33, Realizations

“The last time you told me to trust you, you were wearing a feather boa and high heels.  You lost all credibility that day, fucker.”  Special agent Bradley McVandalay ducked into a doorway just in time as a ceiling collapsed down behind him.  Flames started burning hotter and he knew that time was running out.

Special agent Trent Murdock was two steps ahead of his friend.  He hollered backwards over his shoulder, “Bradley, we both agreed that what happens in Monaco stays in Monaco!”  He looked to his right and watched with awe as a pipe exploded at a binding.  Water came blasting out at high pressure and angrily blocked the doorway on that side of the room.  Murdock pivoted hard and ran out the opposite door.

“What a shocker,” McVandalay said as he reached out and grabbed his friend by the shoulder, “you’re missing my point.”  Both men came to a stop as the lights went out.  As if they had rehearsed this moment, Murdock stepped to the side as McVandalay stepped forward.  Murdock grabbed McVandalay by the shoulder and the two proceeded forward fairly slowly.  “My point is simple.  I don’t trust you.”  

“Hey,” Murdock feigned protest.

“At all.”  Even though it was pitch black, McVandalay moved forward and Murdock followed seamlessly.  “Now for the love of God, what the fuck happened back there?”

Murdock shuffled his feet in tiny, fast steps to keep up with his friend, as if he was a kid making tracks in the first winter snow.  “I’m telling you, there was a skinny guy who reeked of vodka.  I could smell it on him from across the room!”

“And you’re sure you weren’t smelling your own alcoholic breath?”

“Ha, ha, very funny, we’re Team Whiskey, remember?”

“Ok, fine, I know what you’re trying to do.”  McVandalay maneuvered through rooms with ease and Murdock blindly followed somehow as gracefully as a tango dancer at a milagra.  “Dammit, Murdock.  you know I’m gonna laugh.”  McVandalay could see in the dark like an owl.  Fires exploded in random hallways and the flames sent ominous shadows over the walls.  The two men let go of each other and started running.  They had to escape the burning and collapsing abandoned Soviet military complex.  How far away from him were you?”

“I’d wager pert near thirty feet.”  The dumb vernacular made McVandalay laugh.  Murdock continued.  “It was a big room, and I could still smell it on him.  Like he’d spilled a fucking gallon of it all over himself.”

The men went through a doorway into a foyer that was again pitch black.  As if by instinct, Murdock grabbed McVandalay’s shoulder and followed him gracefully.  The men crossed the room quickly as McVandalay announced their next move.  “Stairs in three, two, one, step down.”  

Murdock reached out with his free hand to find the hand rail while he held McVandalay’s shoulder with the other.  “The wiring going in and out of that room back there was fucking top notch.  As good as Doc or Blacktide, I’m not shitting you.”

“Flat floor in three, two, one, flat floor.”  McVandalay picked up the pace a little bit and said, “we’re almost there.” 

“Like, Blacktide would have one of her big self loathing episodes because there’s a better demolitions expert out there.  Each explosion is clean and friggin perfectly timed on fifteen second delays.  I’ve never even seen Doc do that.”

“The door has been blown open up ahead.  Grab your piece.  I can see activity on the outside.”

“You super human night vision will never cease to amaze me, McV.”  Murdock grabbed his hand gun with his free hand and readied himself for a gun fight in the dark.  “If you start a cult, I’ll happily call you exalted leader.”

“I’d lead dozens of dummies just like you to years of disappointment and failure.”  

“Spoken like a true Cubs fan.”

“Well played, asshole.”

Murdock could hear McVandalay cock his gun to put a bullet in the chamber.  “What’re we looking at out there, can you tell?”

“I can only see movement in the distance.  Heads up.  Dive to the right in three, two, one, dive!”  McVandalay pushed his friend hard.  Murdock flew behind a large dumpster while McVandalay dove the opposite direction behind a pallet full of bricks.  After a very awkward minute of silence, it appeared to the agents that they hadn’t been seen and that their antics may have been overkill.  

“Do your Superman night vision stuff, Bradley.  I’ll wait.”  Murdock whispered.

McVandalay squinted and looked into the distance.  “Two hundred and fifty yards, three people, jumping into an old van.  Wait, there’s a fourth person struggling behind them.”  He concentrated all of his mental energy into his hawk like vision and took in the scene.  “Dude,” McVandalay said half laughing, “the guy is drunk.”

“It’s gotta be the vodka guy.  Gotta be.  I’m telling you, I might as well have been at a distillery. The man reeked of vodka that badly.”

McVandalay stood up to get a better look and watched as the drunk person clumsily loaded up into the van.  The vehicle pulled away as if the driver had the pedal floored.  “Jesus, Murdock,” he muttered, “was that Porter driving?”  

“Fuck if I know, man.  I’ll text her.”  Murdocks face illuminated from the glow of his watch as he sent her a late night text asking where she was.  

He watched the van turn at full speed and never even squeal its tires.  It disappeared into the black Moscow night.  “That’s fucking Porter, I’m telling you.”  He shook his head in confusion.  “What the fuck?”

Murdock’s watch dinged.  “Porter says she’s back at the safehouse but can be to us in five minutes.  I told her YES PLEASE.”

“That wasn’t Porter driving up there?” said McVandalay confusedly as he pointed to the super human getaway van that was now long gone.  

“She’s not a liar, but maybe someone stole her com watch and is playing us.  Who knows?”

“I doubt that, dude.  She doesn’t drink, she goes to bed early, and she only hangs out with aviation geeks.”  McVandalay shook his head.  “That wasn’t Porter.  Crazy.”  He paused, then muttered, “that’s a damn good driver, fuck me.”

A few minutes later, an old rusted out soviet era car pulled up with Porter behind the wheel.  The agents filled her in on the evening’s shenanigans as they made their way back to the warehouse.  Inside, the three other members of what was now dubbed as “The Russia Unit” were seated, drinking beer and rubbing their wounds.

“The chop house got hit.”  Von Stryker swirled her rocks glass of gin and looked up at the ceiling.  “The fuckin comrades who did it were trying to make it look like Russian mafia, but they don’t know who they’re fucking with.”  She clearly seemed annoyed, as if sharing this information angered her.

“The idiots used cheap vodka bottles.  The mafia uses top shelf vodka to send a message.  This hit wasn’t Russian mafia,” special agent Mikayla Doniak added. 

Sargeant Schuman was wearing pajamas and absentmindedly nibbled on stale potato chips.  “I watched a rope fall right from the ceiling.  It plopped down right in the middle of that warehouse fire and a skinny little woman scrambled down that rope.  She grabbed some sort of valuable paraphernalia from the place, then scrambled right back up in only a couple of seconds.”

Murdock and McVandalay processed this new info and both of them became confused.  Simultaneously, they said, “Owens?”

Doniak interjected, “I just chatted with him and he’s down in South Africa fishing for sharks, so it wasn’t him.”

Schuman spoke up.  “It was a female, I swear, and she moved like Owens can.  It was hypnotic to watch, but the heat from the flames drove me out of there as she disappeared up the rope.”  

Von Stryker sipped her cold cocktail and the taste of gin and lime flavored joy swept over her grateful taste buds.  “I have better intel in this fucking city than anyone in the government or mafia yet none of my people have a damn clue what’s going on.  I pay my contacts well, dammit!”  She pulled her drink to her lips and muttered into the ice cubes, “perhaps a little too well, I wonder.”

Murdock snagged a few beers from the fridge and handed one to McVandalay.  The refreshing sound of a beer cap being removed from its bottle lifted everyone’s spirits ever so slightly.  The lads gave a detailed debriefing of the days events to their lady friends.  Today was turning out to be their third failed mission in Moscow in as many weeks.  Randomly, Schuman asked Murdock to elaborate about the explosives situation.

“The guy had the most impressive wiring system I’ve ever seen.  Straight lines, all perfectly equidistant from each other, all going to different rooms and windows.  I watched the guy hit a few buttons on a keypad, then the first explosion went off in some far away part of the complex.  The dude looked up at me with his piss yellow drunk eyes.  He hiccuped, shrugged, then turned around and walked into a different room.  I chased him but he was gone, as if he was a ghost.”  Murdock shuddered.  “It was freaky.”

“You’re a pussy,” Schuman said dryly.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sarge,” Murdock joked back.

Schuman took a moment to enjoy the insult, then spoke her mind.  “So let’s get this straight.  There’s a Russian version of Doc.  This guy is a drunk and blows shit up.”

Murdock nodded hesitantly.  “Ah, yes.  I think.”

“I’m right on this one.  Just go with me.”   Schuman got right back to the point.  “So you’ve got a Russian version of Owens, but it’s a female, and she can just slip up and down a rope as if she were a spider.”

“Russian Owens.  Yup, I guess that fits.”

Schuman smiled.  “Do you see what’s happening?”  She turned to McVandalay.  “You said that they were picked up in a van and the driver was as good as Porter.  So we have a Russian Porter on our hands.”

Porter had been making a cup of herbal tea while the conversation had been going on.  She perked up and added, “oh nice!  I want to race this woman!”

“She can drive like you.  It was unreal,” McVandalay muttered. 

“Well it’s obvious to me if it’s not to you fuckers.”  Schuman swallowed the rest of her beer and slammed the empty can down on the table.  Nobody jumped from the obnoxiously loud sound.  “The universe is replacing us with a Russian Team Whiskey.”

The room was silent for a few seconds as Von Stryker made eye contact with the other agents.  Then all at once, everyone burst out into laughter.  Murdock fell to the floor holding his belly while McVandalay had to support his weight on a wall.  Doniak smiled widely, but then her eyes got huge.  

“Guys,” Schuman said patiently, “we’ve barely escaped with our lives this past week on multiple occasions.  The Universe is trying to kill us.”

Murdock got his laughter under control as he joked, “that’s every week for us, sweetheart.”

Schuman shrugged nonchalantly.  “Suit yourself, but you’ll see soon enough.  The Universe is done with us.  It’s this Russian Team Whiskey’s time in the sun.”

Doniak paused to think about it.  “Sarge might be onto something.”

Murdock laughed, “No she’s not, Mickey.  The universe has been trying to stamp us out for a long time.  We won’t be cosmically replaced by vodka soaked soviets, you rest assured.”

“No!  Listen!”  Doniak was trying to put the pieces together in her head.  “It’s like there really is a Russian Team Whiskey.  They’re specialized similar to us, clearly military, and they sure know how to blow shit up like us.”

Von Stryker gasped loudly, but again nobody reacted.  “You guys!  That’s the only answer!  There’s a clandestine Russian secret agent team, and they’re the ones responsible for all of this carnage.”

“I call dibs on killing the Russian version of me when I meet him,” Murdock said dryly.

“You’ll probably turn gay for him,” Von Stryker joked.  “And I’m serious.”  She shook her head as she processed the idea.  Murdock was about to protest her last comment but she cut him off before he could complain.  “No, I’m not serious about you being gay.  I’m serious about this Russian secret agent outfit.”  She sighed.  “Shit.”

Doniak added, “If this were a game, the score is Team Whiskey, zero, Team Vodka, three.”

The room laughed as McVandalay parroted the name.  “Team Vodka.”

Von Stryker grinned with confidence for the first time in a week.  She again lifted her glass to her lips and spoke quietly as if to only her ice cubes, “it’s time to score a few points for our team, dammit.”

Schuman didn’t hear her and cracked another beer as the whole team raised their glasses.  “Raise your glasses to Team Vodka!”  Then the Master Sergeant added, “I’m gonna kick the shit out of each and every one of you Russian fucks when I get my hands on you.”

The room went eerily quiet for a few seconds as Schuman’s violent promise radiated out into the universe.  

In the distance, six Russian trained military secret agents prepared for their next mission which would put them in direct contact with Team Whiskey while an evil mastermind rubbed his hands greedily together and looked at random computer screens in some high level security video room.