groznyj_grad | Recent Entries

hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com

Rakitin stared at the results as though he could burn through them.

Not just arsenic, but cyanide as well. And, still, something else. As if killing someone one way weren't enough.

Whoever had devised this was a twisted little bastard.

It was some kind of animal venom, that much was certain. Originating from any of the dozens of deadly creatures that made the woods and swamps around Groznyj Grad their home. Or anywhere else in the world. Whoever the bastard was, Rakitin wouldn't put it past him to drag a toad from its home on a muddy river bottom in South America just to make a poison more difficult to combat.

The adversary was growing into a presence in Polya's mind. This was a direct contest, in its own way, with someone who would go to any lengths to hurt the Colonel.

That aspect was more unfathomable than any mysterious toxin.

Slowly, Rakitin was drawing closer to the answer. He wouldn't lose. Just as long as it wasn't too late.

leshovik.livejournal.com

Air kissed the back of Leshovik's neck, as cold as a lover.

They emerged from behind an escarpment and took a jagged scar down to the footpath below, managing to scatter a minimum of dust and debris in their wake. Even he and Aryol were sweating from the cross-country trek carrying their rifles and over thirty kilos of gear over rugged terrain; they hadn't wanted to chance the path that led to Groznyj Grad until the last possible minute, just in case they ran into a patrol.

Lemsky lagged behind. Leshovik hadn't particularly wanted to leave the little fucker at his back, but Lemsky obviously didn't have the physical training or endurance they did, and had struggled to keep up.

Vindictively, Leshovik pushed a hard pace, stopping every so often to glare at Lemsky, goading him on with a bluesteel gaze, sparing him the lambasting only because of the need for stealth.

In some ways, Leshovik missed the cave already. It had been simple, there.

Aryol shot him looks every so often, his gaze pointed and piercing. There were times when it felt like his spotter could see right through him. He had in the cave, Leshovik knew. Aryol had known something was wrong, though at the same time, hadn't understood.

It had been all Leshovik could do to hold it together, then, to keep packing like there wasn't an icy lump in his chest threatening to spread into a burn. A couple of times, he'd caught his hands trembling and had nearly lost it, but the thought of showing weakness in front of either Aryol or Lemsky had pulled him back from the edge.

The forced march had been good, though. Focusing. He'd had to expend so much energy walking that he hadn't had the concentration to get worked up about Lynx.

It had taken on a surreal quality in his mind now, almost like a nightmare, the kind where familiar people became the apotheoses of their own exaggerated traits. Lynx as destroyer, god of a vengeance so detached it was inhuman.

The wound still ran deep, even though his mind shied away from it, now.

He signaled Aryol to stop so they could wait for Lemsky to catch up. They weren't far from the Grad. Just around the switchback path, and they'd be in sight of the main gates.

And the men who guarded them.

Part of Leshovik still thought this was crazy, masquerading as assassin-killers rather than the assassins they were, but trust Lynx to come up with a plan that defied ordinary expectations.

Trust Lynx, he thought, a bitter slash of a smile ghosting his lips.

Problem was, he did.

He brushed his hand across his right ear, slotting Lynx's in-between CODEC frequency.

"Longshot to Lynx. We're outside the gates."

hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com

Tests. More tests.

The blood did exactly as it was told and gave up few answers.

Rakitin had conjectured that the poison would prove to be something similar to arsenic, and was almost immediately proved wrong. It was arsenic, and at an astonishing concentration. If Lynx had been one moment later...

It didn't bear thinking about. A world without the Colonel in it would be a small, drab place.

That was not the problem.

There was another agent present in the mixture, something lurking and insidious hiding beneath the first layer of deadly intent. Hideous.

Finding it was the first step. Now all Rakitin needed was a name.

That was proving to be the tricky part.

The poisoner could have been measuring out components even as the Colonel was inviting Ippolit to stay.

Rakitin would find it. It was a matter of time.

heartofthunder.livejournal.com

Volgin popped the last chocolate in his mouth and closed the box.

He felt better.

It had been a long, stressful day. Every time he'd walked unthinkingly past a window, realizing only as he'd passed that he shouldn't have done that, Volgin had nearly flinched, and Colonel Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin did not flinch.

Ocelot had been scowling, even more than usual, as he saw to various security precautions: extra patrols, guards posted on rooftops, a stuffed effigy wearing one of Volgin's uniforms left to sit behind his desk. Ocelot was looking even for another decoy, but there were few men who even approached Volgin's size.

That made Volgin think of Alexei, who actually did approach his size. Alexei, who'd appeared out of the ether and back from the dead to warn him, who cautioned him to move from his regular quarters in the Main Wing to his secondary quarters bunkered below, and just in time, too.

Like he'd known there would be an attempt on Volgin's life. He must have.

Volgin wanted to talk to Alexei now. He wanted answers, but more than that, he wanted to feel Alexei's ruthless mouth and unyielding arms, to have Alexei take him, possess him the way only Alexei ever had.

He sighed.

But there was no Alexei. Not last night, not all day.

His monthly shipment of imported Belgian chocolates had arrived earlier in the day, and it had been like a godsend. Exactly what he needed. He'd even put off eating them until he was alone in his quarters, and could really enjoy them.

He'd eaten every delectable piece in the span of mere minutes.

Carefully, Volgin hid the empty box in the trash, making sure to get every wrapper. It wouldn't do for Ivan to find out. Ivan disapproved of the chocolates, especially when Volgin ate too much in one sitting. "You'll ruin your teeth, Zhenya, or you'll get fat," he would chide, and then take them away, just like Volgin's mother had done, all those years ago.

Volgin loved Ivan, but he also loved chocolates.

Ivan didn't have to know about this.

Volgin got up, restless. Too early to go to bed, too late to be stalking around the base, especially with a sniper on the loose.

Maybe he should go find Ivan. Maybe he should find Ocelot, so they could have that talk. Maybe he should find someone hapless to terrorize, one of Ivan's men, perhaps, someone dispensable, whose smoking corpse wouldn't be particularly missed the next day. There had to be some sort of discipline problem that could use his assistance.

Hmm. Yes. That sounded like a good idea, actually.

Volgin turned to the door, then frowned. His stomach hurt. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten all those chocolates at once, after all.

nagaya-zmeika.livejournal.com

Snake had been thinking. Not much else to do, when you were the lone American on a Russian base with a murderer on the loose, and every time you showed your face you could hear the tension level ratchet up one more click. He was the obvious choice for scapegoat, but after meeting the investigators from Moscow, Snake didn't think that was what they wanted. Neither of them had approached him since the interview, aside from the time the quiet pale guy asked him if he'd seen any crickets around. As far as he could tell, he'd been dismissed as a suspect. Maybe The Boss had something to do with it, before she left, without ever telling him what she was doing there.

What he was doing there.

If the Shagohod was the main objective, Snake had it covered. It was the most blatantly destructive thing on the base, after Colonel Volgin, and all the information commonly bandied around about him was, while interesting in its own way, probably not of high strategic importance. Snake had been lucky no one spared attention to wonder how he knew about the tank. No use pushing his luck by snooping around it. Besides, at this point, the only way he was going to learn more was by taking a socket wrench to the thing. It wouldn't do much for his cover.

Whatever that was.

Snake kept out of sight and wondered if he was the only one around here who was exactly what he seemed.

hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com

The narrow strip of skin visible through The Pain's mask was uneven, covered in welts long since solidified, like lava flows turned to basalt. Earlier curiosity had prompted Rakitin to take a closer look, but better sense had assured him staring would have been unforgiveably rude. However, now that consideration had been rendered moot. He noted with interest the thin zone of clarity encircling the Cobra's eyes, keeping visibility unobstructed. The damage must have been inflicted by his own companions. The Pain's place at the center of the hive had not come easily.

"I see," Rakitin said grimly.

He thought of the Ocelot boy who had taken Gurlukovich's death so badly. Had he been his lover? Either way, it was obvious he would lash out at anyone who became a convenient target, an outward direction for his pain. No doubt he wasn't alone.

Rakitin let the warning about The Fury pass him by. Warnings about the cosmonaut's madness were thick as flies on the ground. It was none of Rakitin's concern.

They called me mad, I called them mad, and damn them, they outvoted me.

He took the file, and frowned down at it. Dubious legibility was not enhanced by the dim light.

"Would you prefer, er, privacy?" Rakitin said, with a surreptitious glance at Krauss.

capt-kasya.livejournal.com

Kassian paused, and turned to look at Ocelot for a moment, brow creasing lightly.

The Major had apologized for misjudging him, though Kassian hadn't been aware of any bias. Ocelot had treated him equitably enough in the weeks he'd been here, and hadn't singled him out overly, at least not any more than he would expect, as new blood.

But apparently Ocelot felt like an apology was necessary.

Kassian nodded in silent acknowledgment.

He was not the sort of man who threw gestures back in someone's face, regardless if he thought they were warranted.

Kassian turned back to the ruined cartridge then. "You're right, Major. Which is why I thought it was a matter of ego. He did this on purpose, to demoralize. He must not have known the Colonel had a decoy. The Colonel could go into hiding, and pretend the attempt was successful, if he wanted, while someone tried to find out who did this."

The answer to that question was clearly none of Kassian's concern. He supposed a man like Volgin could have any number of enemies in the government, but Kassian never paid attention to things like that.

He adjusted the strap of the Mosin-Nagant he carried on his back. "Major, I'd like to request to be released from bodyguard detail, at least for a few days. If the sniper is still around, either to take down secondary targets or to finish the job if he realizes it wasn't Volgin, you'll need me up there."

Kassian tilted his chin in the direction of the the window, toward the rooftops outside.

charushkin.livejournal.com

It had taken several days for Matvei to have grown used to having Sergei's bunk empty when he awoke in the morning.

His other bunkmates tried to cheer him up, but could see he was better off left alone. They understood that. Matvei was grateful, and more so that they, or one of his other friends, had left Sergei's stuff undisturbed for a few days. It would've been nothing short of traumatising to see all evidence of his existence disappear overnight, as official protocol would've demanded. But they were Ocelots. They were treated exceptionally well.

He had woken up that morning feeling, for the first time in days, a sense of focus and determination, capable and ready. He mulled over breakfast absently, but ate a reasonable amount. He needed to do something. It lay uncomfortably on his conscience.

He knew where the MVD had their current laboratory. He'd overheard Kolyin moaning to Semeyonev about it at some point.

He left early, a good fifteen minutes before he had to be anywhere, and quickly located the building. Fully uniformed and ready to rejoin his group, and they'd be none the wiser.

He hesitated when he arrived. Probably wouldn't do any good to cause any more alerts, given how... on edge everyone was the last couple of days. He opted to knock, carefully. He was fairly sure in his timing; they were probably holed up in there, busy, but he could just leave very quickly if he wasn't told to fuck off.

At least he'd have tried.

heartofthunder.livejournal.com

Volgin shot the nearby Ocelot soldiers a glare, just because he could. Hurriedly, they averted their gazes and edged away from Volgin, surreptitiously.

That made him feel a little better.

"Come with me, Lieutenant," he said, gesturing for Rakitin to follow. "We need to talk."

Volgin walked with naturally long, sweeping strides, and though the pathologist was not short, Volgin slowed his pace deliberately, so they could have a conversation.

The Main Wing was quiet at night, which was why Volgin preferred to to the East Wing's living quarters, which always housed someone. Here, Volgin had the building nearly to himself save for the guards assigned to patrol the environs, at least in the evenings, and he rarely took to his quarters during the day, so it worked out perfectly.

He glanced sidelong at Rakitin as they walked. "I don't know what you heard or saw, but you need to keep it to yourself. I don't want rumors circulating around the base about...anything unusual that happened here tonight."

Volgin paused. "Can I count on you for that, Lieutenant?"

ocelottery.livejournal.com

Senior Lieutenant Arkady Sergeyevich Kolyin was having a bad day. Most of the problem stemmed from the fact that his “day” had extended beyond a mere twenty-four hours, and had become two.

He’d had night duty with his usual partner and rankmate, Semeyonev, last night, when Sergei had died, but the next morning, he’d had an additional shift playing at babysitter for the MENTs, partnered with none other than the squad’s sullen sniper, Irinarhov.

When he’d finished the guard detail, he’d barely had time for a meal and shower before it was back on night duty with Semeyonev, who, as usual, had a quick grin and smile. Kolyin didn’t know how Savva could do it given everything that had happened, but at least he was better to patrol with than Irinarhov.

“And I swear, they’re fucking,” Savva was saying, filling him in on the latest gossip.

Arkady sighed. “I don’t care. Good for them.”

“You’re a beam of sunshine tonight.”

“You try spending all day with Irinarhov. I swear, that guy never says anything. No personality.”

Savva shrugged. “Snipers are like that,” he said, as if he had some special knowledge. “He’s just quiet. Anyway, Isaev seems to like him well enough.”

Kolyin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Actually, the relationship between Andrei and the sniper had been fodder for unit gossip lately. No one fucked regularly without everyone else knowing, and the fact that Andrei was rarely in his bunk in the mornings when Kolyin and Semeyonev got off duty hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Semeyonev laughed. “He’s not a bad looking guy. I’d do him.”

“Well, that’s not saying mu – ”

A shout broke the evening’s relative silence, followed by a call for help. Kolyin’s chest started pounding, and his gut twisted in the silent fear that it was another Serhyoza, that another Ocelot had died.

He and Semeyonev met gazes briefly, then ran forward to the sound of the disturbance.

One of the regular GRU stumbled out of the main wing, pointing a shaking hand behind him. “He’s dead!” the soldier barely managed to get out before he bent over and vomited.

“Who’s dead?” Kolyin shouted, but Savva was already running toward the building.

Arkady gripped his AK-47 tightly as he rushed after his rankmate.

There was already a stir inside – more GRU, running around uselessly, bumping into things like headless rabbits.

One had the presence of mind to run up to them and signal them forward frantically. Kolyin and Semeyonev followed the soldier down the hall, to a half-opened door.

“In there,” the soldier said, stopping in his tracks, showing no sign of accompanying them the last few steps forward.

Savva looked at Arkady again, and reached out to touch his shoulder briefly. Kolyin understood what it meant. Whatever it was – whoever it was – they’d face the horrible truth together.

Side by side, they walked down to the open door and peered in.

The room beyond was simple but spacious, and featured little more than a table and desk and wardrobe, and a giant, oversized bed. And there, near the bed, was the body of a tall and muscular man with a near-Herculean build, clad in a forest green greatcoat.

…and rubberized boots, Kolyin realized, after a moment, but his mind balked even then.

Together, he and Semeyonev edged forward, and saw that the body had only a gaping, bloody ruin where the top of his head should have been, and the floor around the body was decorated liberally with pink brain tissue.

It looked like bubblegum, Kolyin thought, vaguely.

“God,” Savva said, “It’s Volgin.”

“Oh God,” Kolyin said. “We have to tell someone. Major Raikov.”

Semeyonev shot him a look. No, not Major Raikov, he though in faint horror. Never mind his patented ball-crushing maneuver; someone would get castrated.

“Ocelot. We have to tell Ocelot. You call him, Savva. He likes you.”

Everyone knew that Savva got called for Special Duty more often than anyone else.

“You call him! No sense in having him pissed at the both of us. This way, if he gets pissed at you, I can calm him down.”

Semeyonev had a point, Kolyin thought, though he felt reluctant to concede it.

Suddenly, Savva grabbed his arm. “Fuck, bratan, do you see that? There’s a hole in the window. A sniper did this. We need to get back.”

They retreated into the hallway, and Kolyin let out a pained sigh. “All right, I’ll call him, but you’d better have my back on this.”

Raising a hand to his ear, Kolyin slotted Major Ocelot’s frequency and prayed for the best.

leshovik.livejournal.com

“Target,” Aryol whispered to him. “Sector D, from TRP I right sixteen, add sixteen.”

They lay in wait on the rooftop, side by side, nearly touching; close enough to share warmth, twinned slender figures with rifles, wearing balaclavas and night camo.

Aryol peered down at the building through binoculars, rifle tucked behind him, while Leshovik adjusted his Dragunov minutely, and brought the target in view.

There. A large man, massively broad-shouldered and impressively tall, silhouetted in the window, vulnerable for the moment. The interval of opportunity for the shot ticked off in fractions of seconds.

“Target identified,” Leshovik replied, and checked his mil-dot reticle, with smooth, mechanical precision.

He had done this with success fifty-two times before. Only twelve misses. Not that he was counting those.

“Two point five mils,” Leshovik said.

“Roger that.” Aryol’s voice was crisp, steady and precise. “Dial 300.”

The kid was a good spotter; the best he’d ever worked with, in fact. Utterly calm, never made mistakes. He also had the uncanny aptitude for spotting a target, and that took more than just good eyes.

“Check.”

The target was still moving, and would soon pass out of sight, but he remained hyperfocused on the moment. Everything else faded save for Aryol’s voice in his ear, his rifle, and the slowly moving target.

“Wind from right, 9.6 klicks per hour. Mil one-quarter.”

“Roger,” Leshovik whispered, and made the final adjustment to his rifle.

He was aroused. It always happened, right before he took a shot in the field, when it was real and it counted.

Usually, he went for the spectacular kill. The carnage, as Lynx had called it. He liked to think about the people who pissed themselves upon seeing the body – or rather, what remained of the corpse’s grey matter, splattered on the wall.

But this time…something about what Lynx had said stuck with him, and he went for the quiet kill at the back of the head, brain-stem; immaculate, they called it, if you did it right, one clean hole that bled out, and left a pretty corpse.

I’ll show you fucking art.

He took the shot.

The bullet traveled at supersonic speed, so he saw the result before he heard the pop and echo of the silenced round.

Clean hole through the window, but a spectacular explosion of brain tissue and bone fragments from the top of the target’s head.

“Christ!” His breath caught in his throat, but he performed the follow-through by rote, and chambered another round. “Did I – ”

“You got him.”

“I didn’t mean to – ” he broke off again.

Aryol looked at him, but only for a moment as he stowed away his binoculars. “Come on. We need to get out of here. You didn’t mean to what?”

“Nothing.” He pulled back, slinging his rifle around his shoulder and carefully retreating to the leeward side of their roost, where the ladder was.

He hadn’t meant to turn the target into a geyser of blood. Christ, had he misjudged? He’d meant to aim the shot at the base of his skull, but had ended up taking off the top of his head instead.

It had shaken him up, more than he wanted to admit. He stilled his hands into fists. He had to focus. A kill was a kill, and that was number fifty-three, another notch to mark in his rifle.

Aryol stayed silent, even as they cleared the perimeter. He probably didn’t realize that he’d meant to do anything differently, Leshovik thought. The kid was long used to the way Leshovik killed, like a impressionistic assassin who drew on the walls in blood.

That was its own kind of art, he told himself.

Halfway back to the cave, he hit his Codec. “Longshot to Lynx. We took out the target. Repeat, we got him. Thunderbolt is dead.”

charushkin.livejournal.com

Matvei was late for breakfast.

The mess hall buzzed with whispered conversation. Another corpse. Another body.

The one that had been his friend, and explained the quiet of the bunk below his from last night.

He hadn't taken the news well, although he had acted to perfection. Didn't cry, didn't avert his eyes when Ilya delivered the news somberly, Andrei's hand on his shoulder. Didn't say much when a few well-meaning rankmates asked him if he wanted to crash with them to not have to be alone.

Matvei had grieved too much in his lifetime, and he no longer wanted to. He felt sick and tired of it, and had hardly slept, his mind ticking. Options, plans.

He'd avoided facing his friends again, and he could tell they understood: he didn't want to hear it again, didn't want their looks of pity. He needed some time alone, as much as they worried for his health.

Ha.

Matvei found himself with a tray and nowhere to sit. The hall was almost full, and he didn't want to sit with the Ocelots. He wanted to be alone.

The table at the north-east of the kitchens had several spare seat, and several dark uniforms.

Sergei's death had driven away Matvei's usual sense of propriety and he sat himself down unapologetically at the MENT table, and glared at his food, as though it was all its fault that he didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, ignoring how obviously he clashed with the ranks sitting down nearby.

parabellum-p08.livejournal.com

As soon as he heard the news, Krauss grabbed his coat and ushanka and departed his office without so much as a nod to Motte.

It wasn't much, but it was good news. Very, very good news, as far as he was concerned, even if the source was a bit sketchy. He wanted to believe it was all true, wanted to believe that someone had caught a glimpse of the murderer leading his second victim to his death in the caves. And as crazy as the whole story seemed, he found himself believing it, because he could find no reason not to. The source had always been reliable and honest before.

So he searched high and low, near and far for Liadov and Rakitin. A man on a fruitless mission; they were nowhere to be found. The mess hall was full of all the wrong people, the war room was deserted, and the only thing he found in Volgin’s office was Volgin, who glowered at the disturbance.

Half way back to his office, he glanced at his watch, and sighed. Slowly, realization trickled into his stream of thought: their laboratory.

He stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and nearly ran into a GRU lieutenant with his arms full of paperwork. Krauss didn’t even spare the time to mumble an apology.

By the time he reached the little building on the outskirts of the Grad, his bad hip was bothering him much more than he cared to admit to himself. He hurried up to the door though, knocking once, then again when he didn’t get the prompt reply he hoped for.

“Liadov! Ippolit!” He called, leaning against the frame of the door for support. “Are you there? Open the door, it’s Major Krauss.”

snow-death.livejournal.com

"Lynx to Longshot," he said quietly, finessing his Codec to the inbetween-frequency that should have hosted no signal at all. "I'm approaching your bivouac."

They had three of them for sleeping, tan canvas painted with black shadows and slung with branches- undiscernible deep inside the cave they'd staked their ops in. Hammocks inside. Cozy.

One for him, one for Lemsky, and one for the sniper and his spotter, who quietly had begun the practice of becoming one in other kinds of wetwork, and no one objected or made a single comment. That was how it was.

He ducked beneath the slung and draped net dark brown camoflauge that served to block the mouth of the cavern and obscure them from view. It was set in about fifteen feet, making the deep cave look like a shallow grotto. Not that it was easily visible.

At the Grad, he'd pieced his silent way across the snowbound vehicle yard, tracked in the direction in which he thought he'd seen the glint of Leshovik's rifle, but once he got there, he found the probable nest deserted.

The Longshot had packed it in, and flown back to their roost.

No Codec, no nothing.

Must have been in a hurry.

ilya-imanov.livejournal.com

He reached out and drew Imanov to him, holding him tightly, like any good brother would.

"I don't want to tell them either," he admitted, softly, close to Ilya's ear. "We'll do it together, Ilyasha. Tomorrow. Not tonight."

There was strength in numbers, Andrei knew. Breaking the news would be less than enjoyable, but it was unavoidable.

His fist stroked Ilya's back rhythmically, slowly.

"But I won't let you do it alone."

Ilya crumpled into Andrei's arms, hooking his own over Andrei's shoulders, clutching to his uniform tightly. If his body gave into exhaustion, no-one would be able to tell; Andrei would hold him upright.

His face held the expression of pain, but it was safely pressed against his friend's uniform jacket, where it was safe to let the lid off of the bottle, slowly, just for a moment. He inhaled, quietly, taking in the smell he equalled with safety and comfort.

Tomorrow.

Ilya had wanted to get it out of his system, to not have to think about it ever again, but Andrei knew him better than he knew himself. Sometimes, his sense of duty overrode his own well-being.

It was a horrid, selfish thought that prickled at his conscience, but he'd rather it was Sergei. If it had been -

... He couldn't imagine Andrei absent from his life.

"But I won't let you do it alone."

"... Promise me," Ilya murmured quietly, so no-one else would hear, "not to go anywhere by yourself."

capt-kasya.livejournal.com

[Continued from "Meanwhile, back at Groznyj Grad..."]

Kassian didn't think he should be the one to say it, but with Imanov still reeling from the shock of their discovery, it fell to him.

"There was another killing tonight," he said to Isaev over CODEC. "Aside from the mechanic."

He paused again.

"It was one of us, an Ocelot."

Kassian realized he was feeding Isaev information piecemeal, the way he'd learned it, trying to lessen the blow. But there was little that could be done to mitigate what he had to say next.

"It was Gurlukovich," he said. "Sergei."

Kassian closed his eyes briefly. "He's dead."

There was more to say, but he fell silent, to let his words sink in.

heartofthunder.livejournal.com

[Continued from "Meanwhile, Back at Groznyj Grad"]

Volgin had begun to pace, but paused at Krauss' words.

The German was right. Roll call would be necessary, and at this hour, a hassle. He didn't particularly want to be the one that had to deal with it.

"Yes, yes." He waved a dismissive hand. "See to it," he told Krauss, then paused, and looked to Ivan.

"Afterward, do what you can," he said in an undertone to Ivan, his gaze flicking to Ocelot purposefully, but only for a moment.

The young major would be understandably upset at the death of his man, but flush with the bravado of youth, would probably deny it. Volgin knew that, about young men. He had been young himself once, fearless and invulnerable.

Ocelot was not a sentimental fool, but he hadn't had his command long. Oh, he was good - one of the best Volgin had ever seen, which was why he'd been chosen - but still, he hadn't experienced everything there was to know about command yet.

In times like these, a man needed a peer and rankmate. Not his subordinates, to whom he couldn't show weakness, and certainly not a superior.

Ivan would be able to do more for Ocelot than Volgin could. He would get a few drinks into Adamska, and talk to him. He could make sure Ocelot stayed grounded and focused.

"Report to me when you're done," he said, letting his gaze fall to all three men in turn. "I'm going to check on the weapons lab myself."

In addition to the Shagohod, there were some technicians and scientists that were essential. He would issue the curfew order himself, and made sure they understood it.

They were too close to success now to be thwarted by anything.

Or anyone, Volgin thought as he strode away.

raidenovitch.livejournal.com

Raikov's boots struck the floor hard and fast, as he paced furiously around the central building.

He was not pleased. Not pleased at all.

Being thrown off of Ocelot was not the greatest moment, but he could grudgingly admit that Ocelot was needed elsewhere.

So, of course, as soon as they had all left, it had been just him and the Colonel, and a shared wicked grin.

And they'd just settled into the mood when Raikov had been turfed out, again.

He was too annoyed at the whole situation to say much to the Colonel, although he was not personally angry with him. Jesus motherfucking bastard christ, he couldn't concentrate on a thing.

And the worse part was he couldn't go back to his quarters to deal with it himself, not when he was supposed to be keeping tabs on absolutely everyone on-base.

Anyone who came near him right now would live to regret it.

capt-kasya.livejournal.com

They were still for a moment, in the wake of Major Liadov's query.

Then everyone looked at Imanov.

Isaev had told Kassian that Imanov had gone to a university and studied psychology. That made him the obvious choice in Kassian's book. Kassian hadn't even completed his secondary education before he'd have to leave in order to work at the factory.

Kassian wondered if there was anything in Imanov's psychology books that talked about this, murders committed out of some deep-seated need, fueled by this cycle of escalation that Liadov had talked about.

Probably. It sounded like it happened often enough that experts had coined terms for it, after all, some deeper explanation than merely knowing the difference between having to kill, and wanting to kill.

major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com

Ocelot paced and champed at the bit in the hall of the East Wing, twirling his guns and scowling at nothing.

The hall should be filling up soon.

The ALL PERSONNEL had gone out over the loudspeakers, and every unit was expected to report. He had also personally contacted his counterpart Major, his first Lieutenant, and after hesitating, sent a CODEC to Gurlukovich.

"Imanov seems to be indisposed. If he shows up with the AP bulletin, I'll have him follow me in second point. If he doesn't, Sergei, I need you."

It would be good in two ways, thought Ocelot. First, he could observe Sergei's command ability without the stomachache of putting him out front in direct conflict, and two, Sergei could be relied on.

Always.

"If Imanov shows up, I'll have him lead a second party. Either way, Serhyoza," he added, "I'll need you by my side."

As he waited for Raikov and his men to appear, he counted the diamond in the tiles with a furrowed brow.

Inwardly, he scoffed at his own impatience.

What's the hurry? Dead things tend to stay dead. Not like he's going anywhere.

How had they missed it?

Had he been selecting his victims only from non-essential personnel?

Ocelot made a short, audible noise of frustration.

If the killer had gotten ahead of them this much, he could already be selecting his next victim.

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The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

December 2010

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The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

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Bloodwork [February 20, 1964]

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