Preemptive Strike

EASTERN EUROPE
October 1998

Shrouded dawn brought with it the din of trucks, partnered with congested cars and the occasional diesel roar of a cityline bus. The daybreak's gridlock was slow, the traffic crunching along the snow-covered streets.

The early morning sounds managed to wriggle their way through the watermarked walls and frosted windows of Alex Krycek's hotel room. He had holed himself up in the dirty, indigent slums of Kharkiv, an industrial city found in the recently independent Ukraine.

Krycek returned to the Rose, a derelict hotel where a few well-placed rubles would ensure immunity from even the slightest of inquiries.

He had wanted to step back, take a rain check from the mundane, or rather, the extraordinary that had turned mundane. Nowadays, there was very little difference.

It had just been time to opt out, to get lost for a while -- do as he pleased rather than play disciple to the smoking deity and his Consortium cronies. He had felt compelled to break away from God, the Devil and every son of a bitch in between before he forgot what it was to be his own man.

Kharkiv was a place of barren factories, empty storefronts and extinct aspirations. Krycek knew a little about the last. It was a kinship that bred a certain kind of solace never confessed to, but there just the same. It didn't matter. Right here was precisely where he needed to be.

Of course, 'getting lost' did not mean a life of ascetic solitude. No, disappearing neither precluded the woman straddling his thighs, nor the lingering taste of vodka on his lips.

Taking another swig of Stoli's finest, Krycek dropped the bottle on the window sill, the remaining contents sloshing against the glass. Wiping his forearm across his mouth, he let out a weary sigh. He rubbed his temples while his body continued to rock beneath the woman's gyrating hips and clasping thighs.

Her practiced moans and perfunctory gasps intertwined with the droning traffic outside and the inside rattle of the radiator. Her mechanical enthusiasm finally crescendoed, producing a whirling cacophony of noise better left silent.

"No ... ni, bud'zdorov, do pobachennya - Get off me," Krycek ordered, sitting up, his right arm bracing himself against the mattress. He'd had enough for one morning.

"Shcho? Shcho tse ye? " she questioned, her voice throaty.

Krycek paused, leaned his head back and took a moment to stare at the cracked and yellowed ceiling.

Lowering his gaze, he met her vapid stare. His eyes became steeled, while his voice turned rough. "I *said*, ni, boklenya - leave! Chy vy verstaan? Understand, ya??"

He impatiently pushed her off of him, grasping her hard enough to leave a smattering of bruising fingerprints on her skin. She yelled a barrage of insults as she fell to the side of the bed like a discarded toy.

Ignoring her angered litany, Krycek stood, yanking up his pants without bothering to button them. He walked toward the far window, rubbing away the chilled condensation to look outside.

The pitch of night had barely lightened to a murky charcoal. Peering down from his sixth-floor view, he looked out at the nightshade gray terrain. He watched the street lamps as they struggled to splay snatches of amber on the whitened cityscape.

Krycek registered the jarring intensity of the slammed door behind him, but not much else. Flaccid, he finally buttoned up his pants.

Raising his hands from his waistband, he studied the differences between his palms. Flexing his prosthetic hand, he fisted his fingers and twisted the wrist in tandem with his fleshed appendage. The prosthetic played off his nerve endings and impulses. It was fairly lightweight and didn't chafe his skin, nor did it have the cross straps like the previous ones. In fact, it was almost, but not nearly enough, like being whole again.

Sighing, he abandoned his preoccupation. After adjusting his empty shoulder holster, he then buttoned his shirt with only slightly hampered dexterity. Walking over to the bureau, he placed both palms on top of its rickety surface.

Krycek leaned forward, studying his reflection within the dirty mirror hanging on the wall.

Tracing his fingertips over the bristling growth of beard shadowing his features, Krycek felt the coarse hairs scratch against the tender flesh of his palm. He opened his mouth, pistoning his jaw from side to side as his hand continued to wash over the contours of his face.

Closing his eyes, he began to breathe heavily through his nose. He forced himself to quit this familiar routine. Bottom line was that he was alive. It was supposed to be enough. It had to be enough.

He vaguely wondered when he stopped believing that. He knew it was way before he'd been informed his current location had been compromised. But he had a timetable, he knew exactly how long he had before he really needed to worry.

Krycek opened his eyes, gave an ironic smile and twisted his head. The news had surprised him less than he'd anticipated.

But, ah, Christ, what a way to start the fucking day.

He sighed, stepping back from the bureau to rest his weight on his heels. Pivoting, he turned his back on his reflection. His hand wandered up to ruffle through his close-cropped hair before cupping the back of his neck. He rubbed at the stiff muscles there, massaging them as though he could eliminate some of the tiredness within his soul with just the bruising press of his fingertips.

He still had time to get out of Dodge, but he'd be damned if he were rushed out of what had become one of his regular retreats.

Crossing to the bed, Krycek bent over and reached under his pillow to pull out his SIG. He raised the firearm to eye level, released the clip and checked the number of bullets. Slapping the magazine back into place, he thumbed the safety to 'on' before placing the weapon onto the card table.

The gun's muzzle nudged the large, leather dossier sitting beside it. The contact was enough to cause the package to crest the edge of the table, tumbling the contents onto the floor. Fanning the carpet were various papers, a collection of photographs and a videotape.

Leaning over, Krycek gave an irritated sigh. Gathering the paraphernalia, he placed the scattered mess back on the table's surface. Spotting the folding chair, he reached over and pulled it to him before collapsing on the padded metal.

He sifted through the papers, plucking out the videotape buried beneath them. He held the cassette by a corner, staring at it while turning the video top over end, top over end, the plastic tinking out a measured rhythm against the metal table. Looking beyond the tape, his gaze caught the top edge of one of the dossier's papers.

Target: Sasha Petriv
Sex: Female
DOB: September 22, 1994
Current Location: St. Maria's Orphanage and School

Krycek looked back at the tape and made a decision. Rising, he walked over to the television set. Turning it on, the screen splashed the faded and bruised room with a glaring spotlight of white. Krycek slipped the video cassette into the rented VCR. Standing back, he waited for the blurry camera images to clear before sitting down at the edge of the disheveled mattress behind him.

Finally, the zoom focused in on a little girl with dark hair. As he pulled his boots on, he watched her silent laughter match that of the girl beside her. Behind the two girls were a few more rows of children, all of them busy at their tables. Krycek watched the both of them as, together, they pasted pieces of construction paper into tiny little rings.

The video was grainy. The surveillance camera he'd rigged had managed to capture the picture despite filming from a building across the street. Adding to the picture's distortion, Krycek had forfeited the clarity of black and white, using the color film he preferred.

It was clear enough, though -- clear enough to identify four-year-old Sasha Petriv.

Krycek's gaze followed the child's fingers as she began to tug at the bowed ribbon wrapped around one of her pigtails. He watched as the slip of material came undone, falling against her green jumper.

A nun crossed into the camera's angle, blocking Sasha. Moments later, the child was revealed again with bow restored. He could see her laughing, smiling up at the nun as the woman affectionately patted her head.

Krycek walked back over to the VCR, falling to his haunches. He froze the little girl's image, his eyes adjusting to the thin lines cutting across the screen, the paused picture jumping in place. Tilting his head, Krycek examined the child, tracing his fingers over the video of her flushed cheeks and dimpled smile.

Putting a hand on his thigh, he stood up and turned away. It was enough for now. Krycek had memorized Sasha Petriv's face, locking her image within his mind.

His now accelerated timetable left him little choice. Giving a quick shake to his head, he walked back to the table and picked up his gun.

He would do this last thing ... needed to do it if he wanted to get out of Kharkiv.

He cradled the gun handle in his palm before crossing back to the night stand. Popping the clasp, he opened a gun case and extracted a silencer. He slowly screwed the attachment onto his weapon's muzzle.

It was time to get started.

He aimed the gun, looking over the steel barrel. His gaze shifted from the weapon, catching hold of a five-by-seven that had fallen to the floor beneath the table. Lowering his arm, he strode over to the photo, placing the gun down before grabbing the picture. He held the folded image up for inspection.

The photo had been taken outside, the background trees skeletal, the ground dusted with patches of snow. The girl sat against a tree, her dark hair blending in with the wet bark. Wind tugged at the strands, pulling her bangs and long ponytail to the right. She was younger, a toddler in this photo. Judging by the melting snow, Krycek placed the time of year as early spring -- the Ukrainian winter was always reluctant to release its hold.

He continued to stare at the picture as he picked up his leather coat and wool scarf from the bed. He wrapped the scarf around his neck before sliding an arm through his jacket. He took one final glance at Sasha Petriv before deciding to tuck the photograph in the inside pocket of his leather coat.

Shouldering the other side of his jacket, he walked back over to the table. Reaching for his gun, he tucked it inside his shoulder holster, adjusting the lay. He gave a final glance around the room.

Krycek went over to the door of his hotel room, twisting the loose handle within his palm. He reached into the other side of his jacket, withdrawing a small, black remote. With a few adjustments, he pressed 'enter', then left his room and everything within it.

Three minutes later, as he continued down the main boulevard, his shoulders hunching against the cold and falling flakes, room 612 of the Rose Hotel erupted into a ball of fire. The noise of the explosion faded into the muted silence of snowfall, only to be quickly replaced by new sounds, the sounds of sirens, shouts and confusion.

Krycek didn't bother looking back.

Kharkiv, Ukraine
Cusp of Western Borough Industrial Park

It was a dead and isolated place.

The husks of abandoned warehouses surrounded him, the wind whispering through their cracked and broken windows. Victims of the Ukraine's newly founded independence and unstable economy, the looming structures of aluminum and steel had been left to corrode and fade away.

With a cursory glance about, Krycek lifted the edge of his glove to check his watch: 11:14 AM. The weather had slowed him down more than anticipated. Time was dwindling.

Turning his attention back to the doors, he sprung open the combination lock that cinched the length of chain. Threading the links free of the door handles, the chain piled onto the ground beside Krycek's boots. It rattled, echoing off the empty buildings.

Lifting the latch, he gripped the two handles, sliding the loading doors apart. They squeaked on their rusty tracking. As he widened the opening, Krycek's breath became labored, clouding within the frigid air.

Letting go of the door, he entered the darkened interior. He wasted no time as he crossed directly toward the back of the cavernous building, his footsteps mixing with the hush of howling wind and rustling aluminum.

Splashes of light began to thread through the broken windows above. They caught on dust particles and highlighted the bulky machinery as the midmorning sun crawled out from behind the cloud coverage. Krycek stepped around the various pieces of equipment, ducking his head under the silent conveyor belt before coming to the foot of a steel staircase.

His boots thundered on the steps as he raced up the rusted stairway to the set of office suites which overlooked the production floor. Not bothering with the handle, he kicked the rotting door open, the sound of splintering wood and breaking metal filling the silence as he entered the empty rooms.

Heading straight back, he passed the covered typewriters, aged calendars, and forgotten coffee cups. He reached the rear office, walking through the open doorway. Entering the room, Krycek strode around the massive, metal desk. He stopped before a black filing cabinet in the corner.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small key, inserting it into the top lock of the cabinet. With a hard tug on the handle, the top drawer was freed, reluctantly rolling open as it jumped off its tracking. Inside the derailed drawer sat a silver briefcase.

Krycek grabbed its handle and pulled it out. Laying the briefcase flat on the desk, he quickly flipped through the combination lock. Moments later, the briefcase snapped open, revealing a gun, passports, and cash. He picked up a bundle, flipping through the money before tossing it back into the case.

Reaching into his pocket, he gripped his cell phone. Using his teeth, he raised the antennae, pressed the 'send' button and dialed.

"De ye kotra hodyna?" Krycek asked. His voice turned sharp. "ahead of schedule -- what? ... is in the country? Ya ne rozumiyu, Ni! ... When did pass border... et en Kharkiv? ... Tell me exactly when... Ditri mi wydn al exrivite en Kharkiv? ... 2 PM."

Krycek stilled, his back straightening as he blindly stared at the pin-up calendar tacked to the wall before him.

Listening to the continued response, his eyes closed. He ground the back of his teeth together, his nostrils flaring as he growled, muttering his thoughts. " ...will be close... can't get out the country tonight... not safe... Fuck ... Hmm, what?"

The voice on the other line interrupted him. Krycek responded. "Ni, kotra deptiv. Yes... get to the capital and? ...go to Kiev ... Tak... Yes! ... Dobli sroblya? ... Who's contact there? ... Nombren de?"

Krycek depressed the 'end' button, cutting off the voice and ending the call. "Fuck!"

Gripping the phone in his fist, he reached back and forcefully threw it against the far wall. It broke apart like a shattered mirror, dozens of sharpened pieces littering the floor. "Fuck!"

A flicker of black movement caught the corner of his eye. Instantly, Krycek reached into his jacket, fell against the side wall and had his gun ready.

He leaned his head forward, his gaze searching, his heart rate accelerated. Looking out of the cracked office window to the bordering trees that sat behind the buildings, Krycek relaxed. The tension slithered away, slipping from his body as he spied a hawk fly past the window yet again. He tracked its movements, watched as it landed in a nest clutched within the gnarled branches of an oak not more than a 15 yards away.

Replacing his gun within his shoulder holster, Krycek continued to scan the area, cautious, scrutinizing the woodlands. His gaze roamed over a scattering collection of bared trees, their spindly branches fanning out across the whitewashed sky.

The sun still remained shining, but only served to highlight the drained and faded backwoods spread out beyond the building. Searching through the clump of trees, Krycek's eyes narrowed, spotting one of the frozen tributaries off of the Dnipro River. Captured within the iced waterway lay a dead mallard, its body stiff and matted.

He stepped back, his boot heel sliding on a slick surface. Looking down at the floor, he saw that it was the little girl's photo he'd placed in his jacket at the hotel room. Unnoticed, it had fallen to the floor.

Now it lay there torn, its edges jagged from his boot heel.

Krycek blinked, giving a rough shake to his head. The muttered words, 'No time', escaped from his mouth, smacking him back into action.

Briefcase in hand, he left the office and hurried back down the staircase. Striding across the warehouse, he stopped before a blanketed mound.

Grabbing a handful of material, he tugged the cloth away to reveal a military jeep. Scrambling over the side, he settled into the seat where he tried to turn the dormant engine over.

The grinding noise of the motor reverberated in the warehouse, the spark plugs failing to catch. Krycek leaned back into his seat, releasing his hand from the key.

"Fuck!" he growled. He gave the steering wheel a frustrated shake. Flicking his wrist, he checked the time again: 11:38 AM. Taking a deep breath, he rolled his neck, cracking it as his exhalation clouded before him.

"Come on ... come on ...," Krycek urged in a cajoling whisper. He twisted the key again and gave a satisfied grunt as the jeep roared to life.

Placing the jeep in gear, Krycek gunned the motor. The tires screeched against the cracked cement as he maneuvered around the abandoned equipment and through the opened loading doors.

Breaking free of the warehouse, he took a sharp turn, one hand sliding around the steering wheel, the other shifting the jeep into third. Bits of gravel and snow sprayed from beneath the tire treads as he pressed harder on the gas, letting the pedal caress the floor.

Leaving the industrial park behind, he headed into the center of the city with one last thing left to do.

Back within the confines of the warehouse office, the photo was left to scamper across the dusty floor, a predatory wind giving chase through the cracked window.

Kharkiv, Ukraine
Center City

The carillon stretched tall above the center of Kharkiv, the mammoth tower holding court above the southwest side of Donitev Park. Its three tiered bells began to toll, cracking through the muffled city sounds and spilling forth the quarter hour chimes.

Krycek strode down the recently shoveled sidewalk, tracing a gloved hand along the stone wall surrounding Donitev. Coming to the mouth of the northern entrance, he paused, looking down into the snow bleached park. The arctic sun shimmered over the crystallized landscape, reflecting off the white canopy.

Naked oaks, neighbored to plush pines, spread out through the mile-long tract of land. Snow-draped benches and frosted lamp posts lay scattered beside buried pathways. The collection of trails wove alongside lawns, some disappearing into patches of woodland.

As he came to the stairway, he gripped the balustrade, slowly walking down the cobbled steps. His boots sunk into the snow which still blanketed the steps. He craned his head, searching and continued to survey the expanse.

Narrowing his eyes, he squinted against the wind and sun to peer above the tree line set out before him. The looming belfry read: 12:17PM.

Leaving the steps, he began to cross through the park, disappearing within the assemblage of trees. His footfalls were deliberate, firm, his direction sure as he maneuvered his own path for a change, cutting through the forest and frost in the snow.

The only sound was Krycek's walking, the hush disturbed by the soft sound of laughter. He walked toward the noise, his approach silent. Before long he stood masked behind the large trunk of a gnarled oak and a collection of snow-capped bushes. Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew binoculars, for a closer look.

Captured within the magnified lenses were children at play and the nuns attending them. He swiveled his head taking in their flushed cheeks, their bodies covered and layered against the cold.

His breath billowed before him, fogging the lenses. Lowering them, he quickly used the heel of his palm to wipe off the condensation. He raised the binoculars to his eyes again, adjusting the focus. He scanned over the group of children once more. Suddenly, his movements stilled, halting on the magnified image of Sasha Petriv jumping from a swing.

Krycek watched her, his eyes following her tiny form as she landed badly. The sounds of her tears mingling with the roar of boisterous activity did not pass unnoticed; one of the sisters approached her.

In fact, he noticed that it was the same woman who had adjusted Sasha's hair tie on the surveillance video. According to his notes, the woman's name was Sister Nadya.

He watched as the nun hugged the girl against her body, whispering into the child's ear as she rocked them back and forth. The sister rubbed her hand over Sasha's knee, calming her cries.

"Children are so... resilient, I've found," said a voice.

He noticed that the speaker was behind him but did not look. Instead, he kept his gaze on Sister Nadya as she coaxed a smile from the tiny girl.

Krycek lowered the binoculars, his posture stiff, his voice resigned. "You certainly know how to choose your moments, Spender."

"And you have chosen poorly, Alex...," his former employer replied, his approach closer. "By the way, I took the liberty of attending to your man for you, the one you phoned earlier. Betrayal is so... disappointing."

Krycek did not turn around.

"Time to come back into the fold, Alex."

Krycek could hear the flick of a lighter partnered with the drag of a cigarette.

"I *choose* not to be one of your sheep," he answered, in low tones.

"You've never been a sheep, Krycek. You're a wolf trying to wear the shepherd's mantle, trying to protect his little lamb...," Spender said, coming to stand beside Krycek. His breath clouded in the crisp air.

"The reality is, Alex ... you're playing the wolf in sheep's clothing. You can't change your true nature, any more than I can."

Silence.

"It is a shame about Sasha's mother, but you know how dangerous a whore's life can be," the older man remarked, releasing a pitying sigh.

Krycek remained unresponsive. Spender continued.

"If I'm not mistaken... I'd say the child favors her father," he said, his shoes crunching in the snow as he shifted his weight to glance at Krycek's profile.

Krycek did not return the favor. Instead, he stood staring directly ahead at the playground before them, speaking. "She has my eyes, and a name -- Sasha."

"Yes, Sasha Petriv ... she has a name, yet not your name. I understand she was born while I had you otherwise ... occupied, and then not too soon after, weeks I believe, her mother was killed in the , eh... line of duty... very tragic... very tragic," Spender said, tapping his cigarette against his lighter before slipping it between his lips. "Sasha, her name, it means unknown, derived from unknown origins. She was aptly named -- at least, she used to be."

"Sasha is also pet name for Alexandra, Spender."

"Yes, but somehow the other definition speaks to me."

Spender spoke around the cigarette, pausing a moment to light it. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke filter through his nose and mix with his exhalation.

Plucking the cigarette from his lips, he continued.

"Unknown even by you. Well, I suppose your voyeuristic visits count for something. 12:15, like clockwork, isn't it? The children recess while you get to play Papa, admiring your daughter's accomplishments from afar. The good father, if only in absence, eh Alex? Anonymous donations to St. Maria's in Sasha's name? Donations in a city where money is almost a foreign concept?"

He waited a beat, his eyes traveling over Krycek's rigid, motionless figure. He continued, his gaze, tracking back to the playground. "Not very smart, Alex. People tend to talk, tell stories -- particularly ones about phantom philanthropists. Word like that raises the red flag in a hole like Kharkiv. And I've found, over time, those stories evolve, expand -- becoming a discovered history of sorts. It's truly amazing how people will tell you things ... how they cling to memories when left with little else."

Krycek's hands gripped into fists at Spender's words while keeping his attention focused on his little girl. His breath fanned out before him.

"I hear the good sister has been a sort of surrogate mother ever since little *Sasha's* first few days," Spender remarked.

Krycek's eyes left Sasha, his gaze narrowing onto Sister Nadya.

"It's over, Alex."

"You think so?" The softly spoken query broke Krycek's silence. He watched his daughter as she was swung around in a circle by the nun. Her head was thrown back, her pigtails reaching out to the air while her giggles tumbled past her small lips.

The older man sighed before speaking again, a hint of mock regret coloring his next words. "Did you know that even here ... right here, there have been stories of children disappearing? Some gone for months at a time, others -- well ... others remain missing."

The sound of a gun being chambered filled the lull between the two men.

"We should be leaving, Alex ... we should be leaving right now."

Krycek turned around, resting his drawn SIG against Spender's side, jamming the gun's muzzle against the black wool of his coat. "I think not."

Spender snorted, shaking his head. "You think by killing me you'll be free to live this fantasy life you've dreamt up? You the doting father and her the darling daughter? You think you'd ever be safe... that she'd be safe?"

Krycek raised the gun, pressing it against Spender's breastbone, his finger caressing the trigger.

Spender's voice was calm, menacing even. Yet, sweat droplets betrayed his cool tones. "Don't be foolish, Alex. It's one thing I've never accused you of. Don't go disappointing me now."

Krycek met his gaze, remaining silent.

"You know I'm right. The Consortium will not let you live ..."

"You're the fool, Spender, if you think that makes the slightest difference to me. I'm taking her and we are gone."

Krycek pressed the muzzle even harder against Spender's heart. "I have no problem taking care of any obstacles to make this happen, old man."

"Then let me tell you about the problem you *will* have," he countered, his gaze unflinching. "Should you run, Alex, and when they find the two of you, the Consortium will not let Sasha live. But, on the off chance that they do... those very same tests you've seen performed on other 'subjects' will surely become familiar to your daughter."

Spender paused, letting his threat linger between them. "Take her away, run... I tell you this, *I* found you and so will the others... They will find you and make your little girl suffer so much that you would rather her dead. No one leaves the Consortium, at least, not forever, I'd think you would know that more than most."

Krycek lowered the gun, his finger slipping free of the trigger. He turned his back on Spender, staring over toward the children again. He spoke, his tone wearied.

"What do you want, Spender? What unholy alliance do you want me for now?"

"Unholy? I've never claimed a godhead for myself. Don't deify me," he snorted, flicking the remains of his cigarette out into the snow where it sighed and sizzled.

Krycek leaned against the tree, Spender all but forgotten as he looked toward the youthful tableau across the way. His daughter was once again playing with the other children.

He watched as she fell back into the fresh snow with a few others, her arms and legs scissoring the shape of an angel. He'd seen her eyes sparkle with laughter and the life he'd fought for ... he'd 'convinced' that whore to give her life, even though abortion would have been easier for all concerned....

But money talked, so Sasha was born.

A rebel tear escaped from his eye, quickly tracing the contours of his face. He did not brush it away. His voice a whisper as he murmured, "I won't play apostle to your cause, Spender. You use a child as a sacrificial lamb to preserve what's become your religion."

"Nonsense, Alex," he replied in a condescending voice. "Children are our most valuable resource. I've always considered myself a caretaker of sorts, doing what's necessary to preserve their best interests.

"Like you *preserved* your own parental responsibilities?" Krycek snapped, his voice hard, his gaze condemning as he looked at the man standing beside him. "I'm sure your son Jeffrey might disagree, that is, if he were alive to do so."

"I spared Jeffrey the indignities of his future," the elder Spender retorted, unruffled. "He had chosen a poor fate, one that would have caused him greater suffering in the end."

"Which brings us to Samantha Mulder," sneered Krycek, stepping toward Spender, his motions predatory. "Another example of your paternal love, perhaps?"

"I did everything I could to protect that child," he protested, retreating with an averted glance and a weakened tone.

"You allowed her to be experimented on like a lab rat, old man," argued Krycek.

"Everything, Alex..." he interrupted, meeting Krycek's gaze again. "To save her life, to inoculate her against a known viral Armageddon. No parent would have done less."

"Sometimes less is better," murmured Krycek, stepping away from Spender. He crossed to the tree again, his gloved hand resting against the rough bark. Krycek continued, his back turned away from his former employer. "Life ... life isn't valued by quantity of time, Spender, just quality ... just ... quality."

"Altruism, Alex?" he scoffed. "I would have thought by now that part of you would be dead and buried."

"You might be capable of crucifying a man's soul, Spender, but there are small miracles that can resurrect it," said Krycek. "Like the love for a child...."

"Come with me now, Alex, and she is protected."

Stillness seemed to pervade the scene, a beckoning silence break over the swirling dervish of playtime antics. The brisk wind rose, biting and bleeding Krycek's cheeks to red. Yet the howl was not enough to stifle the sound of a muffled bullet breaking through the roaring quiet.

Tumbling backward, Sasha Petriv fell once more, and forever.

She stayed caught within the folds of the snow-drenched earth. On her coat, above her heart, seeped the stretching fingers of crimson. The shade was vibrant and jarring against her green jacket.

Krycek sheathed his gun within his shoulder holster, his movements automatic, only the trembling of his fingers betrayed his grief. Spender remained silent.

Guarded by distance and confusion, Krycek stood there with his back to the older man. His eyes swam in silent tears as he watched the blurry image of Sister Nadya cradling the fallen form of his daughter.

Before he turned to face Spender, he gave a quick twist to his neck cracking it. Minutes past as he struggled to make his emotions obey his will, to stifle any expression of grief. He would not show weakness, not now.

Finally, Krycek turned around to face Spender, his movements controlled. He narrowed his gaze before speaking. His voice was low, yet his tone, edged, commanding.

"Spender, you ask us to place our children like lambs on your sacrificial altar," His voice began to shake with his fury and pain. Pausing for only a moment, he squelched the betraying quiver. "You remember your scripture, Spender? Do you? ... You recall God promising Abraham that a great nation would be built through the lineage of his son? Abe had that assurance even as he was asked to kill his kid."

Krycek looked up, pinning Spender with his angered gaze. "Well, you.... You offer nothing! Nothing but empty promises that I've helped you break. And what's more, I think you, especially, have enjoyed the pain and suffering we've inflicted on those kids. We say we do it to fight to save mankind, but at what expense?"

Krycek laughed, his rancor abrasive and cutting. "Trust you? You ... protect my baby girl? What kind of a fool do you *really* think I am? I mean, I thought you knew me -- or is senility finally setting in? Don't you remember? I KNOW that promises from you are as empty as your cancer-rotted soul."

A shaky sigh slipped past his veneer as he continued, his voice a low growl. "I'd rather my little ... my daughter have four years of happiness than ... than even remotely get close to the shit we deal with."

Spender kept his silence.

Krycek brought his gaze once more to the agonized tableau taking place in the courtyard. He saw the nun; her screams of anguish piercing the air as children scrambled away from Sasha, running into the arms of frightened teachers who'd come to usher them away.

She kneeled on the frozen ground, Sasha's body cradled in her arms as she rocked, back and forth, back and forth ... as though her motions would soothe this hurt as well.

He faced Spender again, empty laughter tinging the cracking tones of his next words. "Hey, anything to keep Sasha out of your clutches. Right, old man?"

Resolute, he turned away from Spender and walked into the woods. His steps were sure, his purpose evident in his gait. He stopped suddenly, bending down to retrieve something from the ground.

Krycek stilled, recognition trembling his body. It was his daughter's hair ribbon, the wind having brought it before him ... a talisman.

He brought the ribbon to his lips, giving it a quick kiss before placing the satin into his pocket.

Stumbling, he reached his hand out to steady himself against a tree. After a moment he began his trek again, gaining strength and surety, until, finally, he disappeared within the winter white.

Spender remained.

Tapping out another Morley from the pack, he lit the cigarette. Taking a deep drag, he glanced in the direction Krycek had disappeared. With a sigh and a rueful shake to his head, Spender turned, and walked the other way....

For now.