The knock at the door was too deliberate to be anything but trouble.
England sighed, setting his tea down on the worn oak table beside him. He was wondering when they would send him back out into the field again. Even after months of psychiatric evaluations and his own attempts at therapy, he still had nights where he'd expect to wake up back in the trenches or in the facility where they tested ETT's effects on him. In many ways, he was waiting for this mission. And as he got up from his sofa, with Ross filling in his vacancy, he knew he was about to get it.
"Can I come in, Major?" a familiar feminine voice asked.
"I don't know," England dryly replied as he looked at Moore through the door, "Can you?"
Without saying a word, Moore slinked past England and entered his flat. And without looking, she lifted her arm and raised her middle finger at him. Normally, England was against such verbal low-blows but whenever there was an opportunity to see how Moore liked having her own humour flung back at her, he couldn't resist. As he closed the door behind her, she gave the flat a cursory glance, moving her head in different directions as she did so. She stopped and stared at Ross, who had been growling at her ever since she entered. Not that England could blame him. Ever since he came out of storage in Siberia, he smelt something mixed in with Moore's usual scent of winter frost and old books. It wasn't the perfume that she wore these days to mask that old smell but something else entirely. A sweet and slightly fruity smell that he once thought was a breath freshener but, judging from Ross' growling and catching that smell near the smoking area of the pub not far from his flat, might have actually been something far less pleasant.
Moore turned to face England, "Your new bestie isn't very fond of me, is he?"
"You don't exactly smell nice," England retorted.
Moore walked over to a table on the further side of the room and pulled out a chair, "Then I'll be sure to give the bodywash companies your number if they ever need volunteers for canine-friendly scents."
"Before or after you've turned your lungs into two slabs of tarmac?" England sardonically asked.
Moore let out a quick chuckle as she pulled out a dossier from her seat, "You make it sound like that hasn't happened already. Now then, let's get down to business."
England walked over to Moore before picking up and looking through the dossier.
"The good news is Russian forces are finally pulling out of Ukraine," Moore explained, "The bad news is their best military asset has gone rogue."
"Steel Lady?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Correct," Moore replied, "And she has held arms manufacturer and business magnate Rhys Knight hostage for a few months."
England sighed in resignation. He knew this clash between soldiers organized by the parasite before him was going to happen soon but that didn't mean he was looking forward to to fighting Averina. Flipping through the dossier, his eyes traced over the brutal evidence laid out before him. Heads mounted on spikes, many of them still wearing helmets. The bodies of children no older than ten, strewn like discarded dolls. A man naked, his hair wild and dishevelled, locked in a cage with two snarling Alsatians. A grainy image of Averina standing in the background of a video, recording while two of her men violated a Ukrainian civilian. If there had ever been a moment of doubt about what she was, it had evaporated. She wasn't a soldier. She wasn't even the twisted reflection of himself he once thought she might be. She was a beast in human skin.
"Because she has been updating her social media accounts every opportunity she got," Moore explained before giving a derisive snort, "As if she hasn't gotten enough batshit insane followers already, the Ivans have been tracking her location and have tried to bring her in themselves. I don't think I need to tell you how that went."
"No, you don't," England responded curtly as he placed the dossier back down on the table, "So how long has Mr. Knight been in her captivity?"
"Not long after you woke up, actually," Moore replied, "If both our mission reports from that week and the news articles on the Internet were any indication, he was kidnapped about four days before Spectre and I infiltrated the facility containing you. But if you're concerned about whether he's still alive, this recording should clarify things."
Moore pulled out her smartphone and, after tapping on it a few times, placed it onto the table, where a sound file played from it.
"You know, I'm not even angry at you for selling weapons to the khokols," a thick Russian-accented feminine voice said in an almost conversational tone, "Unlike my men, I have no personal grudge against these people. I just like the good fight. But what I don't like about you…is your other business venture. Film production."
A brief pause. Then the voice continued, venom laced beneath amusement.
"The Western entertainment industry is an infection. You people shove political agendas and all this diversity chush' sobach'ya down our throats when all we want is to enter another world while we wait for the next war. Then again…people like you never knew good art even when it stared you in the face. You just see another fucking brand."
What followed was the unmistakable sound of flesh searing beneath hot metal, punctuated by a man's scream.
Moore leaned back slightly in her chair, "That was recorded at 0200 hours. Any further questions, Major?"
England shook his head.
Moore nodded hers back, " Good. Now, your mission is to proceed within the Bakhmutka River in a submarine, eject yourself out of the sub, and swim up to the surface. If our intel is still correct, Steel Lady and Rhys Knight should still be holed up somewhere near the industrial ruins by the riverbanks. Our last recon team confirmed heavy fortifications. Automated defences, landmines, the works. But before you go in, I had an asset on the inside provide a spare uniform. Because, quite frankly, you would be sopping wet and more than likely to catch hypothermia if you do not dry off and get into a fresh change of clothes. In summary, you will need to think less with your fists and more with your head."
A small amused snort escaped England's nose. Given how he had already taken two pot-shots at Moore, it was only fair that she would take a few shots at him as well.
"But in all seriousness," Moore spoke in a tone only reserved for whenever she was threatening England, "Knight's survival is non-negotiable. We need him for a defence contract. If I find out Knight died on your watch, a discharge from active duty would be the least of your worries."
England nodded, "And the Steel Lady?"
"Terminate her command with extreme prejudice," Moore replied before shifting her serious expression to her usual wry smile, "But do make a show of it. We need something good for the cameras."