Better Than Never

*a sequel to Coldscapes

He hates seduction. Despises it, in fact. It always makes him feel dirty. But, someone somewhere sometime, as the old saying goes, decided that he was too attractive not to be assigned to details that somehow always involve women. He loves his country, to be sure, but he is married to his college sweetheart, and the "national defense" excuse is wearing thin.

If all had gone according to plan, he would've been done with the human intelligence portion of the operation, having already mined the woman for information. She was a beautiful woman and, let him be honest, it had made things easier. Still, he thought he was done with the raven-haired, pale-skinned Russian whose parents were born in Lithuanian. But the team he had sent out missed their last two check-ins.

She's more than happy to see him lying next to her as she wakes up in the hotel room in Mytishchi, just outside of Moskva to the northeast. She's falling in love with her mysterious Canadian businessman. He had told her he was a salesman of precious metals, but she knew enough about the game to know that this was not the case. In fact, she was sure he was American, though his mastery of French - as well as the Montreal accent - made her doubt her conclusion. Still, she was rather inexperienced overall, and even though the FSB briefed her many times to not discuss work with strangers - particularly attractive ones - she couldn't help herself. He looks at her so longingly, though perhaps not lovingly, when she talks about work. He always seems impressed with her responsibilities as a mere secretary and would even joke that she was probably more than just.

"How did you get off of work today?" he asks, gently rubbing her shoulders.

She rolls over to face him, giving him a lustful look. "My boss had to leave yesterday, so I have nothing to do."

He returns the gaze and leans in for a kiss. "Ah, the always pleasant supervisor emergencies." The irony is not lost on him.

She kisses him back. "Yes."

He withholds a sigh. He doesn't have time for this. Every second that goes by is another second closer to failure, and that was no option. Despite himself, or possibly in spite of himself, he rolls himself on top of her and does the very thing he had been trained effectively at doing.

By the time they were done, he knew where he needed to be.

***

Sporadic gunfire hides the sound of snowmobile as he races it through the Russian forest. He can tell that most of the weapons are of Soviet make, but there's at least one American-made carbine spitting bullets among the din.

Only one? If that's the case, then there might not be anybody to extract by the time he joins the fray. Were he to follow protocol, he would be heading to the exfiltration point and waiting a short period of time. If nobody shows, then he would leave and that would be the end of that. Protocol most certainly does not provide for him to drive towards the sounds of battle. But these were his boys; he sent them here. To this cold, miserable place.

As he gets closer he realizes for certain that, yes, there is only one American here. He has no idea if the rest are simply elsewhere, but instinct tells him that they're probably all dead. A fire-team of Russian soldiers finally notices the snowmobile and they turn to engage him. He smiles as he squeezes the trigger on his HK. Too late... for them. Before anyone else can bring their weapons to bear on the vehicle, he ditches it and flings himself into the snow. If he had gauged their positions correctly, he and the surviving American should be to the Russians' flanks. If one could refer to single shooters as flankers, that is.

Still, it's enough. As the last Russian goes down, yelling something in Nogai, everything goes ghostly quiet. There's the faint echo of a snowmobile idling somewhere, but he doesn't bother to locate it. Instead, he turns his attention to the American. He notices that the scope is missing off the American's carbine, then notices that the soldier is limping.

"Where are the others?" he calls out.

"Dead. I'm it." The soldier nods towards the snowmobile in the distance. "Is that our ride?"

"Yep."

"You're late."

He laughs, tired. "Yeah, well..."

Coldscapes

It's so cold my breath isn't just visible, it sticks to my face. I don't know how far I have to run, just that I have to run. Sensation left my feet long ago. Muscle memory is the only thing keeping my body moving. I'd have dropped my gun miles ago, save my hands being frozen in position. Someone told me to take care not to touch the bare metal of it. Can't remember who that was. He's probably dead now anyway.

---

She smiles at the driver of the two-wheel drive Chevy pickup as he concentrates on the road. Not twenty minutes ago she had sworn to herself that they were never going to make it home. This is her first blizzard, after all. Snow is, so far, a rarity in her life, and she loves it. She also fears it for the very same reason. But he, well, he's tired of it. Hell, he got his driver's license in a foot of snow. He never lets her forget that he prefers warmer climates.

---

There's the report of gunfire. Russian firearms; probably Soviet-era. I try to refrain from saying "Kalishnikov" in my mind. The very term has irritated me ever since Hollywood found a way to turn it into a cliche. I fucking hate cliches. Then again, I hate getting shot even worse. Well, I think I do... I've yet to actually be hit by a bullet. I'd knock on wood, but I'm afraid my gloves will stick to the tree bark. They probably wouldn't, of course, but my knowledge of physics and the Russian Taiga are currently muted in favor of a desire to survive.

---

"Why are you turning the headlights off?" she asks, noticing that they are know cruising along in snowfall with nothing but parking lights on.

"Snow blind." The response is short, not because he is annoyed by the question, but because he knows they are approaching a steep decline. She crinkles her forehead and frowns. He knows she doesn't understand and she knows that he knows. He stifles a laugh, knowing that would just piss her off even more. And if she gets pissed, she'll lose her cool and let herself fear the snow again.

"Light bounces off the flakes. Everyone you see with their brights on is a tourist."

Her eyes brighten up as they usually do when she learns something new. Seeing a vehicle with its brights on heading the opposite direction, she sticks her tongue at it.

"Stupid tourists," she squeals with delight.

---

I'm moving as fast as a can, but the sound of snow and ice breaking under at least a squad's worth of boots is gaining on me. I'm not bred for this type of weather, and a large part of me starts to regret not being more vehement in my objections to being sent here. Crazy Ivan was supposed to be a thing of the past, anyway. Who was the fucking asshole who decided to send a team into northeast Russia? I could be running faster, but an old injury is making oft-broken bones in my feet throb in anti-ecstasy. The adrenaline's worn off. I can't win a flight, and there are too many behind me to even think of a fight. Then again, surrender's not an option.

---

I'm awake, but the dream of her is guiding me. I can feel the lactic acid in my body as I remember how warm she was. The image of a round from my carbine entering just under a pursuer's cheekbone is obscured by the memory of my mouth tasting her neck. There are shouts in Russian and, I think, Nogai. In any other circumstance I'd crack the typical joke about boys being far from home, but I'm too busy shaking an almost frozen stuck magazine out of my weapon and fumbling to slap in another. That, and I'm remembering the way she used to kiss my back... her lips carressing my shoulders while erect nipples slide gracefully above my pelvis. Such arousal should probably give me chills, but I'm already frozen, in time as well as place.

I pull the scope off the carbine; the winter cold and the violence of motion already cracked one of the lenses. As my left eye tries to focus through iron sights, all I can see is her. I let my finger freeze itself to the trigger and quietly wonder if I will ever see her again.

It's too cold here.