On Three

"Oh, I was fired today."

##############################################################################

THURSDAY, UNIVERSAL SYNDICATE (WASHINGTON DC) : 0143

"It's been a month. When are you going to stop pouting?" Chief Reiner asked as he waltzed through the door of the training room.

Sweat pouring down my back making my skin glisten under the dull lights, I threw another punch at the dummy. My knuckles were bleeding without the protective padding of the gloves and without the binding of the tape. I grunted when my fist made contact with the hard surface, "I'm not pouting." He raised his eyebrows at my bloodied hands. Usually when things started to spiral out of my control, I tended to break as many rules as possible to gain back some semblance of supremacy. Wearing gloves was one of those guidelines that I'd decided to bend.

"You tell me that I have to come back and then, once I'm finally back in the groove, you suspend me, put me under HQ arrest, take my partner away and ship him off to God knows where all because of what? One failed mission?" I landed a powerful kick to the dummy's chest, knocking it to the ground with a thunk.

"This has nothing to do with the failed mission. It has to do with training. You've been out for two years and you need a refresher." He said sternly. "We've tracked down one of the Armenians that attacked you and Harris back in Belarus and brought him in for questioning. So, if you'd please pick the dummy back up and follow me, we can find out what they want."

"They didn't just attack me. They attacked Harris too. Shouldn't he be here?"

"Harris is in Syria right now trying to track down another lead on that drive. So, it's just you. Now, come on."

"No. I'm training right now like you told me to. Come back later."

"So help me, Marx, get your ass down to the interrogation room, or I'm extending your suspension regardless of how much you've improved."

My eyebrow twitched in annoyance

He pointed to the door, "Now, march, soldier."

I threw my head back with a groan and made my way through the window-lined corridor. It was pitch dark out and I had realized just how late it was. I felt my body grow fatigued with the night's work as I pushed myself through the door of the questioning room.

Sitting at the table was a well-built man with brown eyes. His dark beard was trimmed and he would have looked neat and polished, had it not been for the bruise that marred the side of his face. His hands were cuffed to the table in front of him. His eyes pierced mine, challenging me. While he was intimidating, I had been experienced in dishing it right back out. I glared back, my eyes angry slits as I took the seat on the other end of the metal table. Leaning back in the chair, I crossed my arms and legs.

"Barev, Ark'ayadustr," a lazy and irritating smile spread across his face as he eyed my standoffishness. I didn't understand the Armenian language and I didn't pretend to. I spoke ten different languages (English, Belarusian, Russian, Swedish, Italian, French, Spanish, Latin, Greek, and Arabic) but I'd never bothered with that one because I didn't think I would ever need it. If Harris was there, though, he'd be able to play interpreter.

"What do you want from us?" I asked in a clipped voice, the kind that was reserved for people who deserved hostility.

He sniffed and rubbed his cuffed hand over his nose, muttering something under his breath that I couldn't understand.

I leaned my forearms on the table between us, leaning closer, I asked, "What was that?"

"Himar amerikats'inery," he murmured again, venom lacing his thick accent. "Yes ch'yem khosum , sirakan!"