled as she was all but dragged down the same corridor as the dozen or so times before.

She tried to remember the route and make note of anything and everything that she saw. Her eyes were seeking out Jake but there had been no sign of him. Was he actually nearby or was he hundreds of miles across the vast country, out of reach. Though their mission seemed to be a complete failure, she so wanted to see Jake, just one last time before she died at the hands of Colonel Tarasov. Keeping up the persona of Valeriya Mikhaylova was becoming harder and harder every minute she played the apart. The coldness of the handcuffs which secured her wrists were a constant reminder of her captivity and that sapped at her mental state. All too soon, she and her escort arrived at the interrogation room. They did not secure her to the table – her guards and interrogators did not see the point and had given up two days earlier. As far as they were concerned, the prisoner was cooperative and meekly submitting to her captivity through debilitating fear, or so they believed. How wrong they were. They had no idea what their captive was nor what their captive was trained to do. However, they were soon to find out – the hard way.

The interrogation began as it always did with Major Raisa Sokolova softening up the victim for her boss, Colonel Tarasov. Major Sokolova thought nothing of causing pain; she enjoyed it, especially when she was torturing a child. Her victim was screaming as Sokolova slapped the girl around the face and head all while bellowing questions at her. 'Valeriya' was shaking with supposed fear, and she sobbed as she was yelled at by the major. The questions were baseless, and any answer could trap and doom her to a lifetime in Siberia – at best. For Charlotte, it was all an act, a painful act, but still an act. However, the act was wearing thin and becoming harder to maintain but she well knew the consequences should she let the act slip for even a second. But slip it did.

The constant pushing, poking, slapping, and general degrading of Valeriya /Charlotte suddenly came to a head as she was slapped hard enough to send her flying across the interrogation room and onto the floor where she badly bruised her right hip on landing, and she rolled into the concrete wall. She screamed out loud which had Major Sokolova heading over, her mouth set in a grin as she anticipated inflicting more pain and misery on the defenceless subject. She had no idea that her subject had been pushed too far. She had no idea that her subject was a grenade about to explode. She had no idea that her subject was a highly trained assassin with skills the major could only dream of possessing. The major dropped to one knee beside the sobbing girl, and she grabbed her hair, turning the head so she could look into the eyes of her prey, to see the fear in those blue eyes. Only there was no fear in those blue eyes; there was only darkness and death.

Major Sokolova had seen eyes like those blue eyes before. She had seen eyes filled with darkness and death. Those eyes belonged to killers such as those she often interrogated whether they were Russians or Russia's enemies. But those people were strapped down with an armed guard ready to intercede should they get violent. Major Sokolova wasted precious seconds looking to see where the nearest armed guard was, but he was eight feet away which may as well have been eight miles for what good it would do. For the first time in many years, Major Sokolova felt real fear just like what she had inflicted on so many others. Her prey quite literally turned and before her mind realised that she had to move, a solid mass smashed against the top of her nose, demolishing the cartilage, and sending blood and mucus flying. Charlotte had had enough, and she was beyond pissed, hence the Glasgow Kiss to her tormentor. As the major reeled back away from her attacker, Charlotte sprang to her feet, ignoring her injuries and striking out in the direction of the armed soldier who was only just reacting to the ruckus and unslinging his AK-74U assault rifle.

The muzzle of the rifle was a lifetime away from pointing at the animalistic creature leaping in his direction and the young conscript had no chance as the creature kicked him to the ground and wrestled the muzzle of the weapon away from her as the conscript squeezed his trigger, sending a trio of bullets into a concrete wall before he was punched into unconsciousness by his assailant's fists. Charlotte tried to take the assault rifle, but she could not release the strap securing the weapon to the unconscious soldier. Instead, she pulled out the man's bayonet and made for the door even as Major Sokolova slammed a hand on a panic button causing a red light to flash and a raucous klaxon to sound.

The door burst open, and Colonel Tarasov made to step into the room. His eyes were instantly drawn to his deputy, Major Sokolova who was struggling to her feet with scarlet blood on her face, and then the soldier stretched out on the concrete floor. Only then did he grasp the fact that the prisoner was not where she was supposed to be and as he turned his head, he saw movement in his peripheral vision and too late he was struck in the side of the head by the base of the bayonet, momentarily stunning him but he lashed out. Charlotte felt the fist strike her chest and she fell to the concrete floor, winded as all air from her lungs was exhaled in one go. She rolled to avoid another strike and then bolted out of the door the moment her feet were back where they should be. She turned left, racing towards where she believed a way out existed. She met two more soldiers running to the source of the alarm who were not expecting to meet a partially clad young girl in the corridors. That surprise cost them as one had his head smashed against the concrete corridor wall and the other was all but strangled by the girl as he was dragged to the floor and then punched into unconsciousness. Charlotte did not hang around, leaving the scene at a fast pace, her bare feet slapping on the concrete floor, but the sound was obscured by the almost deafening klaxon which blared out in every corridor. Charlotte's next victim was the unfortunate Anastasiya who came around a bend in the corridor only to be struck in the chest by Charlotte's right foot, but she responded swiftly as her training dictated. She instantly recognised the prisoner and struck the girl in the face with a fist, cutting the skin above Charlotte's left eye before she followed up with a strike to her chest.

Charlotte kicked back again and again, the adrenalin fuelling her advance and dulling the pain of her injuries. It also transpired that an injured Predator had an edge over Doctor Drylov's Охотники which Charlotte was quick to identify and exploit – not that Charlotte had even the faintest idea of what a Охотник was or even that they existed, she simply recognised somebody with similar but ultimately inferior skills to her own. Charlotte had real combat experience which Anastasiya did not and Charlotte's anger and desire for freedom gave her the crucial edge over the Russian assassin and ultimately led to Anastasiya being punched and kicked into submission. Anastasiya struggled to beat off the incoming strikes and it was all she could do to protect her head and abdomen from major damage, and she eventually fell to the floor of the corridor barely conscious as Charlotte gave the girl a final kick in the side, before she bolted down the corridor, but she only made it a dozen yards before she fell for the classic putdown. She never saw the arm held out across the corridor at the same level as her shoulders and she struck the arm at a sprint before she flipped almost a full three-sixty and crashed to the concrete floor with a yell of pain.

She felt herself rolled onto her back and her eyes flickered open to see a face looking down at her – a face she recognised.

"Jake?"

"Нет."

Charlotte tried to process the incongruous response, but her world quickly faded into blackness.

..._...

Four days later...

Sunday, March 11th

For some reason or other, neither the major nor the colonel were very happy with her.

Maybe it had been the attempted breakout. Maybe it had been the injuries she had caused to those three soldiers and that girl, as well as the injuries to the major and the colonel. Whatever the reason, the lack of interrogation for three straight days had been ominous. But then had come the hiding of her life. Never had she felt so much pain as she was lashed repeatedly with a leather strap as she writhed naked on the floor of her cell. The wielder of the strap had been the major herself and she had put all her hate and anger into each strike.

Charlotte had lost count of the strikes and she had ultimately passed out before her punishment was over.

Tuesday, March 13th

A classified location in Scotland

For Arina Roskov the day was going badly.

The news that she was alone only confirmed what her nightmares had shown again and again. The memories of dead bodies and blood were real and not just her overactive imagination. For several minutes she tried to tell herself that what she was being told could not be right; her parents and brother could not be dead. But her own mind told her that it was all too true: her family was no more, and she was alone. Alone in the world. Alone in a foreign country where she did not even speak the language, let alone know anybody. She was twelve years old and just the day before her life had been perfect but then in a space of mere minutes, her life had disintegrated. Despite her age, her mother and father had brought her up to be tough and resilient so she was ready for whatever life might through at her.

For over three hours, she had sat at the kitchen table, listening to a man called Jasper. She had insisted that Naomi sit with her during the briefing of why she was in that kitchen. The first hour had been a blur as the man had gently explained about her family – all in Russian – in a way which had allowed her to grasp the facts without scaring her witless. Still, it had been harrowing and then her thoughts had shifted. Who were these people? How come they spoke Russian? She knew that her father was – had been – important and influential which made him a target. She kept coming back to the girl – Naomi. Arina could not fathom a scenario where the young girl could be anything but a friend – it wasn't like the British government recruited young children, she thought. It was all far too much for such a young girl to fully take in and digest. Finally, she spoke after a good forty minutes of thought.

"Что со мной произойдет?" {'What is going to happen to me?'}

"На данный момент ты будешь жить здесь с Татанией." {'For the moment, you will live here with Tatanya.'}

"Татаня?" ('Tatanya?}

"Мне." {'Me.'}

Arina turned to see the woman from the previous evening, the one who had scared her.

"Привет." {'Hello.'}

Tatanya knew that it was far too early to explain her own involvement in the previous evening's mess, let alone explain what Arina might have become if she had been returned to Russia as planned.

Thursday, March 15th

Sixty nautical miles northwest
of Nizhny Novgorod, Russia

17:47 GMT+3 (14:47 GMT)

The LM-100J was noisy and not very fast with a cruising speed of just three-hundred-and-fifty-five knots.

Despite being a civilian aircraft with a valid civilian registration and a valid civilian flight plan, the aircraft was on a military mission and had long ago crossed over the border from Finland into Russia. It was a common aircraft which attracted little attention as it flew the route several times per week, every month of the year. The Russians had no problem with inbound freight from the west and Wayne Enterprises had many business interests within the borders of the Russian Federation. In the cavernous fifty-five-foot cargo compartment, some forty tonnes of cargo took up the forward section leaving little space for the small team congregated at the rear of the cargo compartment ahead of the rear ramp. Laid out on the deck were three wingsuits custom made by Lucius Fox for each of the three miscreants who were gearing up and preparing to deploy. Gathered around Rylee, Simon, and Tanya were Keira, Kate, and David assisting with their gearing up. Each Zeta wore British pattern MTP uniforms with webbing and lightweight waterproof boots and carried personal weapons and enough ammunition to get themselves out of trouble. Their primary weapons were their favoured Diemaco C8-CQB assault rifles which were secured to the chest webbing which also carried rations, first aid equipment, and communications equipment. Over it all went the wing suits which had been designed by Fox to guide the trio safely to their landing zone via head-up-displays in their combat helmets. Each had received a crash course in the operation of the wingsuits which had included fourteen virtual training flights and two actual training flights over the preceding two days. But it was to be the first from such a height and over enemy territory.

"Two minutes!" David bellowed as a light on the bulkhead beside the rear ramp turned red and the ramp door swung open and upwards even as the ramp itself lowered to a horizontal position.

Freezing air rushed in and tugged at everyone, but all were secured with safety lines but for the three Zetas who stood in their jet-black, low observability wingsuits ready to deploy.

"One minute!"

Any last-minute anxiety was pushed aside as the three Zetas switched on the oxygen which fed their masks, and which would keep them alive until they met thicker air much lower down.

The red light went out, only to be replaced a green light.

"Zulu flight of three deploying," Rylee reported as she stepped off the ramp into the cold darkness.

She was closely followed by Tanya and then Simon.

That same afternoon...

Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ)
Cheltenham, United Kingdom

Madison Enfield had only been back in the United Kingdom for six months.

Previous to that, she had been posted to the British Embassay in Brasilia, Brazil, officially as a supervisor, but with the classified role as an SIS Liaison Officer for South America. She had flown out to Brazil in July 2013 to take up her post, but she missed her daughter who was at boarding school back in England. Indeed, the eight-year-old Tanya was scheduled to spend her Easter holidays with her mother in Brazil during March of 2014 but while the British Airways flight arrived safely on 28th March, her daughter had not been on the flight. Now, almost four years later, her daughter was still missing despite her many attempts to find her. There had been tall tales and other stories concerning warrior children and tender-aged assassins, but Madison had spent long enough working for top secret government agencies to treat such stories with the contempt they often deserved. So many lies were told to procure classified intelligence that little could be deemed the truth or rather it was very difficult to tell fact from fiction.

Back in England, her role was rather less glamorous: she was a Message Traffic Analyst; but for highly classified messages.

..._...

That afternoon, Madison was sifting through several routine messages which she would classify and run through the facility's massive computer system to ascertain if there were any patterns which may mean that United Kingdom message traffic had been compromised or that SIS agents themselves had been compromised. One report stood out as being non-routine – it was the initial brief for a Special Activities Tactical Team mission. SATT missions were very rare and while she would expect to see the unit designator as '22SQN' meaning that 22 Squadron Special Air Service was making up the SATT, or even '42CDO' for the Royal Marines, it was a surprise to see 'ZTA VNG' which was a designator she had never seen before. After unlocking a secure filing cabinet which was one of eight arranged along the wall of her office, she pulled out a large ring binder and she flipped to the letter 'Z' to look for 'ZTA'.

ZTA...ZETA SQUADRON...UK TOP SECRET...HMG USE ONLY (SEE URBNPR)

The plot thickens, she thought as she flipped back in the ring binder to 'U' to look up 'URBNPR'.

URBNPR...URBAN PREDATOR...UK TOP SECRET CODEWORD...UK EYES ONLY (SEE XXXXXXX)

That was the first time she had ever seen a redacted classifier or designator at her security level. While the trail had slammed into the brick wall of national security, it told her that Urban Predator (and by association Zeta Squadron) were hot enough to be handled by only the very top which meant 10 Downing Street. She turned her attention to 'VNG' and she flipped a few pages forwards to 'V'.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she read the identifier.

VNG...VENGEANCE...UK TOP SECRET...HMG USE ONLY (SEE HMG)

That designator explained why somebody on a higher paygrade had gone to town with a black marker pen on the paper copy she held in her hand. However, it appeared that the marker pen was due for replacement. She held the sheet of paper up to the light and while the majority of the text was illegible, she could make out some of the text partially obfuscated by the marker pen.

IDENT #1: ¦¦¦¦E C¦¦R¦¦¦N
IDENT #2: S¦¦¦¦ DALT¦¦
IDENT #3: TAN¦A ENFIELD

NTFY: SIS COS MO¦¦OW

There were three names and the ultimate receiver of the message: SIS Chief of Station, Moscow. There was an operation underway in Russia of all places; dangerous, Madison thought, but then her eyes were drawn to the third name: ENFIELD. That was her surname – then she began to shake as she filled in the missing letter: Tanya.

Tanya Enfield was her daughter's name...

It had to be a coincidence; her daughter was presumed dead. Even if she was alive, there was no way that Tanya – she would be twelve – could be part of a SATT invading Russia.

No way!

Fourteen nautical miles northwest
of Nizhny Novgorod, Russia

18:02 GMT+3 (15:02 GMT)

Together, they plunged downwards at terminal velocity just yards apart.

It would take just minutes to reach the altitude required to deploy the wingsuits but for the moment they plunged. Their only references in the darkness were the head-up-displays in their combat helmets which showed airspeed, altitude, direction and range to their landing zone, and most importantly how much oxygen they had remaining. So many things could go wrong with zero chance of rescue, but they had to trust their equipment which they knew was cutting edge as were the wingsuits and the way in which they flew. Their earpieces chirped at twenty-eight-hundred feet and they each spread their arms and legs allowing the material inserted between their arms and thighs with extra material between their legs to slow their descent from some 120 miles-per-hour to just sixty-five miles-per-hour in an instant. After a brief check of the navigational indicator in their HUDs, they steered their wingsuits in the direction of their target some forty-nine nautical miles distant.

The wingsuits offered a 3.5 to 1 lift ratio – they covered 3.5 nautical miles for every 6,076 feet they fell. That was a difficult ratio to maintain, and the HUDs gave them instruction if the ratio changed in the wrong direction. If they came down to early, they would have too far to walk and potentially land somewhere dangerous, like in marshland. If they over extended, then the same problem applied. Either way, the mission would be a bust. The flight was exhilarating, and Rylee enjoyed the freedom of freefall, and the glide as might any human where flying was an alien occurrence and generally only possible if you came from places such as Krypton. It was the same for Simon and Tanya who kept their positions with difficulty, using their leader as the marker.

All too soon, their earpieces were chirping as they glided through ten-thousand feet indicating that they could come off oxygen for the remainder of the flight. Each unhooked their masks and enjoyed a lungful of icy fresh air. They could see more as they descended, identifying landmarks in the darkness and most importantly the Russian city of Nizhny Novgorod which they would leave to their right and land across the Volga River from that great city of over 1.2 million occupants. Finally, it was time to come off the wingsuits and deploy their French-made high-glide Safran MMS360 HG ram air parachutes. These had sails in a rectangular pattern rather than the more traditional circular canopies. These ram air parachutes could be steered, and they had a higher glide ratio than the wingsuits and were generally smaller which allowed for low-observability parachute drops such as their HALO drop. They swiftly triggered their parachutes at fifteen hundred feet before then dropping their packs onto six-foot straps to ease their landings.

Tanya's parachute was the first to blossom into being as the drogue chute pulled the main sail into life and it spread on the wind, allowing her rapid decent to be retarded significantly. Simon's parachute was next, and he soon joined on Tanya's right side, both gliding slowly towards the ground, passing over the Volga River at an altitude of fourteen hundred feet.

"Fuck!" Tanya exclaimed as Rylee plummeted past them, her drogue chute flapping in the wind ineffectually and refusing to pull the main sail from its stowage.

Rylee had barely seconds to realise her predicament.

"Warning! Ground impact, ninety seconds! Warning! Ground impact, eighty seconds!" Rylee's earpiece squawked as she fought to reach the ripcord for her reserve parachute.

Tanya and Simon could only look on in horror as their leader plummeted to the ground below.

Three miles to the east...

The classified SVR facility

Colonel Tarasov was hands on that evening.

The interrogation room was a bloodbath and to an outsider viewing the room from above, it looked like the two half-naked bodies in sight were nothing more than corpses. In a warped sense of theatre, the Colonel had ordered both female prisoners to be dressed so that he could put them through the humiliation of being stripped as they were beaten and interrogated for information. The usual torture had gone nowhere – both prisoners were well trained, it appeared – and he knew that torture only succeeded to a point beyond which trained intelligence agents would produce no useful information. However, Colonel Tarasov enjoyed blood sports and the more helpless the prey the better.

It had begun with what the colonel referred to as 'love taps'. Debbie Grey was thirty-four years old and no novice to intelligence and counter-intelligence work. Her athletic frame did not absorb punishment well and she already had two broken ribs mixed with extensive bruising on her torso. Her face little resembled that which once drew many a pleasant comment from men and women alike. Bruises and cuts now replaced smooth skin along with dried blood. What made Debbie perfect for her work was her courage and mental fortitude. While the waterboarding had not been pleasant, she had survived. Despite the reputation of Russian torturers, they were professionals, and a dead prisoner could not be coerced into talking. People died while being waterboarded by amateurs but not at the hands of true professionals. She had never broken, and she was determined to remain strong for her younger compatriot who was suffering just as badly. Indeed, young Charlotte had received much respect from some of the conscripted soldiers on duty at the facility as they all disliked Colonel Tarasov and positively hated Major Sokolova. That had gained her some extra rations for which she had been grateful.

It was all Charlotte could do to remain conscious and protect her head, despite her handcuffs and anklecuffs. She had been dragged to the interrogation room later afternoon and it had been the first time she had seen Debbie in over a week. She had heard her screams but that had been it, but that also told her that Debbie was alive; the dead did not scream. Debbie had obviously been there long enough for the bastard colonel to start on her. Blood seeped from a wound on her forehead and her nose was broken and seeped more blood which dripped down her naked upper body. There was also plenty of dried blood on her face, hands, and arms. The bloodied rag which used to be her blouse lay discarded on the concrete – the bra was long destroyed. The beating had begun without warning and Charlotte had been beaten to the floor where she continued to be punched. But then the beating ceased, and she was allowed to get her breath back and regain her composure, ready for the next round which she was sure would be coming. Her chest heaved as she lay on her side and looked up at Debbie who smiled support for their grim situation.

"Now, I would like your names," Colonel Tarasov said calmly – and in English for the first time since their arrival.

Charlotte and Debbie exchanged a look before Debbie forced a smile and nodded to her protégé.

Charlotte forced herself to stand, despite the chains, her legs wobbly but functional. She turned to face the colonel and Major Sokolova. Despite the blood running down the left side of her face from a cut above her left eye and more bruises than you could shake a stick at, she stood as tall as she could before she spoke.

"We don't give a flying fuck what you want, arsehole! You're a spineless little weasel who had problems making friends when..."

Charlotte's world began to spin as she was bodily lifted off the ground by the string man and slammed down onto the interrogation table on her back, her left side just missing the steel ring by a whisker. She felt all the air forced from her lungs and more pain than she had felt in a long time. It seemed like an age before she was able to suck in lungfuls of air but almost as she did so, her body was flipped onto her front and her left hand erupted into agony like someone had set fire to her skin. She turned her head to look at her outstretched left arm and her eyes moved onto the back of her left hand which was smeared with blood. It took a few moments for her brain to catch up with what her eyes could see. A knife – correction, a bayonet, her mind told her – was standing vertically, its point in the table having transfixed her hand between the second and third metatarsals. Charlotte did her best not to scream with the pain as her body shook violently as a reaction to the shocking trauma. But then she screamed as Tarasov snapped the first and second fingers of her left hand before he yanked out the bayonet blade. Charlotte slid to the floor cradling her profusely bleeding and swelling left hand against her chest as she sobbed through the pain.

"Well, ain't you a sorry fucking sight. A right fucking Charlie and no mistake!"

Charlotte felt her heart skip a beat as she recognised the voice, but the tone was wrong, not to mention the snide comment referencing her true name. She had laid awake at night, several times since her attempt to escape, thinking of his face – before he had punched her lights out ... bastard!

"Hey, beautiful; I'm Yakov."

Charlotte glared at the boy who looked like Jake but sounded nothing like him; he sounded creepy, and the hand which reached down to her, she ignored it. Instead, she pulled her right hand away from her injured left and drove her right fist into the boy's crotch.

"Motherfucker!" Yakov/Jake exclaimed in a higher pitched voice than usual as he grasped his bruised crotch not realising the trap as Charlotte then drove a haymaker punch into his face.

Yakov/Jake fell backwards, catching his head on the edge of the interrogation table which put him out cold.

Three miles to the west...

Zeta Squadron

"Warning! Ground impact, seventy seconds! Warning! Ground impact, sixty seconds!"

Rylee did not panic but she felt concern for her situation and that she was just seconds from becoming a human pancake with every bone and organ in her body broken and torn apart as it impacted the ground at near to terminal velocity.

Rylee considered that outcome to be a little too painful to contemplate, so she continued to fight to pull her reserve parachute which she did on the umpteenth attempt, and she yanked on the handle. With a tight yank on her straps, the sail blossomed out above her head and Rylee pulled on the control toggles to enter into a speed-eating turn and glide manoeuvre in the hope that she would only be partially pancaked when she struck the ground. Despite the very low opening of the parachute, the sail was able to sufficiently retard her decent enough that she had enough time to drop her kit onto the lanyard before her kit struck Russia closely followed by Rylee Clarkson who made a harder than desired landing alongside, bruising her left buttock as she rolled to absorb the impact.

"She's not going to be happy about that landing," Tanya quipped as she and Simon touched down gently.

"She'll be mad for hours!" Simon agreed.

"I can hear you two cunts," Rylee reminded her colleagues who simply laughed as they heaved off their parachute harnesses and wing suits.

All their equipment would be buried so Simon set to with a folding shovel, digging into the loose topsoil of the grassy space where they had touched down – or crashed in Rylee's case. Once a suitably deep hole had been dug, their excess equipment was thrown in and anything classified destroyed. A liberal amount of pepper was spread over the items before a thick layer of topsoil was added along with more pepper before the grass was re-laid. The pepper should deter animals – especially dogs – from digging up their equipment. All the while, the grumpy Rylee kept watch through a set of NVGs, scanning the darkness in every direction with her Diemaco C8-CQB assault rifle, searching for the enemy.

"I'm done," Simon reported.

"About fucking time," Rylee groused. "Let's get tabbing!"

Simon grinned at Tanya in the darkness as they checked all was clear and moved off after their leader, each scanning their assign sector. Each was heavily laden with their gear, but they were used to it and moved swiftly but silently as they were close to urban settlement, and they could meet just about anyone. They had a mile to trudge over open country before they reached the heavily fortified FSB stronghold and God only knew what.

Would there be anybody to rescue?

..._...

The last two hundred yards was the most difficult.

They were close to numerous buildings, mostly industrial but they were less than a mile from residential areas. They could hear the engines of cars and lorries, dogs barking, people shouting. All too close for comfort. All too close for the trio of armed assassins moving slowly but purposefully through thick brush alongside a disused concrete dock. There, just ahead of them towered an industrial looking office building of drab concrete construction and which rose some fourteen storeys. Despite the dreary look, Rylee knew that the building was potentially a trap at best and a death sentence at worst. Nobody in their right mind would knowingly enter an FSB building uninvited. But that was fine, Rylee Clarkson thought to herself, as she hadn't been in her right mind since she was eight. But her thoughts of the past ended as she found herself facing a wire fence. Her expert eyes scanned the fence, correctly identifying the anti-tremor wire three feet up and the nasty-looking coils of razor wire which ran along the top. They had come equipped for just such an eventuality and while Simon and Tanya kept watch, Rylee removed what amounted to a large tube of toothpaste and she began to squirt the thick gooey substance onto the mesh which made up the fence. Gently, she drew a very rough three-foot by three-foot square, avoiding disturbing the anti-tremor wire as she did so. The black goo was a special compound courtesy of Lucius Fox and on contact with the metal of the fence, it would disrupt the molecular bonds of the metal and cause the metal to break apart which it did. Rylee gently eased the section of fence away and placed it on the ground.

Rylee used hand signals to wave her team forwards through the hole in the fence, their weapons raised to their shoulders, the muzzles following their eyes as they took in the greenish tinted landscape through their NVGs.

..._...

Tanya had the first kill, though it was not a human kill.

Tanya caught sight of the animal moving through the darkness on a lead. The East European Shepherd was a breed of dog renowned for their ferocity when it came to protecting their own and if the animal saw you first, you might not even know it until you felt its jaws ripping into your throat just moments before you died. Instead, the dog's body heat bloomed upon the NVGs as it came around the corner of a building and the shape of the heat bloom was unmistakeable. The animal's handler came next, restraining the animal on a leather leash – he would die second. Tanya dug into her webbing and brought out what looked like, and indeed was, a vacuum-packed steak. The vacuum packing compressed the steak and ensured no smell or liquid leaked out. A simple blood-red plastic tab was all it took to release the tender bit of sirloin, only it was no ordinary sirloin as the guard dog was soon to find out as it began to whine and tug at its leash, the smell and sound of the meat as it slapped to the ground, so tantalising to the animal. As Tanya hung back, lying flat on the ground, the leash was released and the dog bounded forwards towards what his handler assumed to be a detected threat but then the dog took a bite, and then swallowed the meat whole, salivating. But the salivating only increased, and the dog began to feel significant stomach cramps as a rapid acting nerve agent raced at lightening speed through his nervous system to his heart and brain. The beautiful dog was dead before his body fell to the ground.

The handler rushed to his dog and bent down, only to feel the prick of cold steel against his neck as Tanya's fighting knife ripped through his neck, tearing open both carotid arteries and leaving him to fall across the still warm corpse of his dog, the thick fur soon soaked in his blood as he died.

..._...

No sound was emanated.

All communication was using hand signals or just by their body language which was known intimately by the small team who were a perfect team and they each enjoyed the rush of killing, even if it was merely a dog but none of them would lose a moment's sleep over the guard nor over his dog – at least until much later when they might just mourn the dog.

Part of their briefing had been the layout of the site which had gone into some surprising detail. There had been floor layouts and most importantly, they had been shown the plans for the powerhouse which was a two-storey building located some fifty yards from where they had cut through the fence. Only the upper storey was above ground, and it was accessed by a steel door set into the concrete structure. The guard patrolling outside was taken down by Simon who near enough cut the head from the body with his combat knife as he slit the guard's throat. He waved his squad forward and Tanya went to work on the electronic lock protecting the powerhouse while he and Rylee kept watch knowing all hell could break loose at any moment.

In a little over a minute, the steel door released, and the trio moved inside the Russian FSB facility.

Inside the facility...

Charlotte had to be physically restrained as she continued to kick the downed and unconscious Yakov/Jake.

She was incensed that Jake could go rogue and work for the Russians. He had thwarted her escape and . . . and . . . she was so mad she was struggling to form words in her mind as a soldier dragged her off but then the soldier was punched in the nose which exploded with blood, and it was only a swift strike from Major Sokolova which prevented Charlotte from getting too carried away. Charlotte stumbled and it was only Debbie's touch which calmed the girl down before she was shot dead by the major who had a pistol in her right hand.

"Now, girl," Colonel Tarasov said calmly as he stared down at the young girl cradling her left hand. "We need a name. I could tell you that we need your name to notify your government but as you have not confirmed your nationality that is not possible." The bastard grinned nastily. "Like any country, we have rules, and those rules tell us to fill in forms – I hate paperwork, but needs must..."

Charlotte watched as Tarasov held up a piece of paper, he had pulled from his jacket pocket; she translated the title 'Свидетельство о смерти' in her mind: 'Certificate of Death'. She had resigned herself to the fact she would not survive her trip to Russia days before, so his attempt to scare her did little.

"Do you want me to fill it in?" Charlotte asked as she struggled to her feet. "How do you spell Tarasov?"

She heard the slap as well as left it. The force sent her reeling and she saw stars before her eyes as she stumbled and tripped over the supine form of Yakov/Jake who moaned as she fell atop him, and his eyes snapped open.

"My love...," Yakov/Jake drawled. "I am so much better than that twat..."

"Are you getting hard...?" Charlotte hissed as she head-butted the boy and leapt to her feet. "Motherfucker!"

The bastard Tarasov actually grinned as Yakov/Jake rolled on the concrete floor, his hands to his head as he groaned with pain.

"Get up you useless bastard!" Tarasov roared.

"I have just about had enough of you, you fucking Russian twat!" Yakov/Jake retorted as he regained his feet. "Why don't you just let the major suck you off; you'd be so much better for it."

WHACK!

The boy went flying as he was struck by said major's hand and he landed hard enough that something snapped – a rib, Charlotte assumed/hoped.

"You fucking whelp!" Tarasov growled as he punched a code into a metal box set into the concrete wall and yanked open the door.

Tarasov pulled out an MP-443 Grach pistol and a magazine which he inserted into the pistols butt. He pulled back the slide and released it. The slide stripped a bullet from the magazine as it snapped forward. Then Tarasov aimed the muzzle of the pistol at Yakov/Jake, and he caught the momentary fear which flitted across the boy's face before it was replaced by stoic acceptance as Yakov/Jake glared directly into the muzzle without flinching.

Tarasov squeezed the trigger just as the lights went out.