Ten
Arseny
Niko is relaxed beside me with his eyes on the map. He looks serene, happy, even. He loves this shit, the structure, clarity, and objectives. I like the part after that, when the structure breaks, and we see who’s still standing.
“Sergeant Zakirov,” the CO barks.
“Yes, sir,” I answer automatically.
“You and your brother will each take a mixed squad,” he says. “Brits and ours together. Rotate through these waypoints. Blue team patrols, the red team has the ambush. Then you switch.”
“Da,” I say. “We’ll make it educational.”
Niko’s eyes flick sideways. He doesn’t like my tone. “You get red first,” he says to me, in that older-brother voice that thinks it’s in charge.
“Perfect,” I say, because red means hiding, contact, and I get to choose where this little game happens.
The CO moves on, and the Brits hover near their Sergeant, pretending not to be cold and slightly lost. There are six of them again for this run.
I scan them quickly. There are two loud ones, one skinny one, one who keeps messing with his radio, one who thinks he’s invisible, and Lance Corporal Caiden Varrik, pretending he isn’t watching my hands when I point at the map.
“Sergeant Zakirov will take point for this half,” their Sergeant says. “You’ll follow his instructions. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the Brits chorus. Caiden’s assessing gaze flickers to me for a second; he looks annoyed. Good. That means he’s still thinking about the other day. The memory of him on his back on the mat, his eyes dropping to my mouth, gives me a pleasant little spark.
“Red team, gear up,” someone calls.
I rattle off assignments in Russian to my guys, then in English for theirs. I deliberately don’t look at Caiden when I say, “Lance Corporal, on me.” I don’t have to look, I can feel him step closer, the way you feel a storm front move in.
We move into the trees in staggered pairs. Niko’s Blue team will sweep through in ten minutes, trying to catch us, trying not to get “killed.” Blank rounds only, obviously.
I let the boys fan out ahead, sending two forward, two left, one right, keeping my pace easy. Caiden keeps to my right and a few steps back. “You’re clear on signals?” I ask in English without looking back.
“Yes, Sir,” he says, in a clipped tone.
“You sound annoyed,” I observe.
“I’m focused.”
“Mm. Is that what we’re calling it?” He doesn’t answer, which is wise, and incredibly boring.
We walk in silence for a bit, the forest swallowing the noise of the base behind us.
The further we go, the more the air changes; it’s quieter, softer, with less echo, which means more places for things to hide.
The perfect spot.
At the third marker tree, I stop and raise my fist, and the squad halts on instinct. “Positions,” I order. I point two up into the shallow ditch, one behind the fallen log, the others to the right flank, and they melt into the undergrowth with varying degrees of stealth.
Good enough.
I turn to Caiden, and he’s watching my hands again, waiting for his assignment. “You. With me.”
“Thought I’d take overwatch on the left,” he says. “Better angle on —”
“Did I ask for your artistic opinion, Lance Corporal?” I cut in, my voice sharp.
“With. Me.” I step off the faint path, going deeper between the trees.
The ground slopes slightly downhill and away from the others.
We’re technically still within the grid, but we’re just far enough away that line of sight is broken.
“How far are we going?” he asks after a minute.
“Why, scared of getting lost?” I ask.
“No, Sir.”
“Good,” I say. He huffs, that humourless little puff he does when he’s irritated.
“You know this area. We don’t.”
“What a tragic asymmetry,” I say. “If only there were some kind of guide.”
“You’re supposed to be that guide.”
“Mm,” I say. “I’m many things.”
“Not helpful being one,” he mutters under his breath, making me smile to myself. We stop in a little hollow between four trees; it’s a natural bowl scooped out by time and rain, the kind of place sound gets swallowed, and hidden enough that I can’t see my squad clearly.
Good. I don’t want witnesses.
I turn suddenly, and he almost collides with me. “We’ll take here.”
“Just us?” he asks, his eyes flicking around the trees and instinct kicking in. He’s counting cover and risks.
“Just us,” I confirm. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it abruptly. Something flashes across his face, I know he’s thinking about the showers, and the way he stared at me as if I’d crawled straight out of his worst idea and asked if he wanted to make it even worse than that.
It’s written all over his face.
Poor thing.
“Relax, Caiden,” I say, letting his first name purr out.
“Stop saying my name like that,” he snaps.
“Like what?” I tilt my head to the side, pretending to be confused.
“Like—” He stops, his hands flexing on his rifle, looking like he wants to grip my throat more than the gun.
“Like?” I prompt, stepping closer. There’s maybe a few feet between us now. We’re close enough that if I lean in, my chest will touch his.
He has to look up a little to keep eye contact. “Like you’re trying to get me in trouble,” he says finally.
“Lance Corporal. I don’t have to try.” He stares at me, and I stare back, grinning. The air between us sizzles and pulls like wire. Then, in the distance, there’s a faint crack of a branch that’s too loud to be just nature. I hear barely audible voices. The blue team is moving in.
“Down,” I say softly, dropping into a crouch behind a tree and pulling him with me by the strap of his vest. He stumbles, then catches himself with one hand against the bark beside my head.
He’s close enough that his body heat bleeds through his layers, and his knee bumps mine.
I could easily move away, but why would I?
“Eyes front,” I murmur. He does as he’s told, scanning the line of trees ahead, his posture hunched to make less of a silhouette. From the outside, we probably look like two soldiers in a tight hide. “You’re broadcasting your tension again,” I whisper. “If anyone walks by, they’ll feel it.”
“That’s not how that works,” he mutters.
“That’s exactly how that works. You’re loud, Caiden. Even when you don’t speak.”
“Can you shut up for five minutes?” He hisses.
“You like my voice. Don’t lie.” The first of Niko’s men appears between the trees, moving low with his rifle up.
Behind him is one of the Brits. They sweep left, then right, methodically.
Our team sneaks into view, staying down, waiting for the pre-agreed signal.
If they spot us, we take the hit. If we let them walk past, we nail them in the back.
Simple.
“Sergeant,” Caiden whispers. “Are you going to give the order?”
“In a moment,” I say. They’re close now. Twenty meters away, fifteen, ten.
“Now would be good,” he grits. I say nothing. At eight meters, one of the Russians glances right, frowns, and starts to turn. I flick my hand once, and two quick pops of blanks crack from the left.
“Udar!” Hit! I shout, loud and amused. “You’re dead. Fall down, Andrei, I know you like to be dramatic about it.”
He swears and drops into an exaggerated flop. The Brit with him —the poor, wide-eyed corporal — tries to pivot, but before he can, the rest of my squad erupts from the ditch and log, shouting, firing blanks, and swarming them.
Laughing breaks out, and the tension of danger dissolves into the safer tension of bruised egos. “All clear?” Niko calls from somewhere back on the path.
“For you?” I shout back. “Never, brother.” There’s a smattering of laughter, and the exercise is technically over for this rotation.
Which means I could take Caiden and rejoin, debrief, and play nice.
He looks at me, then over his shoulder toward the noise of the rest of the squad moving away, then back again.
“We should go,” he says as we both stand.
“In a minute,” I say.
“Zakirov.” I cock my head.
“What is it you call this?” I ask softly. “My name. My rank. ‘Sergeant.’ ‘Zakirov.’ You use them as if you keep enough syllables between us, I won’t get through.”
“If I used fewer syllables, it would be inappropriate,” he scowls at me.
“Admit it,” I say, leaning in enough that our shoulders brush.“You like saying my name.”
“I like not getting shot,” he snaps. “We’re on exercise.”
“On exercise,” I echo, my voice dropping. “With blanks in the rifles and adrenaline in the blood. You know what that does to people, Caiden?”
“Enlighten me,” he says tightly.
“Let me show you.” I reach out and very deliberately catch his vest strap again, tugging him that last few steps closer till his chest hits mine.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Sergeant,” he says, his voice low.
“Mm, that’s the tone I like,” I murmur, pleased.
“What tone?”
“The one you use when you can’t decide if you want to choke me,” I say, watching his mouth, “or push me against the nearest surface and see what other noises I make.”
His eyes flare wide for a second, then he jerks like I’ve hit a nerve.
“Fuck you,” he breathes.
“Potentially,” I say. “But we’d need more than ten minutes for that, and your Sergeant would miss you.”
“You think too much of yourself.”
“I think plenty about you as well,” I reply. “Very generous of me, no?”
He makes a sound low in his chest that sounds suspiciously like frustration. “Do you talk like this to all of your allies?” he asks. “Is that why your CO keeps sighing at you?”
“Jealous?” I ask.
“You really want to know what I’m jealous of?” he asks. “The way you get to walk around this place like the rules are optional. Everyone’s so busy trying to keep up with you, they don’t make you pay for any of it.”
Interesting. That’s not where I expected him to go.
“Is that right?” I ask quietly.