Chapter 2

"Just making sure, Mister Petrovsky, that you realised the consequences of our bargain," hissed a sickly-sweet voice in his ear. A voice that he not only recognised, but brought very bad memories rushing forward.
"Thank you for your consideration, Mister Jones, but I think I can handle myself." Mick answered the black-suited man gruffly, and then shouldered his way apparently unconcernedly through the crowd aiming at him, leaving the CIA agents glowering at the dirt.
Mikhail didn't say anything until he was safely in the Aston-Martin, but once the door had closed, he let out a deep sigh. Ever since he had started doing jobs for the CIA, there had been Clark Jones, grinning like an obscene death's head from his powerful seat in the intelligence agency's hierarchy, hating Mick and doing everything possible to dissuade his superiors from hiring the mercenary. Obviously failing this time, as he had many times past, he was determined to either scare Mick away from the job or make his life ten times harder.
Mick revved the Vanquish, quickly approaching 60 mph, but as he shot towards the CIA men, he dove for them, hitting the brakes and going into opposite lock with 20 feet to spare. He chuckled smugly as he floored it again, straightening out with a minimum of fishtailing from the responsive Vanquish. Mikhail smirked as he looked in his mirror to see the agents from the CIA toppled together like so many bowling pins and Jones at the bottom of the pile glaring at him. Mick stuck his hand out the sunroof and waved cheerily before flipping them the bird. Traffic on the way back to his mansion, after easily losing two inept tails, was to boring it just about put Mick to sleep. He barley managed to stay awake by pondering why Jones hated him so much.
Mick knew that the original reason was based on an occurrence involving their fathers. He had only overheard the story one night as a kid, but he thought he understood it pretty well. And it didn't seem to clarify why Jones took every opportunity to bug him.

It had been a long, cold winter in the Bering Sea. None felt it worse than those stationed on the submarines patrolling and gathering intelligence in the Bering. Two of these suffering men were officers of the KGB aboard the nuclear sub Kulturny, and they were worried less about their own discomfort than they were about that of their families languishing in Moscow. Captain Petya Gregorovich Ivanov and Liuetenant Alexei Ivanovich Petrovsky were best friends, but one night during the Cold War would change the fabric of their friendship, and that of their sons, forever.