Kingsman: The Whiskey Rebellion

Chapter Four

It didn't take long for Whiskey and I to get to Yekaterinburg, but it felt like forever to me. Maybe because I had a possible fracture in my ankle, and it hurts like a bitch. I'm not sure. All I know is two things.

One, that I was fucked if I dare to wait to get this ankle fixed up, and

Two, that Whiskey and I were finally seeing each other in a new light.

Once we arrived at the base, both of us had to come up with a genius plan to get inside. What that plan was, I didn't know. Mainly because I wasn't familiar with this base and its inner workings, nor was I familiar with any tactics that would get us successfully snuck inside. Whiskey, however, was excellent in that field. He knew almost every trick in the book, which worked to our advantage. And it was to Balor's disadvantage.

"So how do we get in?" I questioned.

Whiskey pondered for about a minute, stroking his jawline with his hand. "We can either hop in shipping containers and be stowaways until we get inside, or we can sneak into the back of one of these trucks and attack them as we go in."

"I think the shipping containers are a good idea. Less of a risk for us."

While the soldiers' attention was diverted, Whiskey and I managed to hop into an open crate and shut the lid on top of us. None of the soldiers found out about us, which was good. Our plan was going smoothly so far.

In the tiny and dark place, I soon became claustrophobic. It didn't help that I could barely see Whiskey, so panic set in. It was so cramped inside that crate that Whiskey and I could feel each other's hot breaths. We were practically playing a much tinier, much crazier version of Twister in that crate because we could barely move. We were practically sitting as close as we could, sometimes even resting our legs and arms on top of each other. Our faces were inches away from one another. One sudden jerk, and our lips could accidentally—but, in our case, deliberately—lock. I wouldn't complain if it happened, but I doubt it'd actually happen the way I'd think.

"As soon as this thing gets dropped off, we jump out with our weapons drawn, just in case they're right there waiting for us," Whiskey whispered.

"You sure my glocks are gonna be powerful enough?"

"Of course they'll be enough. We just need weapons that'll scare 'em," he whispered back.

The crate jolted around for a bit before Whiskey and I heard some commotion outside of the crate. It was soldiers carrying said container to a certain place in the agency.

"This bitch is heavy," one of them said in a thick Russian accent.

"Don't be such a pussy, Karamazov," the other argued back. "It ain't much heavier than what we usually deal with."

Whiskey and I kept our mouths shut, making damn sure that we didn't make any sudden noise that might tip the enemies off. One syllable that slipped from our tongues, and we were suddenly on a long, winding path toward "Fuckedville". Luckily, we were safe after the enemies set us down in the base and walked away. Slowly and cautiously, Whiskey and I lifted the lid to the container and slowly rose up, our weapons drawn and loaded. I had both glocks in my hand, while Whiskey had one hand on his pistol and another on his whip.

"Boy, was that a tight pinch," I remarked.

"Trust me, sugar. That was nothin'. I've been in much tighter places than this," Whiskey commented. "Figuratively and literally."

Though I couldn't believe Whiskey when he said that, I had bigger things to worry about. Getting more information about this antidote and what it does. How does it hurt people? Well, hopefully, I can get that answer relatively soon before more people die at the hands of Satan himself. And by Satan, I mean...Balor.