Brawler was stuck in the back of the last truck in the convoy. His hands were bound with what the Gray Wolf and Sarge could find, which happened to be Brawler's own leather arm bands. After a small scuffle and a great deal of arguing, Brawler relented and allowed himself to be bound.
"Alright everybody," said the Gray Wolf, "let's get a move on." Sarge stared, then slowly walked in the back with the Brawler.
"I'll be watching over the prisoner. You drive."
"You really trust me to drive right now?"
"You've been perpetually hammered for the past few years, and you haven't wrecked yet."
"Heh. Fair enough." Sighing, Gray Wolf pulled the patrol cap over his head. Always hated these stupid hats... He set all their weapons and clothes in the passenger's seat. They couldn't go in carrying their own guns, or their cover would be blown in a second. He climbed into the driver's seat. Wiping the shards of glass from the dashboard, he tried to start the truck up again. It started up, then sputtered and died. "Fucking Russian cars," he muttered. He tried again, slapping the steering wheel and pumping the gas pedal. The truck slowly rumbled back to life. "There we go!" He yelled. A voice came over the radio, speaking Russian.
"Truck three, what is taking so long?" yelled an operator over the staticy airwaves.
Gray Wolf grabbed the radio and spoke in almost flawless Russian, "We were attacked along the route. Convoys one and two are both down, but we took one prisoner and killed the rest of the attackers. Just a couple bandits."
"Any survivors?"
"Just me and my Sergeant."
"Shit. Bring the prisoner."
"Understood. En route now."
The radio shut off. Gray Wolf spoke over his comlink to the Saint, "Ambush went off without a hitch. We are in bound to the fort."
The Irishman spoke back, "Copy that. Have fun!"
Then the Gray Wolf stepped on the gas, steering clear of the wreckage, and down the road to the fort. "Now for the part that makes me nervous," he mumbled to himself, but loud enough for Sarge to hear.
"Let's just hope this plan works..." Sarge said aloud from the back. Brawler started chuckling in a deep, almost grunting. "If this plan goes to shit, then you will all be in trouble." Sarge slowly dropped his left arm, resting it on the Russian pistol he had picked up, cautiously eyeing the Brawler.
"And why is that?"
Brawler looked up at Sarge. His eyes seemed to be lit from within his skull. Two bright obsidian pearls of hatred. "I made myself a promise to never have my hands bound again. I won't break that promise to a frail man and a ghost." He must have been referring to the Saint and Nox. Sarge slowly placed his right hand on Brawler's shoulder, keeping his other hand on his pistol. He still didn't trust this... beast. "If this plan goes south, they'll have more than just you to deal with."
"We'll make it work," shouted Gray Wolf from the driver's seat. "And if it doesn't, then I'm gonna give those two assholes a piece of my mind when we get back."
Nobody spoke for the rest of the ride. Everything—from the radio, to the comlinks, to even the desert itself was eerily silent. Like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for what was about to happen. About a half a mile from the base, there was an armed checkpoint. The gate was shut, preventing them from going further. A man in his mid-thirties jumped out of the box and walked over to Gray Wolf. The two exchanged words in Russian. Gray Wolf explained to the man that the convoy had been ambushed, and there were only two survivors, with a prisoner in tow. After a few anxious minutes, the guard hopped back in the guard box and opened up the gates. Gray Wolf drove the truck through, down a fenced off path to the fort entrance, sighing with relief. When they had reached a safe point, Gray Wolf said to Sarge "I'll do the talking."
"Hooah," he yelled back. They were in, now they just had to get out alive... somehow...
They were greeted by an envoy of about half a dozen armed soldiers with the base's commanding officer—Colonel Davydov. He was a middle aged man with gray hair that was slowly turning white. Numerous patches and awards decorated his uniform. Gray Wolf jumped out of the truck, shaking the dust off his uniform. A couple unarmed men went to the back of the truck to unload. "Let the prisoner out first!" Gray Wolf yelled at them in Russian. "Even handcuffed, I don't think you want to get too close to this one..." They opened the back of the truck, and gasped in awe at the behemoth squeezed into the small space. Sarge jumped out first, pulling—or at least trying to pull—Brawler out with him. He yelled at Brawler in English, faking a Russian accent as best as he could, "Out of the truck!"
"What should we do with the prisoner, sir?" Gray Wolf asked Davydov, still in Russian.
"You three," Davydov shouted to the three men behind the truck, "unload the uniforms. The rest of you, follow me."
"Yes, Sir!" all the soldiers shouted back. Davydov led them through the base's front doors, en route to the jail below.
There's her mark. And her distraction. Time to move in. All she has to do is get past the checkpoint and she's set. It would be child's play with the cover of night. But the daylight throws a wrench in the gears. No matter, it's only two guards. She could do that when she was twelve years old. Activating her cloaking device, she creeps up behind the patrolling guard and pulls a kunai off her leg holster. She cocks her arm back and eyes her target. The man in the booth. She hurls the knife forward, and it finds its mark in the man's neck. He crumples to the floor, trying to scream but only letting out a gurgling sound. The other guard notices and swings his rifle around to find the source of the knife. She swings her leg into the air and kicks the guard's rifle the side. She spins around in the air and strikes his face with her other foot. He hits the ground hard. She turns off her cloaking device so the man can see his demise. She puts her knee on his chest, then holds her hand over his mouth. With a press of a button on her forearm, a small poisoned dart shoots out of her wrist into the man's jugular. Her hand muffles his screams as he thrashes about, the poison beginning to take effect. Then he goes still. She stares into his eyes as the life fades out of them. She walked into the booth, retrieved her kunai, and pressed a button to open the gate. She was in. She turned on her cloaking device and walked in. Now to find the colonel.
The three walked down a long, bare, concrete corridor following the Colonel. It was illuminated incrementally by dim flickering lightbulbs. The armed escort was behind them. So far so good... "The holding cells are down this hallway in the basement," the colonel said to the group, in Russian. The walk was quiet and awkward. At least nobody was trying to talk to Sarge. God knows how that would've turned out... Did Sarge even speak any Russian? The hell if he knew, but he wasn't going to risk it. The basement corridor was similar to the one above, but was lined with jail cells with rusty iron bars. They took Brawler to a room in the back where the guards attempted to chain him. None of them wanted to get within arm's reach of the Brawler for fear of what he may do to them. And rightfully so. An additional crew of four jailers came into the room to restrain the giant. Everyone else left the room. The heavy steel door swung shut behind them with a loud bang. "What do you want us to do next, sir?" Gray Wolf asked the Colonel, still speaking Russian.
"I need to ask you about something."
"What is it?"
"There was a slight issue at the checkpoint. One of the guards mentioned to me that your chip wasn't reading. Can you explain?"
What chip? What the hell is he talking about? "There must have been a malfunction that occurred during the firefight," Gray Wolf replied, trying to keep his composure.
"Can I see your arms?"
"Yes, sir." Gray Wolf nudged Sarge with his elbow, and motioned for him to show his forearm to the Colonel. "Forgive the Sergeant. He had his hearing blown out by a hand grenade when we were attacked." They pulled their sleeves up and showed the colonel the underside of their left arms. Shit shit shit shit shit... The colonel raises his arm, and the six soldiers circle them, guns raised. "Almost," the colonel says to them, speaking English, "but Zhar-Ptitsa soldiers are implanted with microchips in their right arms."
"Fuck." Sarge and Gray Wolf drop their guns and raise their hands. There's no way out of this one. Brawler slowly lets out a deep chuckle. "You're all gonna die now!"