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May-June 1981, Afghanistan

Skirmishes, Hind helicopters and plenty of firepower. The Afghans were still in the stone age, speaking from a military perspective. Vadim relished the slaughter. Come low over the hilltops, blow the shit up, then go in to kill the survivors. Men, women, children, fucking goats and sheep, nothing moved nor breathed when he was finished with a place. Tossing the poison canisters into their precious wells after the deed.

Those places would be forgotten, nobody would return there, and nobody could survive there. Another marking on the map: We encountered enemy forces, here, there and there, and he was being generous with the term 'forces'. Vadim drank moonshine, every now and then, there was no other way to wind down, no other way but to fall over from exhaustion after the slaughter. The occasional interrogation, their Afghani translator did a good job of not showing how much he was scared. Too bad he couldn't kill that fucker - he annoyed him, the polished Russian the man spoke, and then the Pushtu in the next heartbeat. The beast inside raged, and it was a lot of fun, the mindless raging and destroying, making sure these places, these people were wiped out.

Take the war into the mountains; create secure zones for transport, troop movement, and demonstrate superior strength.

One day they acquired a new target, another village, half nestled into a valley, and the military machinery once more sprang into action. Vadim took a sniping position, and everybody was ready for carnage. It grew on a man. It was better than being penned in at the barracks. He'd come to fight a war, not to jerk off in the toilets in Kabul.

Vadim signalled. The radio guy relayed the order.

Then, like something impossibly beautiful, and at the same time dreadful in an insectoid way, the Hinds closed in, gunships, flying tanks. Unleashed technological might. The village was protected enough down in the valley that not all rockets would hit. That was what gas was for, and Vadim's men.

Vadim remained prone, watched the stage play down below. Fucking place couldn't be reached with tanks. And those villagers were helping the enemy, providing food, water, and above all, rest. Courage. 'The partisan needs to swim like a fish among fish to thrive'. What the Kremlin was trying to do was to dry up the ocean. And this was yet another drop. Increasingly, his superiors were starting to get interested in intelligence. If he could provide any - and that was why he was here. Paratrooper Vadim Krasnorada. Directly reporting to the KGB.

Vadim's body armour constricted his chest, his heart beat so hard. Radio signals, his men advancing, quickly, everybody pumped up after the waiting. He was ready.

* * * * * * *

Dan had been training those goat-fucking losers, been fighting with the frustration of setting up a guerrilla force without the resources of an organised military machinery, but he thrived on the job. It was a challenge, and he fucking loved a challenge.

He'd seen what the Soviets had done in too many villages already. Not just killing the men, taking out the Mujahideen, he accepted that. Bloody necessities of war, just one of these things. Death and destruction. He'd seen it many times. Not so for those bastard Russians. They couldn't be satisfied with brimstone and fire, they killed every living soul. Women, children, poisoned the wells and slaughtered the livestock. He had seen the burnt earth, and the stench of rotting flesh remained in his nostrils.

Fuckers.

The last two days had been fairly good, at last finding an intact village, friendly to them and with drinkable water. They were cautious, staying inside the cradle of houses, watching the women and children and old men go about their work outside. At last they were able to get some rest, food, water, sleep. Dan had been going on empty for too long, stamina pulling him through, but his so-called freedom fighters hadn't been trained enough. Not yet, perhaps never.

Dan was scanning the horizon with binoculars, lying on the ground while smoking one of those Russian coffin nails that mistakenly labelled themselves as cigarettes.

Suddenly the shape of a Hind appeared, the sound travelling far behind. "Fuck!" Hissed, adrenaline shot into his body like a junky got his cocaine. This time it was for real.

Dan stayed on the ground, moved as fast as he could while ducking, relaying the danger the moment he was in ear shot.

"Russian attack! Get them out! Out!"

Villagers. Women, children, fucking peasants, none of them having a goddamned clue what any of this was about.

"No!" Dan was running, shouting. Rifle in his hands, safety off, ready to kill if those bastards ever dared to show themselves. "Leave here!" Knew it was useless, those fucking goat-herders would never understand the way the Soviets fought their wars. Human life? They didn't give a shit. Civilians? They were there to be used as target practice. Geneva convention? A fucking piece of fucking useless jokes. He hated those Russian bastards.

Targets galore, the women now screaming and screeching, running like headless chickens and black, panicking birds, with their torn wings fluttering frightened. Children crying, men shouting. Mayhem, panic and hell, he tried what he could to bring those useless peasants into some semblance of order.

Shooting, running, blindly reacting.

* * * * * * *

They swarmed like a poked anthill. Vadim trained his rifle on a woman - fucking black crows in their head-to-toe veils. Pulled the trigger. Legshot. They would try to save her. Bind the enemies' resources, even if this enemy didn't' have any. He found a new target, yet another one he'd wound, not kill.

They had killed Sasha. Vadim had received the letter a week ago, and it had been a bunch of fucking partisans. Sasha who had dared ask him something absolutely impossible, and absolutely human. And he had agreed.

He had agreed because he knew what Sasha had felt, and Sasha was a comrade, even more, Sasha. He knew what Katya went through, felt almost envious for the thing between her and him. And he wasn't sure which of the two were more important - his death had made Sasha larger, looming in his mind.

Please, we need to talk, Sasha had said. Vadim had feared he wanted to talk about that night, that fucking risk to bring him home, home to meet the wife, drink and eat together. Ended up in bed, a mass of limbs, a strange harmony, two men, his wife. Risky as hell, irresistible.

Please, Vadim, let her go.

The Hind closed in, fired the rockets. Reduce this town to rubble, then move in and kill everything. The ant hill was on fire.

You know I respect you. But I love your wife. I love her son.

The way Sasha did neither say 'my son', nor 'your son'. Whoever's son it was, ultimately, it was her kid, and Sasha would love him just the same.

Much better match than the spetsnaz and the fencer. Sasha was a pilot. He was far away from the worst of it. Far away enough to not get blinded by dust.

Please, Vadim, let her go. I'll owe you so much more than I can repay you, ever.

He squeezed the trigger, purely mechanical. Remembered Sasha's body between him and his wife, remembered every motion, every whispered word. One night, and then another.

He had brought Sasha home do to just that.

Sasha had his blood type.

The attack was like the fucking rifle range. Targets popped up, shoot, reload, shoot again. It was like shooting rabbits, only that these rabbits moved in straight lines. The village exploded, rockets sending fire and death, Vadim could feel the heat on his face, and it warmed him in so many ways. Sasha.

This is for Sasha, and our son. He bared his teeth, while his men advanced into the village to finish the job, his was to be overwatch, a remote killer, every bullet a hit, just like in training. He was a damn good marksman, his shooting much better even than the swimming or the fencing.

Legs spread to stabilize him on the ground, cover behind rocks, much better vantage point than anybody else had. The Dragunov vastly powerful, but exactly what saved the day over long distances; he preferred it to the other sniper rifles.

He didn't have time to watch them or wonder how and where to strike, he just did, took them down, one by one, especially when they came to help or rescue the wounded. Sniper games. Hurt one so they scream, and take out everybody that comes in to help. Like tying a bleeding sheep to a tree in a forest full of wolves.

* * * * * * *

Horror and death all around Dan, it was no good, they had all lost their heads when the children started dying, small heads exploding into blood, gore and splattering brains, sending the remaining Afghani into a frenzy of panic and shock. He had to leave them, their fates were sealed.

Crouching on the ground, Dan used every scrap of cover the barren ground could offer, scanning the slaughter and mayhem for the only one constant: the sniper. Tracing the path towards the cold-blooded marksman.

Dan moved, close to the ground. Rifle in his hands, snaking forward on his belly. The chaos around him was protecting him.

He stopped. Watched. There. The sniper had to be hiding behind the low formation of rocks. Dan turned sideways to reach the hornet's nest from behind.

Unseen, unheard, unlike the Russian killer.

He knew he was getting closer, could sense it, that goddamned sixth sense that had warned him that night in Kabul but he had ignored it. He didn't ignore it now and he'd take out that arsehole. If there was one thing he hated, one thing his comrades, mates and superiors were unified in loathing, it was those fucking enemy snipers. Humans were nothing but moving targets, a carnage that was going far beyond anything that made sense in a motherfucking war acted out along rules he'd never encountered before.

Closer, ever closer he got, finally reaching the rock formation, silently creeping behind. Heart racing, mind razor sharp, senses alert. Adrenaline coursing through his body, one false movement and the Russian marksman would be warned.

Another silent movement, slow, creeping, pulling himself closer, and then … immediate recognition.

"You fucking cunt!"

Anger exploded. Dan jumped onto his feet, swung the rifle, butt first. Movement, words, hatred, all in one heartbeat. No thoughts, just action. The sniper was in the process of turning, his hand going for the pistol at his side, but the rifle came down on the Russian's head before he could even taken another breath.

Dan wasn't thinking. Didn't have a fucking clue why he hadn't just killed the bastard when he had the perfect chance. Would have rid the world of some pondlife cocksucking piece of scum. Didn't know, didn't care, was only action.

The mayhem was starting to quieten down, no more lives left to kill. Dan's rabble unit of insurgents had been wiped out, and so had old men, young children and countless women. All of them. He didn't feel much for them, he was just doing his duty with goat-herders who had no meaning to him - expendable lives for all he was concerned, but he despised the Soviet war crime. Genocide. Fucking genocide.

He'd make the Russian bastard pay for this mess, but first he'd get the arsehole to experience the excruciating moments of fear, feeling the muzzle pressed into the base of his neck. 'Da-svi-da-niya, fucker'.

Dan didn't have much time, wasn't sure how long his enemy would remain unconscious, and how long it would take his comrades to look for him. Hastily checking the prone body for weapons, he grabbed pistol, rifle, knives that were easily found, secured them on his own person. 'Always prepared', and he grinned coldly to himself, while securing the cable tie tightly around the Russkie's thick wrists, arms behind the broad back, doing the same with the ankles. He couldn't take any chances, he had to get away for now.

Wrestling the lifeless bulk onto his shoulders in a fireman's grip, he nearly broke down, staggered, but sheer determination and something sickeningly cold-sliding slithering through the pits of his stomach kept him upright. He picked up both rifles and started to walk. Away, to a place where he could let lose that poisonous hatred and gain his revenge.

* * * * * * *

The Hinds touched down while Dan was escaping with his prize, more men emerged, some of them carried flamethrowers to wash the villagers out of their cellars and hiding holes under the huts and in the rock. Cleaning out some places with hand grenades, then continuing to kill the wounded, men, women, children. They worked quickly, knowing that news spread fast over the barren wasteland, somehow. None of them wanted to be there by nightfall.

Gathering what they could carry and their kit of course, the fact the Captain was missing became apparent. No trace from his position, nobody had seen anything, heard anything. The absence of blood and kit could mean he had changed position, or was simply gone. Some felt there had to be enemies around, and they were eager to get back into the copters. They sent out a search party, but evening fell, and with it the hollow, deep darkness of the mountains. Eventually, they decided there was nothing they could do. The Captain was gone.

* * * * * * *

Dan didn't have too far to stagger on, thank heaven or hell, the dead weight across his back was killing him. What irony.

Reaching a ragged rock formation that provided some shelter with its narrow overhang, he snorted at the sight of a dead tree, still strong. Perfect. Fucking perfect at last.

The enemy hadn't even twitched yet, Dan wondered if he had broken the Russian's skull, he'd be pissed off if he had, he wanted to make him pay and understand what it was like to die. Slowly. Inevitably, but not immediately. Hell, that bastard would see it coming.

Letting the heavy body fall onto the ground, Dan felt a twinge of satisfaction at the dull thud, doubtlessly causing bruises. He stored the rifles under the overhanging rock, then it was time to focus on that dead thing he had been carrying. A hunter, bearing the trophy home. Dan laughed, and it was an ugly sound.

Time to check over the unconscious man, he couldn't take any chances. Kicking the body until it rolled over onto the back, he patted the front down, checking inside every pocket. Packet of nuts in the first, the other brought a garrotte to light. He stashed everything in his own pockets, since he hadn't been able to take his bergan, only the webbing he was wearing on his body and that had to be sufficient to survive. Additions were welcome.

Found spare magazines, Dan slipped them into the pouch at the small of his back. Opening the Russkie's tunic, he found a map with some yet indecipherable Cyrillic code, and then a small item that made him frown. Carefully wrapped up, a pill. Sniffing the thin coating, he frowned even more. He wasn't going to cut the tunic and shirt off, they would come in handy for himself in the cold nights if he turned them inside out, the Soviet insignias torn off. Took the scarf off the thick neck before rolling the body to the side to cut the ties around the wrists. He had to be fast, pulled the clothes off the upper body, and found another knife, strapped to the shoulder. Dan smirked, refusing to acknowledge similarities between the Russian's penchant for knives and his own.

Red Army were Killers and Bad. British Forces were Defenders and Good. Or some such other shit that didn't have much meaning, just propaganda in a War that had been Cold for too long.

Dan's eyes fell onto the heavily muscled right biceps. Snorting at the shabby tattoo of a crude running wolf while checking the Russian's boots and, as predicted, found another knife. That was it, nothing else. Just belt, camo trousers, socks and boots on the man.

Dan dragged the man towards the tree, kicked, punched, pulled and prodded the heavy limbs into position, until he had the Russian half-kneeling under a low, sturdy branch. Propping the dead weight up against his thighs, Dan forced the arms high up between the fucker's back, the body trying to automatically fall forward, but he kept it in position while musing how long it would take the pain to wake the mind into consciousness. He worked fast. Pushed the arms back down, sturdy wood between biceps and elbows. There. Crucified on a beam.

Dan smirked, pulled the wrists together in the front as close as he could, using all his strength and forcing muscles, sinews and bones almost to breaking point. Man-made rope cut deeply into skin before he was content that the fucker was not going to move. He stood back and looked at his work, studying the picture and smirked. That's where the bastard belonged: on his knees.

"Wake up, Russkie!" Dan shouted, before delivering a kick to the bare chest. Dog tags jarring against bruises.

* * * * * * *

A tenseness and tightness that had to do with breathing. Vadim's shoulders were taut, hurt, his chest was constricted, his arms felt … bad. He opened his eyes, his skull was thudding with a dull pain, and a massive blow to the chest sent more pain through his body. His head jerked up, eyes opened, and he saw. Saw the reporter, merc, reporter, merc, whatever, hands raised in fists, just moving back from a kick or punch. Looked like kickboxing to him.

His hands were immobilized, he couldn't defend himself. Knees touched the ground. He coughed, tried to loosen up the tightness around his lungs.

Slowly, ever so slowly Vadim realized what position his body was in. He looked up again, to the dark-haired man whose face shone with hatred, and downright glee. The thoughts registered like dripping acid. No way to defend. No way to fight. He was somewhere else, he couldn't smell the smoke on the wind, couldn't hear the copters. Alone. His arms were starting to get numb, and he focused his attention on them, tried to take some of the stress off. And meanwhile, a nameless, unspoken dread crept up inside him. Focus, he thought. Focus on the situation. Focus on the captor. Thoughts of mutilation, death, more beatings, even, yes, castration. He'd seen all of those, on dead and dying bodies. It was a distinct possibility. After all those years.

Focus. Your mind can defeat itself.

He was alive. He wasn't severely wounded, only dazed, and there was one human factor in the equation.

But that human factor was the man whose body he had possessed, broken in, in a fit of vodka and aimless rage. Just for pleasure. The man who'd given him something he still, somehow, in an odd way, kept close. The memory of strength, and, ultimately, victory. Vadim looked at him, tried to judge the man's intentions, what he was capable of.

Everything.

Put yourself into his mind. Try to become the enemy and you will know. If he was this man, he would interrogate, then kill.

Interrogation meant he would eventually talk. Vadim's main enemy there was the dizziness. He needed to think clearly, sharply, fast, and flexible. He would talk. The other soldiers would come back and look for him, tomorrow. That meant twelve hours of torture. That was a very long time. Only, the enemy probably knew of these time constraints, too.

These twelve hours would be hell. The question was how he would get out of it. Would the merc kill him? He would. So, withholding information meant he would be kept alive. He turned these thoughts in his mind, tried to find other solutions, ways out. Truth was, he didn't want to die. Truth was, the man had every reason to kill him for what he had done. Would kill him for it.

Now, if he could accept the fact of his death - that he wouldn't see the next morning - if he could accept that and make it the basis of his actions. Part of him screamed in terror at the concept of death. He felt his breath accelerate, fighting off that wave of panic. Accept you will die, Vadim, he repeated to himself, and suppressed the thoughts of home that came up. It didn't matter where he died, or even at what age. All people die.

But not all people turn traitors before they do. He did know things, and above all, what his job was. And he needed to keep that secret. And that meant torture. And that, again, meant, these were the least painless, the most pleasant moments that he had left. And he cherished them.

"Awake at last?" Dan smirked, an altogether nasty look on his face. The handsomeness had vanished, hatred was turning teeth into fangs, high cheekbones into a glaring skull and dark eyes into empty, menacing sockets.

Hatred that had no name.

"Nice to meet you again, Russkie." He fumbled in a pocket, pulled out a battered packet of coffin nails, took his time to light a fag. Inhaling deeply, the smoke curled into the cool evening air, curb-crawling along the edges of sanity.

"I wish … I could return sentiment", said Vadim. Not nice meeting him. Less nice than the other times, and that included the meeting the grenade had cut short. He tried to sit up straight to get into any position that would take off even a fraction of that stress, but the truth was, his own muscles made it difficult. A skinny person would be far less uncomfortable.

"Para, eh? Sniper." Dan nodded, holding a conversation with himself. "I have to give you that, you're good. The way the brains of those terrified kids were splattering all over their dying mothers' burkhas, that was skill, really." Taking another deep drag, holding the nicotine deep in his lungs for a moment.

Vadim watched the smoke trail into the evening, wondered how many men he had shot that had lit up on guard. Sniper. The natural enemy of the common soldier. "Yes, sniper. Marksman. Different target, same skill."

Dan nodded, didn't try to hide the satisfaction at the Russian's obvious discomfort. Good. It was meant to hurt. Like he had hurt, like …

No. Nothing. Nothing had ever happened and he hated the fucking Russian for Nothing. Nothing but the war crime. Nothing but the unnecessary deaths during the slaughter.

Nothing else. Nothing.

There was a shift in Dan's facial expression, but he didn't notice. Too intent on studying the other and fighting his own thoughts. Cancerous thoughts, mutated cells eating away at others. The tumour had to be destroyed before it could grow any further.

"You should be proud of yourself and I guess you are." Dan shrugged, just a bloke chatting in a mix of English and Russian. Pulling on the fag again while his scraped fingers were searching in another of his parka's pockets.

Pride. Fuck him. Vadim would have been proud if he could have been positive these people had killed Sasha. He would kill a thousand people on the chance to get the one killer. Whoever the people were.

Producing a small, wrapped item, Dan stepped closer, holding the pill under the Russian's nose. He had to lower his hand, right in front of his groin, to be on the bastard's eye level. "This, though, tells an interesting story, don't you think?" Slow gleam of cigarette end turning bright red as he inhaled again, then let the smoke escape between the words. "Who are you really, Russkie."

Vadim looked at the hand, the pill he was supposed to take to evade capture. He stared at the man's crotch for a long moment, then at the hand. The packet. Wrapped against he humidity. But it might dissolve if he swallowed it whole. Nobody could save him, there was no hospital, not even a medic. He relaxed, looked up, as if to say 'I have no idea', then lunged forward, tried to snatch the pill with his teeth.

Dan's reaction was fast, a trained killer's split-second reactions that decided over life and death, and he laughed tonelessly as his fist closed and pulled away.

Vadim's teeth clacked empty, and at the same time, a tearing pain shot through his arms. He suppressed a sound of pain, breathed hard against it, against the stress that flared up. "Am...phetamines", he murmured. "Drugs."

"Try again, fucker." The fist that had pulled back was flying towards the Russkie's face. Perfect aim towards the nose, knuckles connecting with cartilage and bone.

The pain shot through Vadim's skull like a bullet, he felt the nose break, smelt blood, and felt it run out of his nose. He opened his lips, suppressing the pain, eyes watering, everything turned into a blur of tears, of throbbing red, metallic pain right between his eyes.

Dan shook out his fist, aching from the impact, while pulling a last drag from the fag in his other hand. He shrugged and looked down at the glowing end before moving his hand. "Try again."

Vadim looked up, saw the cigarette come close, tried to get away, but he could have been tied to a pillar of cement. His breath accelerated, fast, nauseous shot of stress, and he screamed from the pain as the cigarette was slowly stubbed out on his skin, with a sizzling sound of burning flesh and evaporating sweat.

Blood and sweat ran over Vadim's face. This, he thought, is then the real deal. Torture. Not a simulation, not a course to determine how suitable he was for command. His head lowered, blinking away tears, watching how the blood trickled into the dirt. Nose one agonizing mass. And it was just a beginning. He had a cover story, but if he gave that up too fast, the merc would know that it was fake. He could only yield the information when so close to the breaking point that there was almost no distinction.

"Cocaine. Surface … analgesic. Just in case I get shot up." Vadim looked up. "No morphine." Body coiled, awaiting more pain from the merc. "I'm para. You fucking know that."

"You're as much a para as I am a reporter." The evening was getting darker, but never as dark as that coiled up hatred inside Dan. That thing he could not see nor understand.

Destroy. Deface. Dehumanise.

He had all the reasons in the world to hate that Russian. A sniper. A ruthless murderer. A liar. Watching the bleeding face dispassionately, Dan slipped the wrapped pill back into a pocket. His eyes were drawn to the angry red mark in the hollow of the Russian's throat. So many shades of red. Blood, swollen flesh, burnt skin.

"I know your name, your rank, your number." He didn't even bother to grab the dog tags. He knew, he fucking well knew. He'd done his homework before the press conference. "Sports hero Krasnorada." Dan snorted mockingly. "You're more than that and you will tell me before I kill you."

A shudder ran over Vadim's skin. Sports hero. It had been ages. He had only been a tool for the USSR to prove the fact that Soviets were better people. Worked harder, were more selfless, more devoted. Mentally and physically sound. If not for Boris, who knew. They might have won that medal.

Vadim shook his head, tried to think clearly. Swallowing hurt, the small dot of agony right between his collar bones. The pill was a giveaway. If the merc knew what it was - and he could certainly guess, not the least by how he had reacted at the off-chance to get to it - he knew what it was for.

Dan glanced up at the darkening sky; it would get freezing cold over night. "Let's face it, Russkie, you're going to die. The only question is how long it will take." He shrugged, "I have time." And he would make sure his enemy wouldn't be able to warn any possible search party.

That he repeated Vadim's own thoughts to him struck deep. Accept you will die, Vadim, he repeated, yet again. Accept that there is one thing nobody can win against. The one, last, worst defeat of every human being.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance." Dan threw away the comment.

Vadim craned his neck when his captor moved around him, stepping behind his crucified body, then felt a hand creeping along his jaw to cradle the chin. If the enemy took his head with his elbow, he could just break his neck. Vadim's shoulders tensed, and he could hear himself pant with stress. The hand felt good on his skin, menacing, but strong, and sure. He tried to shake his head, tried to purge the fear. Exist. Breathe.

"I was … drafted after my career was over. Shortage of men. I became officer. To pay people back what they have done for me. They made it possible." Official party doctrine. He was nothing special, just one that rose, briefly, carried up by the will of the people.

"You're a fucking liar." Dan shook his head in the other's back while cradling the face with his left. The other hand slipping into a pocket of the PLCE that was closest to his heart. How ironic.

He needed to know, there was nothing that held him back. Had to know the truth, to understand how it could have happened that he, Dan McFadyen, member of the Special Airborne Services, one of the top dogs of all males in the British Forces, that he, a man, not just any man, but the man, could have been overpowered, undertaken and abus…

No.

He had to know. Who and what was this Russian, the only one who had ever won the upper hand, and who … who …

"Who are you." Once more, so quiet now. Murmured almost. That dark voice as much a caress as the calloused fingers that lay in mocking tenderness against the chiselled jaw.

Vadim shuddered hard. The absence of pain made this erotic, he was beginning to listen, really listen to the madman who had captured him. Felt his weight shift, smelled his hand. Fucking insanity to feel anything, to not be stone, but it was the other way round. His body wanted to live, everything was intense, the voice, rough with hatred, the hand, strong, as strong as he remembered that body. He remembered that body.

"Who are you really, Russkie." Dan forced the head back, as far into the neck as it could go. The other hand holding something, its thumb pressing against the corner of the Russian's mouth. "Who are you."

"I swear, I am Vadim Petrovich Krasnorada. I can't fake my past. Can't fake what I did. I have thousands of witnesses." Vadim tried to see what it was, anticipated a knife, and tensed. Fear. The other would blind him, cut open his face. He shuddered, violently, felt his throat being stretched, and he looked at the man looming over him. His pulse raced, thundered in his throat. Vanya had died like that. Maybe even on his knees. "It's standard issue for my rank. They don't want officers to get captured. I'm supposed to kill myself. I'd rather kill myself than fall into their hands." 'Your hands', his thoughts corrected. The desperate need to live. His body was tense, nervously awaiting the next pain.

A shift of his body and Dan moved even closer to steady his hold. Cradling the head against his groin, looking down while standing. "That's bullshit." Softly, but he had to know. Didn't believe the Russian would be able to continue to lie to get out of this. On the contrary, he did expect him to say nothing but the truth when he was done. If he was ever done.

"You will tell me who you really are and what your job is. Your affiliation, your regiment, whatever you want to call it. You're not a para," Dan smiled, the expression so cold, it rivalled the freezing nights in the mountains, "you're too good to be a para." Strange compliment, but it seemed to make perfect sense to him.

Vadim closed his eyes. Oh fuck. What if the enemy knew? What if there had been a leak, a double agent, maybe somebody had gotten captured, spilled the beans. No. Fuck, no. What if they had intercepted communications. But then, there was no regiment, no codenames that were used, ever. Officially. Fucking spooks knew their business. He couldn't be the first one to break. The first one to confirm. He felt the man close, impossibly close, could smell him, feel the heat from his body. It was cold, the other man was warm, hot even.

The thumb began to force its way between Vadim's lips and the vice grip of his head between his body and hand made it impossible to bite. He couldn't close his mouth, that was how he breathed with the nose completely swollen shut.

Vadim struggled, threw his weight against the branch that held him crucified, but the hand was insistent, holding a rag stained with gun oil. A gag, to keep him from screaming. As if anybody would listen. Vadim recognized the smell, the taste, thought of the merc's body against him and improvised lube. Oh fuck. What if the enemy set this alight, burned his mouth, his face? The panic was so intense that his mind clouded. The fear blinded him, choked him worse than the thing in his mouth.

Your mind can defeat you, Vadim.

The fabric was being forced deeper and deeper into the mouth, down the throat. Pushing relentlessly, Dan counted on reflex and sheer brutal force. Obstructing the throat from the inside out.

Intruding. Entering. Forcing. Breaching a body.

Dan never realised he was getting hard.

Vadim tried to get what air he could, tried to hold his breath, his heart racing so fast, every fibre in his body in a state of fear that ate the oxygen. He struggled, the panic forced his heart to beat so fast and hard it hurt. He tried to swallow, nothing worked, and there was a wordless sound from deep in his throat as he wanted to scream. He stared at those gleeful eyes, and couldn't suppress the tears, his eyes watering, a normal response, but he felt pathetic, would do anything to be able to breathe.

Dan studied the man, the reactions. Noted every change, each sign. He had been well trained. 'Interrogation techniques', and he'd been on the receiving end himself. He knew what it felt like, experience made it all the better. He'd never thought he would excel in the subject so well.

"I make it easy for you, Russkie." Dan leant down, spoke close to his captive's ears. "You tell me the truth and I might let you live. You lie and you die." Knew the panic could make rational thought difficult. The body was so tense and tight against him, the Russian felt like a statue hewn from stone. Warm stone, hot flesh.

Another push, deeper even. Dan knew he didn't have much time left before the enemy collapsed. His fingers inside the heat of the mouth, moisture wicked up by the rag.

"I have heard enough about your so-called Spetsnaz, your Special Forces, there's no need to pretend they don't exist. Answer me, cunt, are you Spetsnaz?"

The panic overwhelmed Vadim, his throat hurt, stretched, raw, but nothing against the panic.

Spetsnaz.

It didn't matter, he knew. He fucking knew. His cover story. Spetsnaz. Yes. That word. Not the other. Vadim nodded, nodded on the verge of collapse, fought again, struggled to break free, not die like this.

True to his word, at least that - always that, Dan pulled the rag out of the throat. He'd seen men throw up helplessly at the speed with which the object was retracted, expected no less from the Russian bastard. His hand loosened the vice grip, allowing some movement of the head, the other hung by his side, gun cleaning rag discarded.

Vadim fought the rising bile helplessly, breathing, breathing in short hard gulps, trying to fight the nausea that came up from his body, welled up. No need to suffer, he let his head fall, freed it from the hand long enough to throw up the bile and what water had been in his stomach. He tried to wipe his lips on his shoulder, away from that touching hand.

Dan's legs were touching the other's back, those bound arms digging into his thighs, and he felt nothing at the confession. Nothing, until the flood of relief took him by surprise.

"Special Forces. Preparing the offensive." Dan nodded, his hand still resting on top of one overstretched shoulder. Something wrong, though, something nagging at is mind, a physical sensation that was lingering in his body. "Tomorrow you will tell me to whom you are attached."

There could not seriously be a tomorrow? Vadim saw no camp, no provisions, no water. No insulation against the elements. "105th Guards Airborne Division." It was close enough. Spetsnaz had moved in to secure the airport before the 105th arrived. And amidst those people, the KGB branch. Vympel. Fuck you. Don't even think the word.

"Airborne Division?" Dan shrugged, took a step back and the warmth of his body left, exposing the other's bare skin to the biting cold that was beginning to settle. "We'll see tomorrow if I believe you. That is," he stepped into the line of his enemy's vision, "if you are still alive."

Walking over to the bundle with the Russian's uniform shirt and tunic, he slipped into the latter, additional warmth against the elements. "There is a reason you are here and I want to know it."

Dan had some water in his PLCE, it would have to do. He'd gone without food for longer. Tomorrow; tomorrow he'd kill that bastard and then find his way out of the mountains.

"What … are you?"

Dan stopped when he heard the question, turned to look at the other. Pondering, judging. Hell, what the fuck did it matter. "I am SAS, cunt."

With that he turned and moved beneath the shelter of the overhanging rock, reaching for his SA-80 and all the additional clothing he could find. Ready to curl up and get some sleep.

SAS. Vadim felt his throat constrict with laughter, and knew he was being hysterical. SAS. The very model of the Spetsnaz. Why invent the wheel yet again. One special forces in the world that the Soviet Union coveted. SAS. Father and mother and sibling. As good as family. The model, the cast.

Vadim craned his neck to see the man, as the pain in his face, in his throat slowly subsided and was replaced with a dull throbbing. He couldn't feel his legs anymore. His shoulders tightened up, felt like they were twisted several times, and ever more. No way he could sleep. He didn't want to. This was his last night. Enough to think about. He didn't want to waste his time.

The first thing that felt really cold was the dog tags on his chest. A kiss of ice. Vadim breathed, stared off into the sky. So many stars. He wished he knew their names beyond the ones he could use to navigate by. Ursa major. Ursa minor. Big bear and small bear. He could read the time from them, how they changed position with the rest of the sky.

Dan fell asleep, reasonably sheltered against the cold, rifle clutched in his hand, lips so close he almost kissed the metal. Found some rest, but woke, too early, too dark. Alone with his thoughts and the human shape amidst the darkness, faintly illuminated from a sickle moon and an overwhelming abundance of stars.

Dan felt nothing, except for the lingering relief that the man who had overpowered him had been Special Forces. Spetsnaz, the best. The very best right after the SAS. He'd already forgotten the other Russian, the one he had killed. The fact they had been two and not just one did not matter. It had been this one, the still shape in a silent night, who caught his eye, back in that goddamned din in Kabul, and who had taken him by surprise.

He'd have to die. Dan knew his duty, understood the rules, but …

No words - no thoughts. He had to do it, remembered he wanted to. Yet executing one's fellow man was never an easy task. Perhaps he stalled tonight.

The cold grew worse, much worse. Moisture settled on Vadim, and he was shivering uncontrollably before the night was halfway over. The cramps in his arms and legs, and the stinging, throbbing pain everywhere kept him awake, and every now and then he managed to tear his mind off the pain and think of Sasha. And Katya. His family. The place in Moscow he had called home. His parents. Now that the SAS soldier was asleep, he could think of them, could allow them to be in his mind.

He regretted, mostly to have been captured, maybe to disappoint them. Most of all to leave them behind. If he was killed in action, at least Katya would get a pension, but it did not replace his salary. And money was tight as it was.

The pain became so bad he could hardly think. Every minute a bone wrecking cramp, he couldn't feel his legs, but everything he could feel hurt.

Vadim was ready to die when the sun came up.

Dan woke up when dawn broke. The Russian seemed to be alive. Good. He had the last of the water, then stretched while sitting, searched his webbing and reached for the compass.

"Fuck!" Hissed softly between his teeth. He hadn't noticed the compass was fucked. The map as useless as an embroidered doily on an officer's desk. The fucking mountains. He put the compass away, ignored the dread, he'd been in worse situations. First to deal with the Russian.

Vadim was being wrecked by cramps. Everything, his chest, his legs, his arms, his shoulders, he bit his lips to not scream, because he didn't want the other to wake up and put a bullet through his head.

He wanted to at least appear a little dignified. Breathing harshly against the pain, trying hard to suppress any sound. It gnawed on his body like a thousand hungry rats. Vadim wanted it to stop. More than anything. His body was cold, shivering, he was exhausted from the tension, the cramps and the shudders that his body had used to stay warm. Run down, worn out, cold, above all fucking cold.

He turned his head, saw the SAS guy emerge. He'd been right, all along. They were equals. Who had so far failed to kill each other. But this time, they were alone, and the other wasn't drunk enough to leave the killing to a comrade, like he had been.

Stupid fucking mistake. It all had been a fucking mistake. Jump him in the street and take him, take him, even though that had been the only thing he had needed, the only thing that could sate him and make him feel content. A mistake. Even though it had been the best fuck in his life.

Vadim laughed to himself, tonelessly, a small sound that failed to expand his cramped chest. "Good morning", he murmured. Vicious envy at the clothes, the gun, the fact the other could stand and even move.

Dan's brows raised while walking closer to the Russian, studying him with interest, like a professor would examine a bug.

"You got stamina." The words were out and with them a strange sense of respect for the strength of another, before Dan thought even twice. He frowned, a heartbeat off the track by that unexpected sensation. Then he shrugged, pulling the pistol out of its holster, checking the magazine. All without another word and with professional precision.

Vadim tried to pull himself together. He was in agony, but he couldn't allow the enemy to see that. Now, that was what the other had in mind. Take him out right now. Why the fuck had he even waited the night? He tried to straighten, and failed. Nothing obeyed him. The body the last thing to betray him, after his unit, his luck.

"So, Spetsnaz, ready to tell me your affiliation?" The weapon weight comfortable in Dan's hand. Familiar and deadly. He'd never executed a fellow man like this before. Cold blooded, calculated. But what did it mean 'cold blooded'? Anything out of the adrenaline insane hell of the battlefield could be considered 'cold blooded'.

It was a necessity. His duty. Despite the moment of confusion and uncertainty he had felt in the night, watching the dark shape, he believed he could lay the Nothing finally to rest, if he pulled the trigger. Dan raised his hand, almost gently placed the muzzle against his enemy's forehead.

What had the Russian said? One perfect memory.

Vadim's heart stopped as the pistol pointed in his direction, and it didn't beat when it touched his forehead. He stared at the enemy, denounced what he had thought for a hundred times during the night. He wasn't ready to die. Just cramps. They would stop, eventually. He didn't want to die. Couldn't just let go.

"105th Guards Airborne." Vadim suddenly laughed. "And you can't drink the water from the well. You can't drink any water from any village around here." He bared his lips, dry and parched, fuck, whatever. "There is water, but you won't find it." He raised himself up in a final gesture of defiance, and took the muzzle between his lips. He didn't trust that kind of shot. Through the roof of the mouth was more secure. That was how he executed.

Dan's eyes narrowed, lips tightened into a thin line. Fuck. Fuck! Anger flared the moment the realisation hit home. The fucking Russian wasn't lying. Poison, goddamned motherfucking bastards had poisoned the wells, wasn't the first time.

He'd been tricked by that cunt. Again. Once again taken out by surprise, he leant close, muzzle steady between those lips, his voice snarling in hatred. Defeat. The loss of his fucking victory.

"Then you will get me to the water!"

He'd never imagined he could hate the Russian even more than on that night in Kabul. Abruptly pulling the pistol out of the Russian's mouth, he flicked his hand and came crashing down against the temple.

Again.

Vadim felt nothing but relief. That meant he'd live. They'd both live. Then, again, a sharp pain, and the lights went out.

And on. Vadim woke up from vomiting, acid searing his raw throat, mouth, mingling on the ground with dust and stone. He saw the SAS guy pull his leg back. The bastard had kicked him in the stomach. No blood in the bile, the kick hadn't been hard enough to rupture anything. At least nothing so obvious.

He was lying on the side, he could feel his legs, even though the only thing he could feel was pain. His legs were tied with rope, a length of rope that would allow him to shuffle along. Not enough to run or kick. His arms were behind his back, wrists crossed, and attached to something. Something around his neck. More rope. What the fuck …?

Vadim groaned, spit out more bile. He felt dizzy with dehydration, exhausted, couldn't have been unconscious for long. Minutes, not hours.

"Get up." Dan's sharp voice spat out the order. His SA-80 trained at the man on the ground, the Dragunov rifle tied onto the webbing across his back. He'd had some of the nuts he had found in the Russian's pockets, but he was hungry, let alone thirsty. Couldn't be helped for now.

"Get the fuck up and find water." He could see the other struggle, studied him dispassionately like a bug, ready to be dissected. Anger emanated from him, it was obvious that all he wanted to do was put a bullet through the Russian, and instead had to depend on him.

Nothing in Vadim's body seemed to be able to support his own weight. He felt like he was broken in several places, but then, the parts of the machine that was his body realigned and started to fit together, muscles and tendons, prime shape was now merely workable. His stomach pressed up bile again as he staggered to his feet, his upper body agony, his stomach one hard, hurt, sore piece of shrapnel inside. Glancing at the man, Vadim didn't even know what he felt, maybe relief that the enemy hadn't killed him. But that relief turned to lead in his heart, a sinking feeling.

"No tricks, fucker, or I take you to the Mujahideen." Dan bared his teeth, smirked.

At all costs, no. He's fucking your mind, Vadim thought. He needs you as a guide, he can't deliver you into their hands. He nodded, kept his glance down, didn't want to show the man anything, nothing in his face, nothing in his eyes, sullen and stoic just like one of the fucking donkeys.

Dan wasn't taking the piss when he threatened his enemy to hand him over to the insurgents. Not if he tried to trick him. The Russian needed water, more urgently than he did, to lead him to a poisoned supply would be suicide -and since that fucker had been so obviously keen on living, it was highly unlikely.

Unlikely, but Dan didn't trust anything or anyone. Trust was to sleep with a knife under the pillow, that was the closest he would ever get. He intended to take the arsehole to the British embassy or perhaps the stupid Amerikanskis. One of them would make a P.O.W. out of the bastard, put him in front of a war crime tribunal and Dan would never have to hear of him again. That was, if he managed not to kill the cunt after all. A bullet through the Russkie's brain still seemed like a damn good option.

Vadim started walking. Knowing the direction, vaguely, as soon as he had gotten his bearings. The neighbouring valley to the one where they had attacked. He knew how the karez went here, had been part of the recce, and he had this habit to understand where the basic resources were. Bleeding, vomit, nothing to drink for about eight or ten hours. He'd need water soon enough.

Vadim found a rhythm, moving over the broken territory with his arms twisted and tied up, even worked out how to deal with the rope between his feet that seemed intent to catch rocks or make him stumble when he tried to fall into his normal stride. It didn't allow that, and that forced him to concentrate on the pure act of walking.

The sun came up and started burning Vadim's shoulders, collarbones, nose, his face, burnt down on his shorn head. He could really have used that rag now, but he was sure it would be declined. Sun burn, and worse. He grew a splitting headache over midday, and thought, but slowly, ever so slowly, reaching out to the next slow thought when he had finished the last one. The SAS guy could be played, he understood. He had already won in being alive this long. He could, if he did it right, find more ways to defeat him, to keep his own morale up, because that was the main challenge with the constant pain. Cling to small stuff. He needed that, to at least project a semblance of strength and determination.

The day wore on, Dan wrapped the rag around his head to protect himself from the sun and merciless heat, step after step, following the Russian. He had an idea where he was, not unknown to the region, but without the compass he was potentially lost if luck ran out for him. Wasn't bothered, though. He'd get to water and then back into the valleys. He'd live, but the enemy? Who the fuck cared.

Hour after hour, Dan watched the forcibly short steps that rarely faltered, somewhere in the back of his mind the professional soldier admired the other's stamina. The way the Spetsnaz managed to keep himself from choking for such a long time spoke of superior mental and physical strength, but then Dan knew about it, didn't he? Had tasted the physical power.

Dan's face was closed and angry, deep in thoughts while marching on, when the Russian suddenly stopped.

Body functions. Vadim really wished there weren't any. Not when his hands were tied up. He turned around and looked at the man who seemed just as dizzy as he felt. His shoulders were killing him, but he knew what would happen if his strength waned. Choking, unconsciousness, probably a hard fall, again, and more pain. Definitely humiliation. He swallowed, felt the parched throat. Maybe another hour. Almost expected a rifle butt, a fist or a kick. He was not supposed to stop. "I need to piss."

"So what?" The fucking Russian had to be joking. "Just piss already." Just like this, into the trousers, and why the hell not.

"Listen", the English was unwieldy in Vadim's throbbing brain, while he tried to appear less stoic, less stony. "I need to piss. Just untie me for second, I won't run. Fuck, I can't run." He had worked so hard on the words on the way here. There were plenty of good, pointy rocks on the ground. More than he would need. "Come on."

Vadim lowered his gaze, appearing, hopefully, meek and cut to size, like he had learnt a lesson. This last fight could well end badly, but better try it now when he had still a little strength left - and while he knew where he was.

He only received laughter as an answer. It sounded dry and scratchy, Dan hadn't had much more water than the Russian. Only a couple of mouthfuls. "How fucking stupid do you think I am?" Dan stepped closer, pushed the muzzle of the rifle deep into the other's stomach. Slowly, for once, not hitting nor kicking. Not yet.

Vadim inhaled sharply as the hot muzzle touched his flesh. Thought for a blinding moment he'd shoot him in the guts and let him die slowly, really slowly. The fear was back, acid on his brain, eating. He closed his eyes, tensed his muscles, ridiculous protection against a high speed bullet.

"I tell you what, Russkie. I tell you what I would do in your situation." Dan's lips were chapped, despite the rag, his tongue felt swollen in his mouth, and the voice was rougher. "I would try to get my hands free, grab one of those damn sharp rocks over there, and attempt to knock my captor out."

He grinned, baring his teeth. "I'm SAS, you are Spetsnaz. How much fucking chance is there that you aren't planning to do the exact same fucking thing? No," the rifle slipped, pushed against the metal plaque of the belt, forcing it downwards, "you piss without your hands."

Vadim felt the muzzle pull against the belt. The star on it showed his allegiance, clearly, and below that … the Brit could shoot him in the groin. No need to ever piss again. He tried to control his breathing, but he was already panting like a dog through his mouth. No go through the nose. "Listen." That bit came out too fast, and Vadim wrestled the fear for a long moment. "Don't be complete bastard." He looked into the man's eyes.

Dan's eyes narrowed, looking straight into the other's. He remembered them to be icy blue, too pale, too striking. He hadn't forgotten them since Kabul. Now one was half swollen shut, the other red and bloodied, and yet they still were this same motherfucking piercing colour.

Vadim continued, "Last time I pissed my pants was basic training. And I hadn't slept for week. You're soldier." He noticed he'd slipped the articles. Still speaking English. Both languages waltzed through his overheated brain and whirled around so it was impossible to tell which one it was. English. Articles. Restricted sentence structure. "C'mon."

Yes, he was a soldier, Dan hadn't forgotten it, but what was the other? "Why the fuck would I grant you that dignity?" The sun-heated metal pushed further down.

"You said, I'm Spetsnaz. Yes, I am." Vadim inhaled deeply, fought the fear and nausea, his body, the weight of his arms. "You did enough already. How much do you have to defeat me? Are you that scared?" Fuck. Too far, too much. Far too much.

"Scared?" Dan's anger exploded across his face, driving the rifle home, deep into the abdomen, but the lack of distance kept the worst force away. Physical violence always the first reaction. "You fucking piece of shit!"

Reaching behind the Russian's neck, he grabbed the short rope that connected neck and arms. "The only reason you cunt are alive is the water. Make no mistake, shithead, I rather die myself than let you go." He stepped closer, body to body, gave a sharp, brutal pull on the rope, watched it dig deeply into the throat.

Vadim inhaled sharply, the pull made him sway on his feet, machine less balanced than it had been. The rope dug in, burnt, burnt, blurred his vision. That bastard was fucking strong, and he couldn't help it, but the strength did something to him, he was on the receiving end this time, and he needed to remember what that was like. Could have been like. He tried to focus his eyes as his body screamed at him for lack of oxygen.

"Please", his lips formed, soundlessly. Just that. He couldn't say more. It had been ages that he had actually meant it when he pleaded.

Just that one word, where endless arguing would have achieved nothing, but that one, simple word. "Fuck." Dan hissed, anger defeated. He let go of the rope and eased the pressure behind the rifle. "Fuck you, Russkie." The words lacked most of their earlier venom.

"Shit." Between his teeth, Dan didn't want to do this - could not do it. Put the rifle down, no way the bastard could trick him right now, he'd beat the shit out of him before the Russian could try anything. Fiddling for a moment with the square belt buckle, he knew them by heart, just like his own uniform's except for the insignia, but it didn't make it any easier. Those goddamned hooks were meant to be opened by the wearer.

Vadim shivered, shivered badly as the SAS soldier unbuckled his belt. In this situation? Leave him like this, punch him again. His stomach was tense, pattern forming through the skin. The pattern he had taken so much pain to develop. So much time. Discipline. Crunches until he couldn't breathe, with weights, without weights, tilted, straight, dangling from one of the metal bunk bed, bringing his torso up, agonizingly slow. A knife hidden under his crossed arms, just in case anybody chose this moment to start a fight.

Too close, too fucking close and Dan smelled heat, skin, blood and pain. Pain, yes, could smell its essence, it crept into his nostrils, dried blood, sweat and bile constricted his parched throat even further. This could be him instead. It had been him. Kabul.

Calloused and scraped fingers managed to push buttons through their holes, his movements full of disgust. He dropped the camo trousers as if they were contaminated, didn't care that they slipped down the hips, stopped at the knees, threatened to pool around the tied ankles.

Vadim couldn't even look down at himself, the shoulder held him in that awkward position, his own body defying him. In other circumstances … he had needed help dressing and undressing when his wrists were broken, both at the same time, fucking nuisance. Absolutely nothing he could do alone. He didn't mind the helping.

"You must be fucking joking." Toneless, Dan stared at the briefs, but fuck, couldn't say the words that were on the forefront of his mind. 'I'm not taking your motherfucking cock out! I'm not touching your dick, arsehole.' Couldn't say them out loud.

Fool, eh? You'd be a fool, Daniel McFadyen.

Damn. Had to get this over quick. Handling another bloke's cock? He wasn't a fucking fag, wanted to burn all shit-stabbers, to bash every cocksucker's brain in. Like this one. Shit-stabber. Fucker. Rap …

No. Nothing. Fucking faggot arsewipe of a Russian cunt had done Nothing.

Dan didn't notice that he had stalled for an obvious moment, staring unmoving at the bulk in the briefs. Grabbed the waistband at last, pushed them down with one angry movement, forced to take hold of the cock with his hand to free it sufficiently.

Exposed. Vadim tensed up more, wanted his hands free, to cover, to protect, to dress. The touch made him nervous, not exactly something he wanted to think of up here in the mountains, tied up and beaten as he was.

Nevertheless. He'd had him. They had been closer than this, much closer. It couldn't get any closer than inside that amazing, struggling heat. Vadim's body reacted to the memory, and Vadim fought hard not to smirk.

A tiny victory, almost inconsequential, but he knew the man was fundamentally honourable. Empathic. Which meant he wasn't ignorant to what he was thinking - or thought Vadim was thinking - and also meant he had a weakness he could exploit.

"That's it, pizda." Dan grabbed the rifle, stepped back, avoided to stare at the Russian's exposed groin, moved into his back instead. "Piss, cunt."

Cunt. Pizda in English.

Don't care about it, Vadim. Don't let them ever tell you what you are feeling keeps you from winning.

So long ago, it had unnerved him, scared him. Vadim had known he wanted things that made him disgusting, despicable, made him the worst curse that the other boys could imagine. He doubted they knew what it was they cursed. The treasure of feeling, the one place in his heart where he wasn't the Soviet Union's property, wasn't the young model athlete. Not propaganda poster material.

He'd been fascinated by the stories he had heard from other athletes. About people who did this quite openly, blatantly, still nervous, but no longer scared out of their minds.

Sasha. He followed the SAS soldier with his eyes, turned his head. Saw that that man was far more unnerved than he was. 'I may be a faggot, but I held your life in my hand', he thought. 'And that is what counts'.

He shook his head, then focused on pissing without hitting his trousers.

Gave the SAS soldier plenty of time to study his backside, the straining, twisted arms, legs apart as far as the rope allowed, for a secure position despite being dizzy as hell, ass tensed, round, his skin paler past the belt line, but still tanned enough to betray he did catch some sun every now and then.

From swimming. Whenever he could. The parallel dimples over his ass, lines of muscle that ran from his hips to his groin, strong legs with blonde hair, the body the cameras had liked so much.

Vadim remembered the snide remarks, had read the newspapers, haltingly, he didn't trust his English, a lot of people laughed when he spoke. They said he sounded endearing. Insecure. He was nervous about mingling with the others, only relaxed when he could focus on what he knew.

"… and Krasnorada perches on his horse like a swimmer. Or should that be a wet Siberian tiger cub?"

Ha, fucking ha. They all knew he'd been part of the swimming cadre, and then reassigned, because Vadim was never fast enough to compete with the fastest. And that was it. The fencer that should be plowing water, the rider that didn't ride a wave, but a horse. Only with shooting and running did the comments subside a little. He was fast, and accurate.

The cameras, however, loved him. Even Vadim's coach had shaken his head. "Cameras become you. You're already booked for a bunch of interviews." And you haven't even won anything yet, was what Vadim heard, but nobody spoke.

More opportunities to speak halting English. Cameras. People handed Vadim free stuff so he wore them, clothes with labels, mostly. People sent him letters. They could write pages and pages about how he looked on the TV screen.

Vadim laughed dryly. Those people should see him now. That thought went deep, and he cursed his vanity. It didn't matter. The SAS soldier would end all that with a bullet. Unless he could twist him around enough to survive this.

Vadim glanced over his shoulder. "Nurse. I'm finished."

Dan didn't answer. Hadn't heard and paid no attention, thus didn't kick nor hit at the mockery of 'nurse'. He was still standing, just like before, staring at the back of the Russian. He was thirsty, dizzy, perhaps that was what had torn down any defences he'd put up before.

The arse. This ... this ... this perfect smooth-round-strength shape that tapered into waist, back, up to shoulders. Broad. Tense now, muscles bunching, relaxing, cording again. Skin sunburnt and pale alike, stretching almost flawlessly over hard expanses of muscles, bones, sinews and flesh.

No reaction, for too long. He didn't have a clue how long it really took before he caught himself with a jerk.

What the fuck? What the bloody goddamned motherfucking fuck had he just been staring at?

Bastard!

Dan said nothing, realised he didn't have any idea what the Russian had mocked and stepped back towards him, with obvious distaste grabbing the damp cock. Distaste. Disgusting. Tried to stuff it swiftly back into the once white briefs, failed. Had to pick up the waistband first, handle the cock once more, while the rifle was secured under his arm. He hissed a curse through his teeth.

The question, to Vadim, was what was more tantalising, the rifle within kissing range or the man standing right before him. Seemed the Brit grew meek, or it was disgust, and more. The 'more' caught Vadim's attention for a moment, and he tried not to flinch as he was handled like that. He could hardly expect that guy to treat him nicely and maybe suck it. That would be asking too much. He breathed laughter at the thought, nostrils widened and he controlled the laughter, but not the grin. "Thanks. Now I take you to water."

Vadim began to march straight away, the small rest hadn't really refreshed him, not nearly as much as his enemy had done with that little show of nerves.

Dan was once again walking behind the Russian, carefully checking the terrain. Not for a moment trusting the apparently weak state of his enemy. No matter how much it seemed the Russian was in a useless condition, it could well be a ruse. He'd certainly use any trick he could if he were in the fucker's position ...

Vadim walked on, climbed another saddle of another fucking mountain, and crossed the line in his little internal map. This was one of the killing zones. Cleaning. Nobody was allowed here who was not Soviet or affiliated. He recognised the characteristic structure in the rock - the covered karez tunnels. Underneath ran water, a couple yards down in the rock. Vadim walked on, then stopped. "Lift that cover. Water's down there." Nodding at the ground. He could almost smell it.

Dan looked around, taking in everything. Formation, location, smell even. He might need this knowledge in the future. Without a word moving towards the cover, he was thirsty, but he'd let the Russian drink first. The water could be poisoned, after all. Kneeling down beside it, he checked on the enemy before lifting the cover and motioning the other over. "You better be right."

Vadim was grateful he could drop to his knees. A goatskin bag on a rope, that was how they got the water up, and he could hardly wait, then forced himself to discipline. Fuck. Not going to get overly excited. I'm fucked up, but not that bad yet. He checked the surroundings, no poison canisters, no dead animals, they probably hadn't poisoned the water. Not his people.

The bag came up, spilling water, and Vadim bowed down, lips almost touching the ground to drink. Like an animal, but that really didn't matter now. His arms killed him, but it was water. Forcing himself to drink slowly, the water was cold, fresh, tasted of stones, of the whole fucking landscape.

Dan was watching the Russian, rifle always trained on the man. Helpless or not, he wouldn't trust him for one second. The water was going down, and then he waited. Nothing. No sign of poisoning. He was desperate for water, finally, after several minutes, reaching for the goatskin and drinking in large, thirsty gulps, but stopping himself after half a dozen. It wouldn't do to get sick, not with that cunt nearby.

Vadim waited, watched the SAS guy drink. Among comrades, he knew one of them would joke by faking stomach cramps, but the other was so unnerved he would shoot him. Besides, nothing to gain by it.

Dan closed his eyes for a split moment, just relishing how the water ran down his parched throat, loosening the swollen tongue from the roof of his palate and quenching a thirst that had started to become debilitating. He kept the Russian in the corner of his eyes while refilling his bottle. He'd have to allow that bastard to drink some more. Wouldn't do if the arsewipe died before he had taken him to another waterhole, on the way back out of the mountains.

Vadim leaned against a rock, he wanted to lie down and sleep, without his arms being twisted out of their sockets, they hurt so much he wished they'd stop, forever, and his strength started to wane. He could feel the rope dig into his throat, and he knew he couldn't hold out forever. Soon. He l