The van rattled to a halt in front of Yuri's hangar, its engine cutting off with a reluctant sputter. Snowflakes swirled in the biting wind, catching in Hopper's hair as he stepped out first, boots crunching against the icy ground. The structure before them loomed like a relic of another time—its corrugated metal walls rusted and battered by years of harsh Siberian winters.

Joyce hugged her arms to her chest, her breath puffing in short, visible bursts as she exited next. Murray followed close behind, his glasses fogging instantly in the cold. Antonov stepped out with quiet efficiency, his gaze scanning their surroundings with the caution of a man who knew just how quickly things could go sideways.

Yuri brought up the rear, his swagger seemingly impervious to the chill. "Welcome, my friends," he said, spreading his arms theatrically. "To my palace of possibilities!"

Joyce shot him a look that could freeze water mid-pour. "Just open the damn door, Yuri."

Unfazed, Yuri grinned and jingled a keyring as he sauntered toward the hangar. "Ah, but the anticipation is half the fun! No? Perhaps not for such serious Americans." He fiddled with the largest key, making a show of his movements.

Hopper's patience wore thin. "You've got five seconds before I kick that door in myself."

Yuri chuckled, the sound full of mockery, but quickened his pace. "Relax, Sheriff. Yuri always delivers."

The group huddled against the wind, their gazes fixed on the hangar as Yuri slid the key into the lock and turned it with exaggerated slowness. The ancient mechanism groaned in protest, but finally yielded with a loud click.

Yuri pushed the door open, its hinges screeching like tortured metal. "Behold!" he announced, gesturing grandly to the darkened interior.

The others exchanged wary glances before stepping inside, the cold following them like an unwelcome guest.

Yuri strode forward, his shoulders bouncing with smug confidence, and beckoned the group to follow him deeper into the hangar. "Heh, come on. This way."

Antonov stepped forward, his boots crunching against the frosty floor as his eyes bored into Yuri. Switching to Russian, his voice dropped low, razor-sharp with menace. "If I get a whiff of any funny business, smuggler, I will not hesitate to kill you. In fact..." He adjusted his grip on his pistol meaningfully. "I am just looking for a reason. Understand?"

Yuri paused mid-step and glanced over his shoulder, his expression flickering between mockery and indifference. "Are you a parrot, cop? You keep repeating the same thing," he replied in Russian, his tone dripping with condescension.

Turning back to Hopper, Yuri switched to English, his grin widening. "You were trapped in a cell with this dull man, and you didn't take the opportunity to smother him?" He shook his head in exaggerated disbelief, clicking his tongue. "What a waste."

Ignoring the glare Antonov shot him, Yuri jingled his keys, humming a jaunty tune as he unlocked the hangar door.

With a theatrical flourish, Yuri swung the door open, revealing the dimly lit interior. A decrepit-looking helicopter sat in the center of the hangar, its fuselage patched with mismatched metal and peeling paint. The blades hung slightly askew, like a wounded bird that had given up on flight.

The group stopped in their tracks, the disbelief palpable in their silence.

"Beautiful, yes?" Yuri announced, spreading his arms wide as though unveiling a masterpiece.

Murray blinked, his face twisting into something caught between incredulity and disgust. "Please tell me this is another poor joke."

Joyce didn't wait for an answer. She stormed up to Yuri, jabbing him hard in the chest with her finger. "You said you had a plane," she snapped. "A plane!" She punctuated each word with another jab, driving Yuri a step back each time.

Yuri raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin unflappable. "No, no, no. I... told you I could fly you home. And Katinka can fly you home, little bird." He gestured lovingly toward the helicopter.

"Katinka?" Hopper asked, his brow furrowing.

"Yes! She was named Katinka after my first lover. Katinka also had very beautiful, very round buttocks." Yuri caressed the helicopter's fuselage with both hands, his voice softening in what could only be described as misplaced affection. "Uh, much like this." He let out a wheezy laugh, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Antonov crossed his arms, his face stone cold. "This cannot fly us to America," he said flatly, his words almost a challenge.

"Why not?" Yuri shot back, stepping toward the group with renewed enthusiasm. "As long as winds are not too strong and your military friends do not shoot us out of the sky, we can make it to the coast. There, while we refuel, we skinny dip in ice-cold water and wash off this muck!" He clapped his hands together as though the plan were already set in motion.

Joyce's eyes narrowed, her skepticism cutting through Yuri's theatrics. "Okay," she said, crossing her arms, "what is the furthest Katinka has ever flown?"

Yuri hesitated, his grin faltering slightly before recovering. "For me, she is still a virgin. Uh, not real Katinka. Goodness, no. That Katinka, no." He wagged a finger and let out a short laugh. "But this Katinka, pretty much unspoiled. But I'm sure she will soar when given a chance. She just needs a little tune-up."

Murray turned to Hopper, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Should I shoot him now? Or later?"

Antonov, ever the professional, pulled out his gun and leveled it at Yuri without hesitation. "I did warn you, Jim," he said, his voice calm but deadly serious.

Antonov didn't lower his gun, his eyes fixed on Yuri as he repeated with deadly calm, "Should I shoot him now? Or later?"

The tension in the hangar was palpable, but Joyce's voice cut through the standoff. "Wait! We need him. Shooting him isn't going to help us get out of here."

Antonov scowled but holstered his weapon begrudgingly, his frustration clear. Hopper placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, muttering, "We'll deal with him later."

Joyce's mind raced before she snapped her fingers. "Owens!" she blurted. "He's gotta have contacts or spies here. People who could help us."

Hopper turned to her, his expression skeptical but hopeful. "Owens? You really think he can reach us here?"

Joyce nodded firmly. "We've got to try. Can we make a call? To the States?"

Antonov sighed and moved to the corner of the hangar, where an ancient rotary telephone sat on a rickety shelf. Dust puffed into the air as he picked up the receiver. "You want a call to the States?" he muttered. "Da. Let's see if we live long enough for it to go through."

He began spinning the dial, his movements precise but impatient. Russian phrases rolled off his tongue as he spoke to an operator on the other end.

"Да, здравствуйте, мадемуазель,"(Yes, hello, miss,) Antonov said in Russian, his voice taking on an unusual politeness. "Я хотел бы сделать звонок в Соединенные Штаты. Очень больной родственник." (I'd like to place a call to the United States. A very sick relative.)

The indistinct murmur of the operator's response filtered through the receiver. Antonov nodded sharply, casting a glance over his shoulder at Joyce. "The number," he barked.

Joyce scrambled forward, her voice tight with urgency. "775… 305… 3450."

Antonov repeated the numbers back in Russian, his tone clipped. He leaned against the wall, listening intently as the operator made arrangements. "Da, spasibo."

"What are you doing?" Hopper asked.

"How exactly do you think this works?" Antonov asked, turning to the group, his smirk sharp and humorless. "They will make the call for us and then call us back. Maybe five minutes. Maybe five days. And when they do, you can assume the KGB will be listening to every word."

Hopper frowned, his jaw tightening. "So what are we supposed to say?"

Antonov gave a dry laugh. "Talk in code. Say the wrong thing, and they'll be on us like flies on shit. Welcome to the Soviet Union."

Joyce paced the hangar restlessly, her nerves fraying with each passing second. Hopper kept his eyes on the hangar door, scanning the snowy wasteland outside for signs of trouble. Yuri, meanwhile, hummed cheerfully to himself as he tinkered with the helicopter, oblivious to the palpable anxiety in the air.

The moments stretched, each second feeling heavier than the last.