The winds blew hard and carried enough frostbite. Almost nearly as cold as my grieving heart, I thought while I continued to hike up the mountainside. Igor Klaskov had done an impressive job of trying to leave behind his past, and the damage he'd done, and hide out here for a while, waiting for all the dust to settle.
And I was here to prove Igor wrong. I was here to prove to Igor that there was no escape, there was no hiding, there was no hiding, and there was no surrender. I would not allow myself to rest until he was six feet under, as he deserved.
My name was Ruben Mikelsson, and three months ago, Ruben and I were in the same unit from the CIA tasked with infiltrating Russia as double agents and relaying information back to America. It was something we were prepared for, all checks being made, and all tests and simulations ran to ensure that we would be prepared for any situation, any unforeseen circumstance, and we would execute our duties for the four months we were supposed to be in Moscow.
But what I - actually, what none of us, from top to bottom - knew was that Igor was a triple agent, if there was such a word as that. Or rather, he was a double agent alright, but he was affiliated with Russia instead and was reporting our dealings to them.
The only advantage was that I was given a separate secret mission that Igor did not know about, which I was to execute while I was there. Russia was developing some new ballistic missiles that were supposed to be cutting-edge and very destructive. That was the general mission that both Igor and I were assigned. But I also had something else to do there.
Russia was supposedly building a biological weapon, using bacilli like anthrax, as was the norm. But this one was a mutated version that was more contagious, lasted longer as airborne particles, and caused death in less than three hours of contraction. We knew what the existence of such bioweapons held for us, and other countries of the world.
I was tasked with the mission of finding out more about the new strain being used, and what they intended to do with it, and I was then to report back regularly before I returned in four months' time. It was a simple, straightforward plan, and the execution wasn't going to be a problem,m.
Until three months in, Igor managed to find out that I had a secondary mission and chose that moment to report my activities to the Russian Intelligence agency. I realized too late what happened, and I managed to escape after being sprayed with acid and shot in the face.
The resultant effect was that I was stuck in a foreign country with a bullet lodged in my head, close to killing me at any point and a heavily scarred right half of my face. Igor was shipped off to the cold mountains in Siberia to hide out until the dust settled, celebrated as a national hero, while I was a wanted man.
Not for long, however, I was now excommunicated from America by condition and deemed to be either dead or in no condition to function. Which was true, every day I stayed in my cold, dark motel rooms which I changed every three days, I could feel the bullet in my head and wait for the day a brain injury would kill me.
After a full week passed without me dying, I managed to pull intel on Igor's location and got one of my snipers ready. I also got another contingency in place just in case things did not go well. Before joining the CIA, I was a rogue assassin with 30 deaths to my name. It was time to return to my glory days.
And there I was, preached on one of the smaller hills as I had been for three days, monitoring his movements. By 7:35, as was normal for him, he stepped out of his room, walking towards another room. I held my breath and put my hand around the trigger.
And then he turned to me and smiled.
I was frozen in place as I heard a gun cock behind me, and the mountainous range made his laughter echo from 8 kilometers away as I turned with my arms around my head to face the two Russian soldiers aiming Kalashnikov's at me.
"Nice try," one of them said in a thick accent.
"I could say the same," I said, looking up and laughing.
'As they looked at what I was looking at, I was assured they could recognize the yellow missile that marked the biological weapon they'd created. I hacked into their database secretly and maintained control of the release of the weapons from their center in outer space.
As the missile crashed into the building and released millions of spores of deadly anthrax, the men dropped their guns, mouths open. I grabbed my pistol and raised it, shooting them both in the head before pulling the gun on myself.
But I knew that I was already dead before I could shoot. The bullet lodged in my bead had pushed further up into my cerebrum and I was paralyzed, watching the building with a smile as people scurried like rats, trying to avoid a fate that was unavoidable.
Nice one-shot, eh?