93, Proposal

“He’s probably covered in his own piss, trapped in a walk in fridge somewhere in that god forsaken boarder town.”  Special agent Alexi Blacktide laughed at her own joke.  “Fuck Murdock.”

“He says he only got trapped in a walk in fridge one time, but I have my suspicions he’s under representing his experiences.”  Demolitions expert Dale O’Connor reached over and rubbed his girlfriends forearm.  Without emotion, he said, “I know he annoys you, Lex, but you don’t have to be so mean.”

“Well you just said that these guys would love drinking with him!  You’d rather be hanging out with him than me!”  Blacktide normally wasn’t one for drama, but she was uncomfortable in the shitty Moscow pub and didn’t know how to vocalize her discomfort.

Ever the honest one, O’Connor answered, “Here, now, yes, I wish I was drinking with my dipshit best friend instead of my unhappy girlfriend.”

Blacktide felt her heart sink.  “What the fuck?!”

“You’re miserable in shit holes like this, honey.  Murdock loves this kind of self torture, just like me.”  O’Connor wouldn’t let her protest.  “You belong on a beach.”

She wanted to deepen her pity party but the comment instantly connected with Blacktide’s female brain.  Russia in winter was cold, grey and dreary.  She realized she craved sunshine and salt water.  “Ugh,” was all she could muster to say.  Her boyfriend was an idiot, but he was right.

“I’ve chatted with Porter this morning about when she can get out of Juarez to ditch the team and pick the two of us up.  She says she could make it happen in the next week.  I asked her to drop us off on the Mexican riviera.”  O’Connor sipped his rocket fuel as he saw his girlfriends’ eyes bug out.  “Besides, Mulroony wants the team to focus on El Padre and we can pursue some contacts I have in bars down there.  He gave us full permission to kill the fucking dude.”

She wanted to tell her boyfriend she loved him for thinking of her and trying to get her to a relaxing tropical place.  “El Padre is a woman, dummy.”  

“Wait, what?  El Padre is a woman?” O’Connor asked.

“Yup,” Blacktide said as she now raised her hand to interrupt O’Connor’s interruption, “Murdock tried to fuck her.”

Processing the information, O’Connor nodded.  “Of course he did.”  He shook his head.  “I didn’t see that one coming.  How’d I miss this information?”

She wanted to be patient and kind but Blacktide snapped, “Because you ran away to Colombia without telling us, asshole!  Remember?!”

Sheepishly, O’Connor simply sighed, “Harvey.”

With a silent inhale, Blacktide hoped she hadn’t triggered her boyfriend to go on another walkabout.  “Oh, yeah.  Sorry,” she shrugged.

“I’m good, honey.”  O’Connor smiled and thought about his magic mushroom trip.  “It was good to see him on the other side.”  Ignoring any guilt that normal people would feel about not telling their loved ones that they were going to go to Colombia unannounced, O’Connor took a sip of his seriously shitty Russian whiskey and it burned in the best way possible as it slid down his gullet.  “You’ll be soaking up the Mexican sun soon, my love.”

My love.  Blacktide always found herself taken aback by how emotionless O’Connor was, but then her heart would sink when he called her pet names.  She still hadn’t told him that she loved him, but ever since his trip to Colombia he had become open and casual with the word “love.”  His comfort and acceptance of who she really was made her feel amazing, but she also felt terrible that she hadn’t verbally reciprocated the words.

Ignoring her internal dialogue, Blacktide went back to beating on Murdock.  “These Russian guys would be annoyed by Murdock, honey, don’t kid yourself.”

“These assholes think we’re all just a bunch of trench monkeys who eat crayons and shed a tear every time a bald eagle flies by.”  Dale O’Connor raised his whiskey on ice and took a sip as he pretended to be an air bound raptor.  He tried to emulate the sound of an eagle but instead sounded more like a wounded crow.  “Buh-gaw!”

“Honey, in your case, they’re right about you being, what’d you call it?  Oh yeah, a crayon eating trench monkey.”  Alexi Blacktide looked at her vodka on ice and wished it had any kind of citrus fruit to add flavor, but since they were in Russia where they serve no fruit with drinks, she sighed a sign of resignation and shrugged.  Reluctantly, she choked down another sip.

“Dammit babe, I cried one time when a bald eagle flew by.  One time,” O’Connor said with his trademark emotionless expression.

“You’re a pussy.  Don’t fight it,” Blacktide joked back.  She really did love the idiot but had no courage to just tell him.

The two Russian secret agents from Team Vodka with whom they were drinking returned from the bar with a brand new round of drinks.  They raised their glasses and muttered a toast in their native tongue.  For all the Americans knew, they were insulting the American flag, but neither of them cared.  Their mission together was done, and the celebration was all that mattered.

Russian demolitions expert Dimitri Connorvich smiled a huge toothy grin.  His face was rosy from hours of drinking.  “You two like dreenkink veeth Russian meeleetary, eh?”  He laughed easily and was clearly enjoying seeing the two Americans get hammered as fuck.

Blacktide raised her disgusting vodka on ice and forced a smile.  “When in Rome!” she said happily.

Connorvich looked confused.  “Thees eez Moscow, not Rome.”  His bluntness was entertaining to O’Connor but Blacktide crinkled her brow.  “I go to Rome one time.  That city smell awful.”

Russian secret agent Bradmir Vandolocov let out a huge laugh.  “Rome smell fine, comrade!  Your upper leep smell awful!  Ah ha ha ha ha!”

The three men laughed while Blacktide tried to play it cool.  “It’s an expression.  It means…”

“No matter!” Connorvich interrupted loudly.  He waved his hand as if to dismiss the explanation.  “We celebrate.  Goasaveech is dead, and now you two can have veddink!”

It unnerved Blacktide that she’d been interrupted, but even more so that Connorvich was so hell bent on talking about her future wedding that wasn’t even a sure thing yet.  She’d been thinking a lot about her future with O’Connor and found herself seriously wondering if they really should get married.  Blacktide loved her boyfriend, but they’d only been dating for four action packed months.  In her imagination, any normal guy and girl should date for several years before getting engaged.  Then again, she understood that they were far from normal.

O’Connor had been talking to Connorvich but Blacktide was too lost in her imagination to pay attention to what he’d said.  She tuned back in as O’Connor asked the Russian, “Would that be a problem?”

“No problem, comrade!” Connorvich said in his thick Russian accent.  “Eet veel be good for heem.  He’s been, how you say, meezerable since he lose again and again to American pilot one year ago!”  Both Connorvich and Vandalcov laughed at this sentiment, then Connorvich added, “Ladee pilot!  A ha ha ha ha ha!”

O’Connor ignored their trademark Russian sexism and raised his whiskey in a toast.  “Thanks, comrades. It would mean a lot to me.”

“I text heem now!” Connorvich said enthusiastically.  He put his head down and his fingers flew over a smart phone screen.

Blacktide wanted to ask what was going on but she was embarrassed that she hadn’t been listening.  Connorvich sent his text and raised his glass.  “To Portavich!”

“To Portavich!” Vandalacov and O’Connor said in unison.

“Hee eez steel loos-er to American ladee driver!  HA!” Connorvich added with boisterous laughter.

The men all took huge gulps from their drinks and Blacktide sat in confusion.  Who was Portavich?  Why was her boyfriend and these two Russians drinking to Portavich’s health?  The questions had no time to sink in as Vandalacov pointed at Blacktide’s drink.  “You no dreenk much, no?  Feelink ok?”  He raised one eyebrow and asked, “You are pregnant, maybe?”

The thought of being pregnant horrified Blacktide.  “God, no!”  Why in the fuck would Bradmir Vandalacov think that she would be drinking anything at all if she were pregnant?  Did Russian women drink while pregnant?  The thought crossed her brain and she thought if it were true, it would explain so much about Russians.

Connorvich’s phone beeped.  He looked down and smiled, then looked up at O’Connor and gave him a thumbs up.

“Do we have time for another drink with you two before Portavich arrives?” O’Connor asked.

“Da, comrade!” Vandalacov barked.  “You, sit!  I buy next round!  You are guest!”  The large chested Russian secret agent rose from his chair as he downed his drink, then headed to the bar to grab the next round.

Connorvich pointed to Vandalacov and said, “Good man, Bradmir.  He save my life.”

O’Connor nodded.  “With the line of work you two are in, that’s gotta happen more often than not.”

Connorvich shook his head.  “Niet, comrade.  He save my life een job, yes, many time, but he save my life weeth voman.  He help me not marry terrible voman from Siberia.”  The Russian grinned.  “I theenk veeth my hammer instead of my brain.”  

Blacktide didn’t understand the Russian humor.  “What do you mean?” she asked Connorvich.

O’Connor answered.  “He was thinking with his dick, honey.”

“Da.  Good English vord!  Deek!  Theenk veeth my deek, yes!  Voman very good in bed, but no good as person.”  Connorvich pointed off to Vandalacov and said, “That man help me see truth.  I no marry her, niet.”  He shrugged.  “Besides, veeth thees job, eet eez better to be single, yes?”

“Having someone who doesn’t worry about you certainly makes the job easier, no doubt,” O’Connor nodded.  He looked at Blacktide with an expressionless face.  “They teach us to not get attached in training.”

“Thees eez good, een my opinion,” Connorvich said approvingly.  He paused to take a huge drink from his triple vodka on ice, then said, “American meelitary smart when say, be single.”

A deep sense of insecurity swept over Blacktide.  Was O’Connor playing them?  Was he playing her?  She found herself getting angry that her vodka was so shitty.  She wasn’t able to get too worked up because a woman walked up to their table.

“Shumakov!” Connorvich exclaimed drunkenly.  He started chatting with her in Russian and his face seemed to brighten up even more.

The woman was Russian army sergeant Shumakov.  Her face looked swollen and her eyes bugged out a little bit.  A year earlier, she’d had a bare knuckles fight with sergeant Schuman from Team Whiskey.  Schuman had beaten Shumakov like a drum but forfeited the fight to leave the ring in an attempt to see the one true love of her life, a fellow bare knuckles fighter named Bean Pole.  Shumakov technically won the fight, but it took her six months of intense rehabilitation to be able to move normally again, along with several different jaw surgeries to get her face to sit right.  She’d never been the same since that fight a year ago, which was her first and only loss ever in bare knuckles boxing.

Vandalocov walked back to the table with very large drinks that stunk of high powered alcohol.  He saw the Russian lady sergeant and grunted.  They spoke a few exchanges in Russian, then Shumakov addressed O’Connor and Blacktide in English.  “I keel her if vee fight again!”

Connorvich looked at Blacktide and O’Connor and his Russian accent seemed even thicker than before.  “Shumakov lose in bare knuckles fight to skinny American blonde voman.  She vant to fight, how you say… rematch.”

“That can easily be arranged,” O’Connor said, his face stone cold expressionless.  “You were one of her favorite fights she ever had.”  O’Connor nodded in appreciation to Vandalacov as a fresh pint of stinky whiskey was set in front of him.  “Speciba,” he said in thanks.  He turned back to address Shumakov.  “Maybe this time we won’t send any Americans to Siberia, maybe?”

He was referring to when Schuman, Murdock and McVandalay were all incapacitated, captured, and sent to a max security prison in Siberia.  Team Whiskey had busted them out days later, and no word of the bust out ever was leaked to the media.  It would’ve been an embarrassment to the Russian government, and political opponents of the current government would have had a field day at the prison incompetence.  

O’Connor didn’t smile, he simply used his expressionless poker face completely stone cold as he stared at Shumakov.  “Whaddya say?  We’ll arrange the fight between you two and no one goes to Siberian prison.  Sound good?”

The Russian lady sergeant grunted in agreement as another random man walked up.  It was the pilot and driver for Team Vodka, Ivan Portavich.  He had a gruff voice and hadn’t shaved his face for days.  “Theez are Americans, yes?” he asked Connorvich.

“Da.”  Connorvich turned to his fellow demolitions drinking buddy.  “Thees eez Portaveech.  He drive you where you want to go.”  Connorvich extended his hand.  “You two, take dreenks vith you and enjoy Moscow.”  He lifted his own vodka on ice and said, “Good to see you and dreenk veeth you, comrades.”

O’Connor stood up and extended his hand to the Russian.  “It was a pleasure to blow up that oil rig with you and to celebrate with drinks tonight, Dimitri.  I will see you again soon.”

“I hope very soon, brahther!” Connorvich said in his thick accent with a huge wink.  The Russian bowed to Blacktide, then lifted his glass to the two of them.  “To the future!”

Blacktide realized that she was about to get out of the bar and her spirits raised considerably.  “To the future!” she said as she raised her shitty drink in the air.

All four agents drank while Schumakov walked off.  Portavich was impatient.  “Vee leave now,” he said bluntly, then he walked out of the bar.

The Americans nodded appreciatively and took their drinks with them as they put on their long coats to weather the chilly evening Moscow air.  Within a minute, they were in the backseat of a small car as Portavich drove like a bat out of hell.  O’Connor didn’t seem the least bit concerned but Blacktide was nervous.  “Where are we going?” she asked.

“I want to take you to a demolitions site,” O’Connor said plainly.

Blacktide was ready for the night to end and made her opinion clear.  “I don’t want to go a fucking demolition site, honey.  I want to go the fuck back to our hotel and take a long, hot shower.  I’m cold as fuck.”

Portavich looked in the rear view mirror and grunted in disapproval of how a woman should talk to a man.  O’Connor disregarded the Russian sexism and said, “It’s important to me.”

The cold weather, shitty vodka and constant sexism had pushed Blacktide to the brink of insanity.  “Fuck, honey!  NO!  I want to go back to the fucking hotel!”  She was on the edge of frantic.  “You can fucking drop me off if you want and go to that site without me.  I’m fucking done tonight!”

O’Connor showed no emotion as he looked at Blacktide with his trademark poker face.  Blacktide glared at him and wouldn’t back down.  After twenty seconds of very awkward silence between them as the car swerved in and out of traffic at break neck speed, O’Connor spoke.  “Ok.”

He turned his head and muttered something in Russian to Portavich.  The driver didn’t speak, but he simply grinned again in the rear view mirror, then his eyes were back on the road.

It was like the speed of the car had doubled since O’Connor had said whatever he’d said to the driver.  Blacktide wondered, could O’Connor speak Russian?  As these thoughts raced through her head, the car came to a sudden, screeching halt.  Without words, O’Connor jumped out and gestured to Blacktide to do the same.  A few seconds later, she had closed the passenger rear door.

“Thank you,” O’Connor said in perfect Russian.

“Fuck you!” Portavich said in perfect English.  With that, he peeled off.

Blacktide looked over to see that they were standing in front of their hotel.  O’Connor had arranged this drop off and hadn’t said a word to her about it.  Was he angry?  Would he pout?  She sheepishly tried to defend that their night was over.  “You didn’t have to get out here with me, you know.”

O’Connor had been emotionless all night, but now he exhaled impatiently.  “Alexi, you are fucking exhausting in every way, shape and form that I can think of.  I wanted this to happen at the sight of the warehouse we blew up a week ago.”

Confused, Blacktide asked, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s where I really realized that it was really gonna happen.”  His face got a little angry.  “Like, for real, I knew I was gonna ask you.  You killed those mafia guys so smoothly and I blew that warehouse up so perfectly that I knew we were the right fit for each other.”  

A sudden increased heart rate stole Blacktide’s breath.  “Wait…”

“It’s where I realized I for sure wanted to be with you forever.”  O’Connor looked up at the hotel and soaked in the scenery.  “I figured asking you there would be as romantic as I could get, because it’s where I one hundred percent knew you were the woman for me.”  He got heated, “but you fucked up my idea, and now it simply has to be here.  It can’t be anywhere else, because that’s what we do.”  He looked her in the eye and smiled with an intensity that couldn’t be stopped.  “We fucking rock it, together, wherever the fuck we are, whatever it is that we’re doing.”

“Hold on!” Blacktide said as she was processing what he’d said.  “We can go to that place, or whatever!”

“No!” O’Connor said forcefully.  “It HAS to be here, right now, because I can’t wait any fucking longer.”  He dropped down to one knee.

“Ahhhh!” was all Blacktide’s racing mind could muster to say.

“We’re supposed to be together, forever, and this is it.”  Magically, O’Connor somehow produced a ring from nowhere that he was now holding up to his girlfriend.  “Alexi Blacktide, will you marry….”

Blacktide threw herself on top of O’Connor and the two of them went tumbling backwards.  “I LOVE YOU!”  Their bodies crashed on the ground unceremoniously and the impact hurt, but O’Connor didn’t care.  Blacktide was frantic on top of him.  “I love you so much!  So much Dale O’Connor!!!”

While scrambling to catch his breath, O’Connor simply said, “So I take that as a yes?”

Getting up on her knees while straddling the demolitions expert, she grabbed his cheeks with her hands and started kissing him violently.  “Yes!  Yes you fucking idiot!  Yes!”  She kissed him so aggressively that he was having a difficult time catching his breath.  After twenty seconds of the insane show of love, Blacktide pulled back and found herself grinning ear to ear as she looked him in the eyes.

“I was hoping you’d say yes.  That’s a relief,” O’Connor said in his trademark passionless tone.  He pulled his arm up to her face and offered her the ring.  A few seconds later, she was admiring the sparkle on her finger as the reality of what they were going to do started to set in.

In the distance, two very drunk Russian secret agents raised shot after shot of vodka and sang songs of the Russian motherland, then when the subject of the possible engagement of their American demolitions expert friend and how he’d hoped to ask his bride to be was brought up, each one of them said in unison, “He’ll fuck up the proposal.”