AN: Apologies for how long this took to get out! I'm in grad school at the moment, and that is definitely demanding a lot of my time. Thanks for your comments/reviews, kudos, subscriptions, and most importantly your patience!

MVALDA
EDONIA
16 JULY 1997

He hated the thing in front of him, and with his arms crossed over his chest and posture rigid, he tried to intimidate the inanimate object into leaving their house.

"What's wrong, Jakob?" His uncle's voice came from across the room, and he heard his footsteps coming closer until he stopped beside him.

"What is this thing," he asked crossly, eying it with contempt.

His uncle smiled thinly, "It's a piano."

"It looks expensive."

His uncle slowly put his hands in his pockets, and when he replied, his voice was small, "It was."

Jakob turned to him, staring straight at his uncle in barely repressed anger, "We don't need it!"

"Your mother needs it."

"No, my mother needs medicine. I bet this piano could buy…ten of them!"

His uncle rested his hands on his nephew's thin shoulders, amused at the certainty with which little Jakob allotted value, "It's a medicine of sort. Your mother likes music very much, you know."

Jakob snorted at the statement, "Music won't stop coughing."

"Why not?"

"What do you mean, why not? It doesn't! Everyone knows that."

"Who's everyone?"

"Stop trying to act like buying this stupid thing was a good idea."

His uncle sighed, bending down on one knee, "Let us make a deal then."

Jakob continued to glare at him, but stayed silent. A compromise on his part, no doubt.

His uncle continued, "You learn one song, and play for your mother. When you are done, and she hears it, then we can sell it."

His nephew scowled, "Swear?"

"I swear."

"Fine-"

"But the song you learn is one I pick. Do we have a deal?"

Jakob stared his uncle down, trying to evaluate the integrity of his conditions. Finally, he nodded, "Only one."

"Only one," His uncle agreed.

The next morning, Jakob woke up to see sheet music beside his bedside. Sitting up, he read the title and frowned. It was called "Revolutionary Etude" by someone named Chopin. He frowned, thinking his uncle an idiot. The music he picked wasn't even written by a man with two names.

But Jakob kept his deals. And the next month was spent trying to figure out the complex puzzle of lines and dots on the pages.

The month after that, his uncle would be shot by the government police. But Jakob kept his deals, and so kept practicing.

CHAPTER THREE: FORCES IN MOTION
WASHINGTON D.C.
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
22 DECEMBER 2013

The place was like a fucking museum. He was pretty sure if he trailed his gloved hand over the top of the fridge it'd come away dust-free. But along with the mental snort of derision, the corner of his mouth tilted up into a grin. Typical. She probably alphabetized her DVDs.

Jake stepped a leg into the apartment from outside of the window, the other following behind it. As he silently shut the window behind him, he made a mental note to talk to Sherry about her security systems. Weird ass healing powers and eight ladders of fire escape aside, it was sloppy to not have at least a motion detector on all the entrances. Especially when someone had a steady paycheck from Uncle Sam to finance a basic surveillance system.

He took a second to look around, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. Judging from the complete darkness, Sherry either wasn't home from that stupid party yet, or she lived a stranger life than he had initially anticipated. He'd go with the former. Jake took a step forward, but stopped, a frown replacing the grin on his lips. Taking another glance around- white walls, white carpet, off-white furniture- he rubbed the back of his neck. After what appeared to be a moment of internal dilemma, Jake finally sighed and bent down on a knee. His fingers worked quickly, and his boot slipped easily off his foot, then the other. Jake pressed them against the wall and walked across the carpet on socks that were two different shades of black.

After some blind groping of the wall, he finally flicked the light on. The world's most soulless apartment looked back at him, as well as a pair of luminescent cat eyes. Jake scowled at the thing. It was the ugliest fucking cat he'd ever seen, lounging on the back of Sherry's couch. With one of its ears was missing, its face looked like someone had slammed it against a dumpster, and chunks of fur missing from it in huge, gaping patches, the animal practically screamed pity project. It hissed at him. He pulled a face back at it before leaning against the counter.

"Sherry?"

The name seemed to get absorbed into the walls. This place was so efficient it was creepy. He'd seen motel rooms that looked more lived in.

"Sherry?" He called again, this time slightly louder.

Silence.

It was worth a shot. Even though he was positive she was still out at brown-noser prom—the echoing silence only confirmed it. Jake shook his head, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the counter that was a little lower than the height of his hip. Whatever, he could wait an hour or two. No doubt when the party was over she'd be taking the fastest ride home she could.

Jake stood.

Rolled his shoulders.

And stood.

The damn cat continued to stare him down. Jake returned the expression with eyebrows raised in challenge. The cat looked down after a few moments, appropriately mollified.

Score one, Muller.

Another few minutes ticked by.

Fuck, he was bored. Time to snoop.

Jake crossed the threshold of the living room again, eyes resting on the bookshelf of neatly organized DVDs. He crouched low, thumbing through them. Sure as shit, they were alphabetized.

And bad cop movies, mostly from the eighties or some shit. Bad Boys, Bad Boys II, Die Hard I-V, Point Break…they went on and on. Jake groaned, kind of in a mood for a documentary or something with a little more substance. His eyes darted to the shelf above his eye level: CDs. A weird mixture of the most aggressive music on the planet looked back: Ludacris, Tupac Shakur, and DMX were neatly labeled "Rap", while next to them was Chimaera, Cradle of Filth, and GWAR with a neat label of "Metal". Sex Pistols, Dropkick Murphys, and the Ramones- "Punk". And so on. Jake snorted, shaking his head before reluctantly pulling out Sherry's copy of Lethal Weapon 4, and internally he made a vow to get her recordings of Chopin, Mozart, or hell, even Beethoven. And maybe tell her to buy an iPod. Because who the hell had CDs anymore.

Someone who's been a glorified lab rat for most of their lives. A chastising voice in the back of Jake's voice reminded him, and he sighed as he popped Lethal Weapon 4 into the DVD/VCR combo player. Maybe he'd just get her one. Sneak it in her mail box or something. Did she get mail? He made a mental note to check the entryway of the building on his way out.

The ugliest cat in the world made a pathetic, whining noise at him. Jake ignored it as he inched back and turned on the TV. He groaned, taking in Mel Gibson's hair. He'd need some popcorn for this piece of crap.

Opening Sherry's food cabinets had a similar effect as going through her movies- everything was neatly organized and clearly labelled. It was remarkably easy to find the "Snacks" shelf with the subdivision "Popcorn". It was not easy to stop his eyes from rolling. Supergirl, efficient as always.

The thought shouldn't have made him smirk. But it did.

Another pitiful groan sounded by his shoulder, and he turned, "What?"

The hellbeast cat stared at him, then at the microwave where the popcorn was popping, and then back to him.

"Nice try, rodent. This is mine."

The cat whined again.

Jake glared at it. It glared back before almost spitefully letting out another annoying whine.

"You're not going to shut up, are you?"

It meowed.

He groaned, "Fine, asshole. Where's your food?"

Its only response was another meow. And Jake muttered under his breath as he found the cabinet entitled "Food- Winston". Unless Sherry had a boyfriend he didn't know about- and that was a thought he wasn't going to entertain- he'd found the cat food. Sure enough, lines of Fancy Feast met his gaze. He scowled, picking the one that sounded the least pretentious and unceremoniously opening it, dumping it in a white food dish, and recycling the can.

"There. Fucking happy now?"

The cat ignored him, prowling to the dish.

He hated cats. Grumpy, selfish assholes. Jake had no idea what inspired Sherry to keep one around.

The microwave dinged about half a second before his cell phone went off. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, Jake pulled out the phone. And frowned at the incoming call number being blocked. Only two people had this number. Or at least, only two people were supposed to have this number.

He answered.

"Muller."

"Hey Jakey, been a while."

The tension that had been building in his shoulders uncoiled as he recognized the voice on the other end of the receiver. It was the contact who'd been feeding him reports of B.O.W. attacks the last year.

"What's up with the blocked number?"

"Why- got you spooked?"

Jake frowned, but didn't dignify the question with an answer. It didn't matter anyway, as his contact continued on seamlessly.

"Can't take any chances. This job's hot."

He leaned against the short counter, popcorn forgotten, "What's it pay?"

"Seven figures."

The fuck. Jake felt his heart almost skip a beat, "You got my attention."

"Figured I would. It's a bounty job, with a bonus on the wet side of shit. They want this guy, and bad."

Jake narrowed his eyes, "Who's 'they'?"

"DSO."

The three letters were like a lead weight in his gut, "Why not send their own guys, then?"

"They have. But the guy we're after doesn't play by the books. And they're willing to extend their net to the unconventional approaches."

It wasn't the first time he had taken a government contract under the table. But something about the amount of money didn't rest easy with him, "Say I believe you, for now. Who's the guy?"

"Jakey, your faith in me is a-fucking-stounding. But the guy's a freelancer, not too different than you, actually. Normally he goes straight on his jobs- a lot of B.O.W. work, rescuing hostages, all that boy scout shit. Busted a few times for gun running, but nothing major or noticeable. Until he decided to bail mid-op in the middle of a contract with, you guessed it- "

"DSO."

"Bingo. And now the DSO's out for blood."

"What was the job?"

"Intel, from the looks of it. I don't have a lot of specifics other than they want the merc, but more than that, they want whatever the merc's carrying. Should be a few files. Research shit. Nothing hot. What do you say, Jakey? You up for a game of hide and seek?"

It sounded too easy: find some asshole, bring him in, collect bank. And in Jake's experience, if it sounded too easy, it was. And his instincts were practically screaming at him to turn this down. Still…

"How much is the bounty?"

"Four mil. Plus travel expenses covered."

"Fuck."

"Pays to work for Uncle Sammy, don't it?"

"This guy's trained?"

"Yeah, ex-military something or other. Nothing you can't handle."

"What's the research?"

He could practically hear his contact grinning over the phone- anything Jake signed on for gave him a nice finder's fee, after all- "Genetics. A little bird's been chirping about viral work. Dangerous shit, in the wrong hands."

Jake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. Well, there went any chance of turning it down. He shook his head and let out a sharp chuckle, "Where we going?"

"There's the Jakey I know and love. Bumfucknowhere, Russia. Your flight's booked and leaving in an hour. Passport and travel documents in the usual spot. Make contact when you land."

He looked around the apartment with the barest hint of a frown. He'd be leaving now, then. "Alright."

"Remember, 10% finder's fee, Jakey."

"Eight."

"Fifteen."

"Eight."

"Fuck me, fine. Nine."

"Deal."

Less than a minute later, the lights were turned off in Sherry's apartment, her ugly cat was fed, and a black-clad man was sliding down a fire escape.

WASHINGTON D.C.
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
23 DECEMBER 2013

It was a groggy next morning as Sherry stumbled from her bed to the kitchen, mechanically going through the motions of starting breakfast. Coffee was put into a filter, and as she went to throw some leftover pizza in the microwave, she frowned at the presence of a bag of unopened popcorn inside. Had she made popcorn? Whatever, it was too early. She switched it for the pizza, throwing the popcorn in the trash and starting up the microwave.

Sherry was about to refill Winston's dish, when she noticed that he already had a half-eaten can of Fancy Feast available. That, if nothing else, made a smile break out on her face. She'd been trying to get Winston on a kitty diet after the veterinarian had suggested he was overweight. Looks like her cat's appetite was finally slowing down to match the restricted food.

"Way to go Winston," Sherry said, lifting her mug of coffee up in a salute. Winston looked at her in that aloof, judgmental way of his. As always.

Grumpy ass.

The microwave dinged about a half second before her cell phone went off. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Sherry set down the mug and looked at the incoming call screen.

Hunnigan.

She opened it, clearing her throat, "Birkin here."

"Good morning, Agent Birkin. I trust you've missed my call last evening?"

Shit. Sherry winced, "Sorry. It…was a late night."

"I anticipated as much, which is why I thought a morning call would be sufficient," the cool, professional tone Hunnigan had on the phone gained a note of enthusiasm, "Your assignment's been officially approved, Agent Birkin. Take the rest of the day to look over your intel, and your flight leaves tonight. Service weapons will be available at the departure point."

Suddenly awake, Sherry stood up straighter from the counter, "Right. Thank you, sir."

"Like I told you earlier, Agent Birkin. Thank me after you've completed your assignment. Your point of contact's information is available in the files-"

"You mean Leon?"

Almost immediately, the enthusiastic note left Hunnigan's tone, and her words were cool, "Agent Kennedy is on an indefinite suspension at the moment. Your primary point of contact will be myself until we find his replacement for the mission."

Sherry's eyes widened, it had only been a little over twenty four hours since they had been taken off suspension, "What-?"

"If you want a full disclosure, Agent Birkin, I recommend contacting Agent Kennedy. As it stands, good luck, and we'll talk after you've arrived at your destination."

She swallowed, "Yes, sir."

"Good hunting, Agent Birkin."

The line went dead.

Sherry dropped the phone from her ear, before muttering to herself, "What the hell, Leon?"

"I trust you don't need me to tell you how bad this looks," Hunnigan said crisply as she tossed a file onto the desk that rested between them.

Leon stared, before reaching for the file and opening it, "Shit."

"An understatement."

The file held grainy photos, obviously taken from surveillance footage. In them, Leon was…fraternizing with the enemy. The pair in the photo had somehow managed to be precisely angled so the camera would undeniably catch both their profiles. Clear, undisputable profiles.

"I could tell you it's not what it looks like…"

"Don't bother," Hunnigan sighed, tapping an expensive ballpoint pen against her lower lip in thought, "It's already cleared USSS. They're having a field day with this."

"Damn it, Ada," Leon muttered, closing the file and cradling his chin in his hand.

"While I typically am not involved with the…private lives of my agents," she arched a brow, stilling the tapping of the pen against her lip, "I am asked to intervene when dalliances could compromise national security."

"It's not like that."

"I don't think that's relevant, Leon. She's a wanted fugitive. One knee deep in the events of Langshian-"

"We cleared her on that, remember? That was Carla Radames-"

"She was still involved with Simmons. She was still in Langshian. That's all the committee needs to know to assume you're compromised, Leon," Hunnigan leaned forward, rubbing her temples, "And it's also starting to look like the two of you are common denominators."

Leon frowned, anger leaking into his tone, "What do you mean."

She shook her head, ticking numbers off on her fingers, "Tall Oaks. The president's death. Langshian. Simmons. The C-Virus. They're all potential nails in the coffin for your career."

"Take my badge then. If that's all it's worth."

She glared at him over the frames of her glasses, "Don't start. You have no idea how hard I worked to get you back on active duty, Leon. And this-" she gestured to the incriminating photos, "-just set me ten steps back not only on your clearance, but also on interdepartmental affairs."

He looked ready to fire back, but swallowed it down, "Whatever's going on between me and Ada, it's strictly personal. I haven't compromised any intel."

Hunnigan took a labored breath through her nostrils, "For what it's worth, I believe you. If anything, this fills in a few gaps I've had regarding the Los Illuminados incident," Hunnigan folded her hands over her chest, "But it doesn't matter what I believe. What USSS sees is an agent, with a less than reputable reputation following the Tall Oaks and Langshian incidents, in contact with a high profile fugitive who has connections to Umbrella and presumably Neo-Umbrella, less than 100 yards from the current president and most heads of internal security departments."

Leon snorted, "So it's bad."

Hunnigan sent him a sympathetic look. And that's when reality sunk in for him. Hunnigan didn't do sympathy, "You're on lock down," she winced, "And internal affairs is getting involved."

"Shit."

"Suspension without pay, to be reinstated pending a full background check, a psychological evaluation, and a six month probationary period. You're also pulled off of Agent Birkin's case."

That surprised him, "Sherry's on assignment?"

Hunnigan nodded, "Long-term. You are not to have contact with her at all until she returns stateside-"

"What kind of assignment is this-"

"Leon," the protest died on his tongue, "For both your sakes. Agent Birkin is on thin ice with administration as it is, involving you on her assignment is enough for them to suspend her indefinitely too."

He sat back, letting the information sink in. Leon frowned, "Something's not right with this."

Hunnigan nodded, "The timing is more than coincidence," she shook her head, "I'll do what I can to speed up the process, but for now, my hands are tied. Turn in your badge and service weapon downstairs," a grim sort of humor filled her expression for a second, "I imagine there's some forms for you to file as well."

Leon shook his head in disbelief, "At least one thing's consistent here."

She offered that sympathetic smile again, "Dismissed, Agent Kennedy."

He inclined his head, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood and walked out the door. As soon as he passed the threshold of Hunnigan's office, a vibration signaled off in his jacket pocket. Frowning, Leon retrieved his phone and saw a text message from a blocked number:

Sorry, handsome. Need you right where you are. –A

He swore.

"What kind of game are you playing this time, Ada?"

Three cups of coffee, an hour of packing, arranging a cat sitter, and a drive to the airport later, Sherry was sitting in a private plane on her way to Russia, and about a fourth of the way through the files Hunnigan had transferred to her computer. Beside her teacup of airline Earl Grey, a legal notepad rested next to her laptop, with a mess of notes scrawled across it.

Sherry took a sip as she scrolled through the outline of her mission.

In short, someone had broken into a remote research base, taken out the head researcher, and disappeared with copies of most of the data. Her stomach had twisted when she reviewed the description of the facility:

Remote, situated in the Altai Mountain range and only accessible by helicopter.
Government contracted.
Research and Development oriented, with an emphasis on genetics and virology.
Gamma facility of HelixGen.

She had seen too much to believe in coincidences, and already Sherry had a sinking suspicion of what research and development Gamma facility was responsible for: the production and refinement of the Nivans vaccine. The variables made sense: remote access provided tight security while the vaccine went through the clinical trials, the murder of the head researcher and subsequent copying of the databanks would halt the progress of the clinical trials long enough for the copied data to be sold on the black market to other pharmaceutical companies, and the agent the DSO decided to send was one who was familiar with the vaccine and genetics research.

So she was on a timeline. Sherry pushed down the frustration forming in her gut, being upset wouldn't change the situation: someone had broken in to Research Gamma, murdered the head researcher, and compromised the public marketing of the vaccine. This had bloodthirsty pharmaceutical power play written all over it. And all she could do to stop it is find the mercenary, apprehend him, and retrieve the stolen research for HelixGen.

Easy. Right.

She scrolled down to where she had bookmarked the assumed culprit's information:

William Coen. Former Marine. Court-martialed, and faked his death on the way to his execution. Afterwards went by the alias of Enrico Marquez, and relocated to various Central American countries, never staying longer than two years in any residence. Worked as a freelance mercenary, though judging from the dossier, nothing especially insidious. No history of involvement with corporate espionage. No regular contractors. No arrest record, aside from his court-martial.

Sherry frowned, scrolling down to the available picture of him- a mug shot from his Marine days.

The first word that popped into her mind was intense. Staring straight into the camera, his dark eyes managed to be intimidating despite the situation he was found in. His combed back, long dark hair seemed at odds with his position as a Marine, as did the tattoo that spanned the entire length of his arm. Sherry enlarged the image, making out the words "Mother Love", and taking a note of it. Tattoos were the easiest ways to identify subjects.

He was handsome, but dangerous. And he looked like someone who would be capable of murder. Not that appearances meant much. Simmons had worn a bolo tie.

Sherry shook her head, turning her attention back to the photo. She took note of the dog tags around his neck—a potential sentimental token that could be used to identify him later.

And despite the fact that she was on a tight deadline, her fugitive was wanted for murder and faking his own death, and she was about to be thrown right back into the deadly subterfuge of corporate competition, it felt…good. To be taking detailed notes of a man's appearance. To be making mental connections between HelixGen and their trial runs. To be proactive, and useful. To get out from behind the desk and back out into the field. Already she could feel the restlessness from the last few months leave her, being gradually replaced with sharp focus and concentration.

She wasn't Sherry the office worker. She was Agent Birkin. And it felt right, like slipping a favorite, comfortable coat back on.

She could do this.

Sherry took another sip of tea, and moved to her next bookmark in the dossier: the head researcher.

Rebecca Chambers. And her list of recommendations and honors was intimidating, to say the least. A doctorate at eighteen. Enlistment into S.T.A.R.S. Two more doctorates after that. She could have been working anywhere she wanted, yet she chose a remote research facility in the middle of nowhere. Based on her picture, she seemed welcoming, and there wasn't the cold, removed look in her eyes that Sherry had seen in the framed portraits of the Umbrella facilities. Rebecca Chambers seemed…happy.

Sherry gave a contemplative hum at the dates of her enlistment in the S.T.A.R.S. program. She had to have been involved around the time of the Raccoon City incident. Her stomach twisted again. It couldn't have been coincidence that Sherry was assigned to solve this woman's murder. Too many connections were being made.

She tapped the end of her pencil against the legal document pad. Or maybe Chambers, having personally seen the hells of viral weaponry, had decided to dedicate her work to preventing it by developing a vaccine with HelixGen. It looked like her employment contract had only been conditional upon the project- she was a temporary lead, not a staple employee of the pharmaceutical company. Judging from her previous contracts, Chambers had spent time in the labs for similar endeavors. Admiration for the woman flared within Sherry- this was someone who had done her best to change things, to stop people like Umbrella. She wasn't unlike Leon or Claire.

"I'll find your killer, I promise," Sherry muttered, tabbing back to the bookmark on Coen. She stared at his mug shot, leaning forward and cradling her face in her hand. Only one question remained.

"Why would you kill Rebecca Chambers?"

It would have been easy enough, to find a gap in the lab schedule's rotation to steal the research data- Gamma was understaffed. But he had shown up when she was on duty. He had put a bullet in her skull. The obvious answer was that he wanted to stop the production of the vaccination, but why? Chambers wasn't attached to HelixGen. If he was employed by a rival company, it would have been cleaner to just buy her out from HelixGen. No doubt she'd go where the labs were, if it meant putting the vaccine into production.

It didn't help that crime scene photos of Chambers' murder had been classified. Not that it really mattered, in the scope of things. Sherry wasn't here as a detective, she was here as an apprehending agent.

Still, something kept snagging her thought process as she read files for both Coen and Chambers, almost as if something wasn't adding up. Like something was missing.

Deciding to let the intel marinate before she tried to deconstruct it, Sherry tabbed down to the remainder of the files. Most of it was about the facility itself- resources, personnel, funding, and other information that seemed irrelevant now but might come in use later. That, she skimmed for now, going down further to get more information on the man she was pursuing.

Coen, going under the alias of Anton Udinov, had last been spotted in the nearby town of Gorod not far from the Kazakhstan border of the Belukha mountain summit, an estimated eight or nine miles from the research facility. The date of the sighting was less than three months ago. Sherry frowned, going back to the date of Chambers' murder on her notepad. There was a six month difference between the events. Why would Coen stay close to the scene of the crime? As a mercenary, no doubt he had falsified travel papers.

Sherry ran a hand through her short hair. It didn't make sense, but the town was a starting point, and where she was meeting an informant of Hunnigan's before heading up to the research facility itself. From what the records indicated, she would have full access to Gamma's security systems and the ability to interview the workers there. Maybe it would help, to first get some perspective what was missing and a personality profile on the guy—as it stood, Coen made next to no sense on paper.

Sherry flipped to a new sheet of legal paper, writing down a list of immediate objectives:

Interview Hunnigan's informant

Light investigation of Gorod

Investigate Gamma's databases

Review security footage and logs

Interview Gamma personnel

Thorough investigation of Gorod and surrounding townships

Margaritas

She nodded, clicking down on her pen. It was as good of a start as any.

GOROD TOWNSHIP
KAZAKHSTAN
24 DECEMBER 2013

Gorod was a small town, and its landing pad was nonexistent. Originally an outpost for illegal poachers, the town had since transformed into a combination of a resort town and…less conspicuous outpost for illegal poachers. This time of year, it boasted several supply stores for outdoor enthusiasts: ski rentals, snow shoes, sleds, snowmobiling, and other recreational activities.

Lodges and taverns peppered the small streets as well. The location was remote, but ideal for tourists, and if groups of hunters were more common than not, people tended to look the other way. The tourist angle was something Sherry hoped to use to her advantage to cover the arrival of a DSO agent. While most were compliant at the sight of a badge, their answers were almost entirely hedged.

Plus, she assumed anonymity was helpful when trying to hunt down a wanted criminal.

The plane had landed about ten miles out of town, and the rest of the distance had been traveled via snowmobile. When Sherry had finally arrived, she was freezing and ready to find the inn where Hunnigan had made arrangements for her to stay. Taking off her helmet, Sherry casually parked her snowmobile next to the countless others outside the Sokrytiye Inn, exhaling as she looked at the door. The place seemed welcoming enough, with log furnishing that gave the illusion of rustic living. Standard fare for a tourist. She shouldered her bags, only two, and walked in.

"Dobro pozhalovat, odna minuta pozhalujsta," the innkeeper muttered, busy with some paperwork in front of her.

Sherry closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her Russian was rusty, but hopefully it would suffice enough to maintain her cover, "Nichevo strashnava."

The woman, heavy-set and somewhere around fifty, looked up from her paperwork and rose an eyebrow, "Your accent is terrible," she said easily enough, though a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lip.

Sherry gave an apologetic smile, "Sorry, only been taking Russian for two years at Uni," she said with a far more passable Canadian accent.

"Ah, you are the student researcher, then? For…" the inn's administrator waved her hand in a circle as she tried to remember, "What was it. Rocks?"

Sherry continued to smile, reshouldering her bag, "Geology, yeah. I believe my thesis advisor called ahead to secure a reservation?"

"You believe correct," the woman stated easily, withdrawing a stack of papers from the desk, "Fill these out. And I'll need to see identification. Otherwise the room's been paid for…" she looked onto her computer, pressing a few buttons, "Four weeks it looks like. Though I understand you will be gone for most of it?"

Sherry nodded, beginning to fill out the forms with her cover's information. Alicia Sanders. Second year graduate student at the University of Ontario. Geology major and teaching assistant. Canadian. 27 years old, "That's right, I'm going to spend most of my time in the field collecting some samples in the mountains."

The woman snorted, "Too bad you didn't get here four months earlier. It's cold this time of year in the mountains, you know."

She laughed, dotting her final i and crossing her final t, "Unfortunately, I decided to study the effects of snow erosion," she handed the forms back to the desk worker, "I think I reconsidered my thesis project the second I started the snowmobile."

The woman chuckled, placing a ring of keys on the counter, "You are in room four. The symbol matches the key fob. My name is Nadya. Let me know if you need assistance."

"Actually," Sherry said with a smile, "I was wondering if you know where a place called the Lozh Tavern was? My friend came here a few years ago and said the food was great."

Nadya stared at her in disbelief, "Your friend has taste buds?"

"That's what she keeps saying."

Nadya shook her head, "It's down the road, green sign. Though if I were you, I'd stick to the vodka and nothing else."

After unpacking and taking a quick shower, Sherry made the short walk to where she was designated to meet her contact for the assignment. Sure enough, a bright green sign marked the tavern, and sure enough, it looked like an establishment where one would only sample the vodka and not much else. Several snowmobiles were parked in front of the building, most of them having tie-downs containing animal hides. A poacher's bar, then. Seemed suiting enough place to meet a DSO informant.

Sherry took a deep breath before entering the bar. As soon as the door opened, several heads swerved to get a good look. It didn't take much to notice that about 95% of them were men, and the majority of them over forty. An old boy's club, from the looks of it. And one unaccustomed to the tourists filtering in. Sherry straightened her posture, making a confident, slow walk towards the back tables of the place. She hadn't received a physical description of the informant, only that she was to contact him here every Monday during her assignment.

From what she knew of the man, he was older and nomadic. And, like Coen, he was deeply embedded in the mercenary game. Hunnigan's memo had said the informant specialized mainly in arms dealing, and had spent a few years in Central and South America before making his way through Western Europe and finally settling in the local area. If Coen had purchased illegal arms in the last ten years, Hunnigan had reason to believe the man she was meeting would have had a run in or two with him. Or at least would have a reference for another dealer. And, judging from the personal touch to the memo, Sherry had reason to believe that Hunnigan had made contact with this informant before.

Finding an empty seat, Sherry took it and calmly met the probing stares of the men sitting in the bar. Her last excursion of hunting down a mercenary had taught her that it was better to acknowledge it instead of shirk away. Eventually they'd ignore her and return to their own business, or challenge her.

And, desk duty or not for the last few months, Sherry was confident she could handle a challenge.

Seconds ticked by like hours, but finally the men turned their gazes back to their conversation partners or drinks. Sherry let out an imperceptible sigh of relief, before sitting back in her chair and pulling out a book from her canvas bag. The book, The Old Man and the Sea, was one she had no interest in reading, but was instead the tell for the informant. Thumbing to a random page, Sherry tried as hard as she could to pretend she was invested in its contents.

Minutes ticked by. A half hour. And another. And Sherry caved and ordered a vodka somewhere in between the second and third hour she was stuck waiting. The Old Man and the Sea even had a page or two dog-eared as she reluctantly began to read it out of nothing but sheer boredom.

Whoever her informant was, he wasn't punctual.

Another vodka drink, and Sherry was about ready to leave. The day's sun had faded into darkness, and she had been awake almost thirty hours. Sleep beckoned, and frustration at her contact's no-show was beginning to outweigh her patient nature.

"Fifteen more minutes," she muttered, staring out the window.

"That how long your old man has?" Came a guttural voice, and Sherry turned from the window and towards its source.

The man standing across from her was buried in several layers, with a ratty, hooded trench coat covering him from the top of his head until about mid-calve. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face, showing only his eyes, which were a blue so light they looked almost opaque, and had deep creases framing them.

"You read Hemmingway?" Sherry asked cautiously, knowing his answer would determine whether this was her pre-established contact or not.

"Only Farewell to Arms," he said, in a tone that could only be described as jovial, as he pulled out the chair opposite of her own and sat down. "Now, I understand you'll be wanting to have a lil chat, yeah?"

Sherry nodded, reaching inside her parka for Coen's photograph, "I need information on-"

"Ah ah ah," the man cut off, brushing snow off his shoulders but, oddly enough, not removing any of his garments, "I'm starvin'. And I don't do business on an empty stomach, you understand."

Sherry repressed the surge of annoyance and put on her best professional face, waving down a server, "Of course."

Her informant let out a dry wheeze of a chuckle as the server approached their table.

"Your order?" Asked the server blandly.

The informant looked directly at Sherry with his unnerving eyes and rose his eyebrows, "You buyin'?"

Sherry counted to three in her head, "Alright."

"Heh! Lesse, I'll have your best spirit, and some meat to go with it."

"Steak?"

"Now that's something. Let's have it rare. I like it rare."

"Da," the server muttered, moving back towards the kitchen.

"Now," muttered the man, placing his hands on the table, "Where were we?"

Sherry pressed her lips together in a thin line and pulled out Coen's picture, sliding it across the table, "I need information on this man- William Coen."

The informant didn't even look at the picture, "Ne'er heard of him."

She tried her best to smile. She really did, "You might know him by Enrico Marquez."

"That so?" He folded his hands over his stomach, leaning back in his chair, "What's it worth to you?"

Sherry scowled, "I understood that you were compensated for your information before the meeting."

"I understood that got you a meeting, stranger."

She exhaled, "Fine. Name your price."

"I take gold, mostly. Heh. Yes, gold is a fair trade."

"What about American currency."

"Not enough cash for that," the informant continued, cracking his neck from side to side. Miraculously, the movement didn't seem to shift the protective garments he was wearing on his head. He sent her a speculative look, "Though I suppose exceptions can be made. Last deal I had with an American ended up… lucrative enough." He let out that dry chuckle again, as if making a joke only he could understand, "Ten thousand, for your basic information."

Sherry rose an eyebrow, "And what would get me…non-basic information?"

His eyes crinkled, so she could only imagine he was smiling beneath his scarf, "Me liking you, naturally."

She stared at him, looking for tells. Anything that remotely proved this man wasn't legitimate, and she would be walking out the door and phoning Hunnigan faster than he could say "the sun also rises". While her ability to read body language wasn't impeccable, at the moment she had no reason to disbelieve that this man was what he claimed.

"We'll do it your way and start at the basics, then. I'll see to it that ten thousand dollars is transferred to your account."

"Good, good. Now. Whad do you want for it?"

"Tell me what you know about the man in the photograph."

The informant finally leaned forward, and stared at the image. He gave a low whistle, "Interesting fella, you've decided to find."

Sherry folded her hands in front of her on the table, patiently waited for an elaboration.

"Gotta confess, wasn't expecting him to be the man you're all after. Clean work, he does."

"So you do know him."

"Could say that. Could say I've sold the lad a gun or three. Over time," he rolled his shoulders, "Bit of a disappointment, I must say. Never bought the more…imaginative of my stock."

Sherry made a mental note to investigate that particular claim later.

"But not a man to make friends. Kept to himself, kept his name off most grids," the informant rubbed his forehead, as if trying to recall a memory. Or making a show of recalling a memory, "Good shot though. Hit every target at my range."

"A marksman?"

"You could say something along those lines, yeah."

Sherry frowned, so far the informant had offered nothing the files didn't state already, "What's he after?"

"That lad? Easy enough," the informant waved the picture dismissively, before tossing it back in front of her, "That lad wants him a ticket home."

"To the US?"

"That's right. Can you blame him? Nasty business, he got himself roped into," again his eyes crinkled, and Sherry got the distinct impression she was being toyed with- not unlike a cat playing with a mouse. That was fine. He could get his entertainment from her ignorance, as long as he gave her enough information to make it worthwhile.

"I assume you're talking about the court martial?"

"Allegedly," he said with another chuckle, "But he follows the rules, that one. And those who follow the rules don't put their partners in compromised positions."

A thrill of excitement hit Sherry at the statement, "He has a conspirator?"

"Once, yeah."

"Who?"

The informant clucked his tongue against his teeth, "That'd be, ah, information of the non-basic variety."

Sherry frowned, and having hit a temporary brick wall, decided to redirect the conversation, "How well do you know him?"

"As much as I know any paying customer."

"That would be…?"

He snorted, "Well enough to make cash off em, but not well enough to sell them out. Mercenaries are a, ah, sensitive bunch."

She nodded, tapping her fingers against the table as she thought, "I'm guessing it wouldn't make a difference to you if I said your information would save thousands if not millions of lives?"

"You'd be guessin' correctly," he said, "Only persuasion I take is cash. And a lot of it."

She suspected as much, "How much do you need to talk about his partner?"

The informant leaned forward, "What are you offerin'?"

"I'll try and come up with some gold for you, our next meeting."

"How much?"

Sherry did the math quickly in her head, "Ten ounces."

"Ahh, a fine price," the informant nodded, about to say something when the server unceremoniously dropped the steak in front of him.

Sherry looked at it skeptically- the meat was bloody, but somehow also managed to be gray in some places, "I wouldn't eat that."

"Strong stomach," he said, and though he made no move towards the plate, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a steak knife, "I accept your terms, stranger. Bring me gold next week, and I'll give you something of more, heh, substance."

"Okay," she said, knowing that Hunnigan was going to reprimand her for the mission's already extravagant finances.

"A bargain struck then," the informant muttered, grabbing a fork as well, "Now if you don't mind, I'd prefer to be left to my meal alone."

An odd request, but one Sherry didn't mind upholding if it cemented a good working relationship for the rest of the assignment, "Alright. I appreciate the cooperation, Mr…?"

He chuckled, driving the steak knife deep into the meat. The plate rattled on the table, but Sherry scarcely blinked. "You can call me Merchant, stranger. And I suspect we'll be seeing more of each other in the future."

"Does that mean you like me?"

"Let's just say you remind me of someone."

Sherry shrugged, standing up and leaving a few tenge on the table to cover his meal, "I'll take it. Same time next week?"

"Fine by me, and stranger?"

Sherry paused from zipping up her parka, "Yes?"

"Remember the gold, or it'll be a short meeting."

Sherry nodded, and as she started to leave, tried to convince herself that it was the poor lighting that made the Merchant's eyes seem to glow red.