[MAX]
Alexei Zima is a bear of a man and Russian to boot. The only thing about him at the given moment that wasn't Russian was his plane; he'd flown an Airbus Atlas — an advanced cargo plane — to retrieve me, and from the markings on its side it appeared to have originally been German. I couldn't say I was surprised by that, nor was I surprised to see he had his phone pressed to his ear as he paced back and forth in front of the ramp. Even though it was fall, and truly cold weather hadn't struck this far south of the continent yet, he was wearing a coat with a fur-lined collar, and heavy duty combat boots that I knew had been made in his home country.
Alexei gave me a short wave when he noticed my approach before he jerked a thumb over his shoulder up the ramp and mouthed "Kofe."
Kofe — coffee. My smile was strained. "That bad, huh?" I asked lowly and in English. I paused temporarily beside him.
His response was to raise light colored brows and grant me a thin-lipped, knowing smile.
I nodded and miraculously rid myself of the desire to roll my eyes before I headed up the ramp. It was difficult to become annoyed with Alexei, and if I did, it was equally as hard to stay that way. "Spasibo," I called over my shoulder.
"Pozhalujsta, Velikaya," Alexei called back before he continued his phone conversation, still in Russian. "Yes, that was Max. Yes, she's finally here. Yes, I will tell her ..."
His voice faded as I went further into the cargo plane. It wasn't difficult to find the aforementioned coffee; a large paper cup with the Starbucks logo and some Mandarin lettering was tucked into the cup holder nearest the cockpit.
Alexei and I had met when I was eighteen and decided that I needed to test my abilities by breaking into the Kremlin. I broke in successfully, I fought some security that ended up finding me, and Alexei witnessed me the fight and my great escape.
He sought me out afterward— cornered me, actually — to tell me that he knew what I had done. At eighteen I fully expected that meant I was going to have to fight him, too, but he wasn't there to bring me in. He was there because he was impressed and he wanted to know why I'd done it.
Fast forward a couple months and Alexei Zima stood in front of Russia's higher ups in order to defend me from their wrath. It's because of Alexei's intervention that I even had the opportunity to get in the good graces of Russia's leaders; had he not been involved, I doubt I would have ever been granted asylum.
Alexei and I have handled a number of situations together. I've unofficially accompanied him on some of his assignments for GRU, and he's acted as my aerial taxi and joined me in some stints around the globe when he can spare the time. He and his wife Svetlana have housed me on more than one occasion when I've been down and in need of help; I'm close with both of them. They've seen me at my worst and at my best, and there are several different points in my life where I may not have survived without them.
Because of Alexei's skills as a pilot and his willingness to fly me anywhere under the sun, he's familiar with most of the people that I'm close to, and vice versa. He's one of the few who I trust with my life, and who I know would sooner die than betray me.
I had downed a significant amount of the coffee by the time I heard familiar and heavy footsteps behind me. I turned to look up at Alexei with the cup still pressed to my lips.
"You ready?" His ocean blue eyes gave me a quick once over before he searched my own dark brown ones.
I gave a silent nod and swallowed more of the coffee.
Alexei gave a prompt nod in return. "Good." He moved around me and into the cockpit and I followed silently after. Alexei took the left pilot seat and started punching buttons and flipping switches. I took the right seat and didn't touch any of the controls unless he directed me to.
"Where are we going, Velikaya?" Alexei asked.
"Washington D.C." I put the coffee cup between my knees carefully in order to free my hands and strap myself into the seat.
"Right," Alexei chuckled. "The capitol of your country. Why not." The engines roared to life and I could feel my eyes glaze over as I stared out of the windows in front of me. "Do you want me to stick around after we land?"
"Yes," I agreed. "I'm going to need your help for a little while. It won't take long."
I could see in my periphery when he grinned and shook his head. "And we are picking someone up."
"Yes," I repeated. I turned to look at him for a moment. A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. "And I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see you."
REZNOR: FILE ATTACHED: deloughreyflighthistory.png
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[MOREAU]
Genevieve Moreau was a rising star in Interpol's Criminal Investigation Division. She was always dressed primly, in perfectly pressed dress suits, chic heels that still managed to be practical, her badge tucked out of sight beneath her suit jacket. Her skin was dark, and her soft brown hair could always be seen in big, bouncy curls. She was the epitome of classic femininity, never seen without a French manicure and crisply done ruby red lipstick.
When she first began her career at Interpol, her superiors scoffed among themselves. This fragile flower couldn't possibly survive in this line of work, they said. She may have been charming, but there was no way she could withstand the intensity, they said.
They were all wrong.
As was proven by her incredible success. To date, Genevieve Moreau had been responsible for the arrest and imprisonment of more than a dozen dastardly villains. And her work was flawless; paperwork completed, no gaps, no legitimate room to question her abilities. So she went from a fragile flower to a goodie-two-shoes and a suck-up. All of them were terms uttered in an effort to discredit her and what she'd accomplished.
Classic femininity wasn't the only thing Genevieve Moreau embodied. She was living proof that looks can be deceiving, and no one should be underestimated.
And she was about to be given the biggest assignment of her career. "A display of inter-agency cooperation," her superior had told her. "You should consider yourself lucky. The man that the higher-ups are teaming you with is one of the FBI's best."
Thus Genevieve Moreau was whisked off to be briefed on an assignment known to her only as Operation Obdurate. The briefing itself was short but plainly urgent. The only verbalized information Genevieve received was that the object of this operation was one Max Destin, that she was an incredibly dangerous individual, and that their current intel suggested she was in Beijing.
"And this is Special Agent Ellis Winston, from the FBI," the head of the division said with a wave toward the American.
"Pleasure to meet you, Agent Moreau," Winston said. Though his tone was polite, Genevieve recognized the look in his eyes. He, like most others upon first meeting her, doubted that she was capable of handling the job.
Genevieve granted him a charismatic smile that would've put any movie star to shame. "The pleasure is mine, Agent Winston," she said. Her French accent only slightly tainted her English. "When do we leave?"
"Now," Winston said. He shifted on his feet, clearly eager to get going. "I have the rest of the information about Destin on the jet that your agency has so generously provided. You can look it over during the flight."
Genevieve nodded. "Then let us go."
