Part Four - Behind Enemy Lines

Undisclosed Location
Cuba

Meanwhile…

Waking up gradually from what felt like a mother of a hangover was a slow, cautious process, one that took time, courage and a lot of self motivation. His ingrained instincts came online before the rest of him did, and started supplying him with data they thought he needed to parse out exactly what kind of a situation he was waking up to.

The first thing Michael realised was that he was lying flat on his back, on what felt like a thin mattress. He cast through the memories in his dark, muddled mind, and dismissed the notions that he was sleeping on his bed at the loft or at his mom's. The hardness he felt underneath his back was all wrong, and more to the point, he hadn't slept in those places for more than a year, since he had been spending that time in prison.

For some reason, the cot beneath him didn't feel like his prison bed either, and try as he might, his sluggish brain had no possible conclusion to offer.

Then he registered the cloying smell he had been breathing in as the scent of antiseptics, the one that was usually a constant in the hallways of hospitals. The realisation was enough to spike his pulse a little, but not by much in his largely unconscious state. Besides, the absence of the sounds of any monitors or medical staff pointed to the fact that he probably wasn't in a hospital, despite the fact that he may have been hurt.

He didn't know whether that was a good or a bad thing yet.

Before he could delve further into the feel of his surroundings, a door opened and closed somewhere to his right, close enough that it made him draw in a quick breath and open his eyes.

A few more things became very clear when he did.

The room he was in was small and dark, with only a dim light hanging on the ceiling above him. Apart from his bed, an empty chair and a short wooden table with a jug of water and an empty glass, there really wasn't much in it.

Those were the non-concerning things.

The first concerning thing he noticed was that the sudden move he made in response to the sound of the door seemed to have stirred up a headache that made him wish he were unconscious, or dead.

It was that bad.

It was also concerning the way the rest of him felt. His entire left was still hurting, but in a muted, dull way, which told him that Sam's first aid from earlier was holding true still. There was also a sharp pain in his upper arm, where the chip had been, and quite possibly dug out. A spot on his left thigh and the left shoulder blade hurt the same way, leading him to conclude that whoever had him, knew what they were doing when they de-tagged him.

The other concerning thing was the restraints. His wrists and ankles were secured to the bed railing with thin, braided nylon ropes, the ones that tightened to painful levels and cut off his circulation when he tried to pull against the bindings.

The third concerning thing, perhaps the worst of all of them, was the man who stood silently next to the closed door. He had his arms crossed against his chest, his head cocked to the side, and he studied Michael in a way that sent a cold shiver of dread down his spine.

Seeing Randall Burke watching him like a predator made him flashback to exactly how he ended up in the current, seemingly hopeless situation.

The old army cargo plane smoothly changed from its level cruising to a sedate descent, alerting Michael that they were about to land. Since the cargo bay had no windows, they had to rely on the movements of the flight and the announcements from the pilot to know what was happening outside.

"Secure for landing," the pilot said over the PA system.

Strong tugged his seatbelt while Michael did the same. At least, they had handcuffed his wrists in front of him, which made it easier to do it.

"Home sweet home, Westen." Strong sneered, shouting over the sounds of rattling and vibrations of the old frame to be heard.

"Thank you for the field trip, Strong," Michael yelled back with an insincere grin. "Wish it could have gone better, truly."

Strong shook his head. "No, you don't."

"No, I don't." Michael had to admit.

"Maybe I'll make a suggestion to the commander of the base," Strong shouted at him, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Tell him how much you've been missing your old buddies from your EU days. He'll probably let you spend a day or two with them before sticking you back in the solitary, you know, if you manage to walk out alive of that one. I hear Siberians are a wild bunch when it comes to throwing parties, especially reunions."

Michael said nothing. He had no control over how the camp was run. What Strong implied was a very real threat. The chances of him walking out of that part of the camp were very close to zero. Michael knew the agent was thoroughly pissed off at his failure at capturing his target. He had a feeling that it may have left a mark against Strong's career, for him to be planning Michael's possible murder in that manner.

The plane touched down without too much of an incident, only bouncing three times before sliding into taxiing on the runway. The surprise came when the plane made a sudden, hard turn to the left without any warning from the pilot.

"Whoa!" Strong exclaimed before slamming the overhead call button that opened up a line to the cockpit at the front. "What the hell was that?"

"Sorry about that, folks," the army pilot's southern drawl came through the speaker. "Somebody closed off half the runway for maintenance. The moron at the tower never told me."

Michael turned to stare at Strong, who had the same look in his eyes.

"Shit!" Michael wasn't sure which of them yelled. It was an ambush!

They were on the plane before it even came to a full stop after its sharp, awkward turn. Michael thought they may have used a few humvees to flank them and match their rapidly dwindling taxiing speed. Thunderous bangs erupted on the outside, centring around the closed ramp at the back. The door flew off its hinges outwards as the magnetic clamps wrenched it off the plane's frame.

There were ten of them, Michael counted, all dressed in black combat uniforms, boots and masks, wielding a wide range of semi-automatic rifles. They stormed in before the three agents could unholster their guns. Two mercenaries continued without stopping at the bay to reach the cockpit. The twin, simultaneous bursts from their rifles spoke of the fate of the pilot and the chief.

Two remained at the back, covering the runway while the remaining six dispersed around the bay to cover Michael and the three agents. One of them did quick work on the seatbelts before another one started screaming at them in Spanish, "On the ground, now."

In the face of six attackers actively tracking them with a collection of AK-47s and Uzis, they had no choice but to do as they were told. The one who undid their belts knelt next to Michael and grabbed a handful of hair to lift his head back.

Through the black facemask, a pair of blue eyes bore into Michael's. "Found him."

Michael took a moment to be grateful for the decision he had made to make use of his ample free time by learning Spanish. Now he could actually understand what their attackers were saying.

"But, the beard…" the one next to the man Miahel had pegged as the leader of the team gestured, frowning. "You sure?

The man who had him by the hair pointed to Michael's handcuffs and nodded. "Yes, him."

Then he let go of his hold and hauled Michael up from where he lay prone on the deck. In his periphery, he saw an agent make a move to stand as they did, and was swiftly dealt with by a bullet to the back of his head.

"Hey," Michael struggled, trying to distract the three mercenaries so that they wouldn't do the same to Strong, who had moved as well. Strong was subdued by a strike to the back of his head with the butt of a rifle while Michael caught a vicious fist to his ribs.

Micheal doubled over and went down on a knee. He was still trying to catch his breath when he felt a cold, thin piece of metal touch the back of his neck. Before he could duck away, a hand clamped around his shoulder to keep him steady. The commotion around him dimmed when the sedative they injected him with acted alarmingly fast to knock him out.

He was already entirely blacked out by the time he was carried out of the back of the plane and never saw the others shooting the agents and setting the plane on fire before they took off with him.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Michael," Burke said genially, greeting him like an old friend as he walked over. "How are we feeling?"

Michael decided to be honest. "Like crap, Burke."

"Oh, come on, now," he shook his head at him in disappointment. "We broke you out, cleaned you up, and treated your injuries. What you should be saying is, 'I'm great, thanks, Burke.'"

It was then that Michael realised he was in an entirely different set of clothes, and shoes. He was also free of the infernal itch all over his face that had grown along with the beard. It made him feel uneasy all over again to realise he had been completely out cold while they had done all of that.

"Where the fuck am I?" He covered his discomfort by snapping the first thing that came to his mind.

"Why, Michael?" Burke continued to piss him off with the mock familiarity. "Missing your cosy little six-by-eight in Gitmo?"

"Can't call this dump an improvement, now, can I?" Michael bit back, casting a glance around pointedly.

"Nah, you're right," Burke flashed a smile and settled on the chair next to him, forcing Michael to turn his head all the way to be able to look at him. "You can't."

"So, you've been looking for me, and now you've got me. Care to tell me what's going on?"

"Happy to," Burke said cheerfully. "First of all, I'm sure you'll be delighted to learn that you're completely free of your former jailors. They tagged you good, but we took care of it. Now that you're clean, you'll even be able to start over somewhere nice, exotic and free of extradition laws."

"Doesn't sound like you unlocked my metaphorical chains out of love and goodness in your heart, Burke," he said out loud. "And I have a feeling you expect me to pay for your generous deeds."

"Astute as always, Westen."

"I'm waiting."

Burke studied him for a long minute with an unreadable expression before spitting out a name Michael hadn't thought of for years. And if he were honest, it was a name he had hoped never to hear again as long as he lived.

"Oksana Zhirkova. The name rings a bell?"

It rang a several. Michael did his best not to react to the name and the rush of images and flashbacks that surfaced in his mind with it. But, Burke had been watching him intensely, and Michael knew he saw the instinctive grimace before he could hide it.

Burke hummed. "The look on your face says there's a story there, or three."

"Is she behind all this?" Michael asked, thinking about a number of possibilities. "Was that why you showed up in Miami with your associate looking for me?"

"In a roundabout way," Burke shrugged and turned sideways to fill the empty glass he had near him with some water. "Although I'm sure you didn't quite have to turn my late friend into a sieve, Westen, that was a bit much."

Burke's casual act of sipping water made Michael realise how thirsty he was. He had a feeling it had something to do with the still-fading drugs in his system. Since Burke showed no signs of sharing, he decided to keep the man talking, to learn exactly what kind of a mess he had just woken up in.

"Yeah, well, he shouldn't have kidnapped one of my friends and threatened to kill her. We all have to deal with the consequences of our actions sooner or later," he pointed out, shrugging as much as the restraints allowed. "Back to Zhirkova, did she contract out to you?"

Michael had a lot of enemies from his days back in Eastern Europe, and he was on the kill-on-sight list of many operatives in many nations in that hemisphere. Oksana Zhirkova just happened to be the most viciously driven one out of all who had sworn to accomplish that very task.

Michael had to admit that it was a reasonable feud. His involvement in jeopardising her operation had made the Russian government send her remaining family to the gulags as a punishment for her shortcomings, after all.

Nobody ever survived for long in those prison camps in those days.

"Not really, no," Burke said. "But tell me, what's your worth to her?"

"Absolutely nothing," Michael lied cheerfully. "We had a few misunderstandings, all of which we sorted out through sincere communication with each other before going our separate ways."

Burke laughed, taking his bullshit in for what it was. "Not according to what we hear," he said easily.

"Ah, well, don't believe everything you hear."

"Good advice," Burke agreed. "That's why I'm going to ignore what you just said. You're just coming out of drugs, you can be excused this one time. What you are going to be, is a peace offering to Zhirkova, in exchange for something she has that belongs with us."

"An exchange, huh?" Michael said, trying to swallow past his suddenly very dry throat. He could just about imagine the former Spetsnaz soldier frothing at the corners of her mouth at the chance to get her claws in him. He was fairly sure that there was very little she wouldn't give up for that chance. He really was that good at pissing people off in those days.

"Yup."

"For what?"

"Not a what," Burke said, his voice dropping low. "A who. Someone who means a lot to me and everything I stand for."

The way he said made it clear that Burke had a very important stake in this transaction, and naturally, that meant Michael would be the one holding the shortest stick at the end of the day. Michael wasn't even surprised. He had known things weren't going to end well for him the moment Strong had shown up with the news.

"Oh, okay," he said, nodding, since Burke seemed to be expecting an answer. "You're just trying to spring another terrorist out of her claws, then."

"Be that as may, she's worth a lot more to us than you," Burke said calmly. "So, as the guy who's basically on everyone's shit list right now, I'd suggest you start thinking about your words and actions a bit more cautiously from now on."

"Whatever you say, Burke."

Michael turned his head back to stare up at the low ceiling. He had a feeling they were still in Cuba, and wondered where his next exciting destination would be if Burke and his merry band made good on his threat.

The trained part of his brain insisted on parsing together everything he had learned, through his trip to Miami leading up to his current situation. All things pointed to the fact that Burke was organised, had more than enough men and weapons, along with a generous scattering of contacts and moles in a lot of places. It meant that he wasn't just a freelancing terrorist, but part of a much more widespread, and deeply hidden network. Since he seemed to have gone through a lot of trouble to acquire Michael as a bargaining chip to negotiate with the GRU, it also implied that he was on an unorthodox rescue mission to free yet another terrorist of his organisation. Although, with someone like Zirkova holding the reins, Michael personally thought that Burke's associate might have gone past the reasonable limits of being saved intact.

There was a time when Michael would have thought that he was in a perfect position to run a deep cover infiltration operation. To make a plan to insert himself into the enemy territory willingly by convincing Burke that he was done with his past patriotic life and was in need of a different, better purpose, such as becoming a freelancing terrorist. To gain Burke's confidence while learning more about his network and its operatives so that he could delve into the more satisfying stages of planning its demise.

It was concerning that he hardly even wanted to think about devising an escape plan, a getaway, before he could end up in an even worse situation. As it was, all Michael felt was bone-deep exhaustion…an apathetic sort of resignation towards his fate at the hand of a woman who had sworn a long time ago to make him pay for destroying her life.

"Enjoy whatever time you have, Westen," Burke said, standing up, unaware of what was going on in his head. "We have already put the word out, with a nice photo of you sleeping like a baby. It won't be long until your lady friend from Russia comes calling."

-0-

His words turned out to be prophetic. The GRU made contact within three hours. After a lengthy negotiation of terms, which Burke filled Michael in on later with only the bullet points, they had an agreement to conduct the hostage exchange in a barely crowded, industrial area hugging the sleepy east coastal line.

Mid-morning the next day, they waited in an unmarked SUV a few hundred yards away from the supposed meeting area. Michael was in the passenger side, his hands once again zip-tied and secured to the handle above his seat to make sure he stayed put. He was getting sick of being tied up and being hauled around according to others' whims, but, as things stood, there really wasn't much he could do about it. Burke was in the driver's seat, his attention firmly only the comms radio which was silent for the moment.

From where they were parked, in the alley between two warehouses, Michael had a decent view of the open field where the exchange was arranged. The area was surrounded by an abandoned factory and four equally empty warehouses, all completely surrounded by barbed wire fences. To make it worse, the open arena only had two exits, unless one showed up with a reinforced vehicle and was willing to run through the fences and solid brick walls for a few miles until they found a serviceable road.

It was a terrible place for such an exchange, Michael thought, wondering why Zhirkova would willingly walk into an absolute death trap like the one he was staring at, even with an irresistible bait such as him. Oksana Zhirkova, Michael remembered, wasn't that stupid, even when driven by revenge. He had to believe that Burke knew that too.

"Something doesn't feel right." He remarked casually as they continued to wait.

"I know. It's not the best choice for an exchange," Burke shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "But the area is entirely isolated and miles away from civilisation. Besides, I have a team of snipers covering the entire one-mile radius and I'm pretty sure she has the area covered just as well as I do. We're just making sure we don't pull anything on each other."

Michael stared at the view, and the positions of the factory building and the warehouses, mentally positioning snipers from both teams like pieces of a chess game. Unfortunately for him, he was the pawn in the front line, with the honours of the opening move that was guaranteed to be a very brief one.

"What a lovely beginning to a relationship," was all he said as he continued to mull over the pending exchange.

"Isn't it, just?"

"What happens if she doesn't show?"

"Oh, she will," Burke said confidently. "That's the deal. She shows up with our operative like I did with you. Otherwise, no deal."

He received a call then, presumably from the man who had set up the deal, confirming to Burke that the GRU operative was arriving at the site.

"She's on the way," Burke said, smiling as he started the vehicle. "Relax, Westen. This is almost over."

"Target approaching from the South." A gruff voice with a European accent announced over the radio. Burke manoeuvred the SUV out of the alleyway and started rolling towards the prearranged destination.

"We're moving in."

An unmarked Crown Vic came speeding down the road which led to the open lot from the opposite side of theirs. Both vehicles stopped a few yards across from each other. Through the dust-covered windshield, Michael saw two passengers in the front, one behind the wheel and one with a black bag over their head. He took a moment to feel grateful that Burke hadn't thrown a bag over his head, something Michael would have hated in the Cuban heat.

Burke and the Vic's driver both stepped out of the vehicles at the same time. Michael got his first look at Oksana Zhirkova after more than a decade. She was taller and leaner than he remembered, or it could have been the sharply cut jacket, shirt and pants she was wearing. Her blond hair was cut very short compared to the long cascading hair she had worn in a tight bun when he had crossed her path back in Kiev.

The hatred gleaming in her icy blue eyes and the disgust twisting her sharp, angular features were exactly the same, however.

"Randall Burke." She greeted in a heavily accented voice.

"Oksana Zhirkova."

"Is that him?" She asked, nodding at him, even though they both knew she had recognized him the moment she had seen him.

"The one and only." Burke smiled.

"Bring him out."

"We do this together, Zhirkova."

"Of course."

Michael watched her pull the bag off of her passenger to reveal another younger, blonde-haired woman while Burke cut the restraints that secured him to the handlebar. Burke manhandled him out of the SUV by the shoulder and guided him out while Zhirkova did the same with her charge.

"So we meet again, Westen," she said, her voice going deeper and rougher with the sibilant consonants and consonant clusters of her mother tongue.

"Can't say it's a pleasure, Major," Michael replied in Russian as well, calling her by the rank he had known her, knowing very well it would piss her off into revealing her current rank.

"Shame," Zhirkova continued, unconcerned about how her own hostage was paying close attention to their exchange. "It is very much a pleasure for me. And it's Colonel, now, Westen, despite your interference."

"Well, good for you."

"You two can catch up later," Burke snapped, drawing her attention back to him. "Send Sonya over."

Oksana flashed him a smile that Michael knew meant trouble. "I'm afraid there's been a change of plan," she said, switching back to English again. "Here's the new deal. You give me Michael Westen and you get to walk away alive. Or else, I'm just going to kill you and take him anyway."

"Nice try," Burke smiled back, confident he had control of the situation. "You try to kill me, he gets a bullet in his head. He can't be of much use if he's dead now, can he?"

A small red dot of a laser appeared on Michael's bound wrists and travelled slowly up his arm as he watched, which he assumed came to a stop somewhere on his forehead as one of the snipers followed Burke's cue.

"And who is going to do that, Burke?" Zhirkova lifted one well-sculpted eyebrow in disdain. "Is it going to be Travis, Howard or Ackerman, hmm?"

Burke's eyes narrowed. Michael had a sinking feeling that those were the actual names of his snipers. That only meant one thing: Burke had been sold out by his own team.

"You hired a good team, no– a great team, with a sterling reputation," Zhirkova continued to gloat. "But even they have limits to their loyalty, especially when the GRU calls their parent company directly to express their displeasure at a certain client of theirs…"

Burke retaliated to the change of plan by pulling the gun he had at his back and bringing it up to aim it at Michael's head. Zhirkova did nothing but let her predatory smile widen in response. Michael saw new red dots appear on the foreheads of her hostage, Sonya, and Burke at that moment, showing exactly how the GRU operative had planned for the deal to play out.

"Sonya dies the moment Westen dies, closely followed by you. While it really isn't much of an issue to me other than getting the local police to deal with the bodies, whom I'll convince are three very bad terrorists, I know for a fact your leader feels differently. He wants her alive and unharmed, and that's your mission. So, let me make it clear. Again. Your options are to hand him over and walk away, or die a failure."

Michael stood motionless where he was, hardly paying attention to the gun muzzle that minutely trembled against his skull just above his left ear. He wondered idly what the CIA would have given to learn all the information he had just learned.

"Is it a good time to say I told you so?" he asked Burke, just because he felt like being an ass. It was his life that was on the line either way, and he felt justified to point it out.

Burke stared at Zhirkova, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he thought hard. Sonya had her gaze fixed on Burke, shaking her head minutely, as if trying to communicate silently to let her die. Michael wondered what kind of torture Zhirkova had been subjecting her to, if she was willing to die rather than go back with the Russian Colonel. He had to stifle a sigh at the thought, because there was a great big chance he would soon be joining her in that horror show.

Burke dragged in a deep breath and put the gun down, pointing it at the floor, sealing Michael's fate. He saw Sonya visibly sag in on herself as he decided to give her a bit more time to live.

"Walk," Burke said, giving Michael a push towards Zhirkova. She grabbed him hard by his bicep once he was close enough to her, her nails digging into his flesh, and turned him around.

The red dot on Burke's forehead blossomed into a blood-red flower when a silent shot buried a bullet in between his eyes. Sonya let out a shriek and started to make a run towards her comrade, only to be taken down by a vicious pistol whip to the back of her head.

Michael stared at the two bodies on the ground, one dead, one unconscious, and tried to figure out why he felt nothing but a deep sense of resignation at the sight.

"I thought you were gonna let him go," he remarked softly in Russian.

"I lied," Zhirkova smiled.