Alphonse Harding took a deep breath. He was surrounded by tall trees that loomed overhead. The wind gently whispered between the thin dark green leaves. Snow gently fell from the fluffy white clouds in the brilliant blue sky that concealed what lay beyond Earth. A lone robin stared down from an overhead branch. It ruffled its raging red chest feathers, shaking off the snowflakes. Harding breathed out slowly - careful not to disturb the air. The lone robin began to preen its magnificent feathers. A rewardless act as snowflakes continued to land on the bird. The corners of Harding's lips began to curl upwards. He took a small step closer. A mistake. The robin instantly froze. Harding held his breath.
After a moment the robin looked down at Alphonse, tilting its head to one side. Its black inky eyes stared into Harding's own. They seemed empty but not in the negative sense. Rather they were empty of pain, of anger and of regret. The robin was perfectly at peace; Harding was not.
Suddenly, Harding's communicator crackled to life.
"Confirm Access."
The robin jumped and landed on the branch again.
"Comms Code."
The robin bristled its feathers and fanned out its wings.
"Eight, Hotel, Alpha, Delta, Echo, Sierra."
The robin took off, artfully darting deeper into the woods and out of sight.
"Good morning, Charles" replied Harding, his lips curling downwards.
"You may be retired Alphonse," spoke a strong voice from the communicator, "but I am the General of C.O.I. and you should address me as such."
"Good morning, General Burkin." answered Harding.
"That's better," began General Burkin with the voice of someone smiling, "I got one last job for you. You're the only one who can do it."
Harding remained silent, staring at the branch where the robin had been mere moments ago.
"It's serious this time. No oil fields, no favours, this is really about saving American lives," said General Burkin, "Your… replacement… has gone rogue. He has taken dozens of civilians hostage and radicalised several squadrons of C.O.I. agents. You are to be deployed immediately to dispatch him."
"It's David, isn't it?" asked Harding.
General Burkin remained silent.
"I told you he was unstable and that he should have retired early." reminded Harding.
"David Rowe was one of the most effective C.O.I. agents in the history of the agency and was the only person who could replace you" replied General Burkin.
"But you couldn't tame him permanently," said Harding.
"That… would be correct," remarked General Burkin.
"Send a transport. Same location as usual." began Harding before stressing, "but this is the last job. After this, I am done."
"A helicopter will be there within the hour," said General Burkin as the communicator went dark.
Harding sighed and put his gloved hands on his knees. Even retired, in one of his favourite sitting spots along his favourite running routes, duty still called. This was his fifth 'One Last Job', since formally retiring from the Covert Operations Initiative - the C.O.I. agency. The agency had a long history. A highly classified history. Harding doubted if even Burkin knew anything prior to his leadership. A low rumble broke Harding's train of thought. He looked up and saw a small dark shape outlined by the slowly setting sun. The shape grew in size with every passing moment, materialising into a AH-64 Apache helicopter. A blazing angel of vengeance illuminated by the sun's dying light.
Sighing once again, Harding rose to his feet. He took a deep breath, stretching his muscles in preparation. The helicopter was heading towards the peak of the second shortest of the five mountains in a nearby range. Officially, the mountain did not have a name. Harding however had named it Pinkie Mountain. The entire range reminded him of a hand buried up to the knuckles, with fingers and thumbs barely sticking out. The Hand Mountain Range was one of many frosted and forested landscapes that made up Harding's home. It was also his favourite.
Harding began to run. Arms pumping like pistons, powerful legs propelling him forwards with tremendous speed. He seemingly glided up the sloping hill towards Pinkie Mountain. Snow and detritus barely disturbed. Harding loved to run. He loved to move. The higher his heartrate; the happier he was. Harding rushed up Pinkie Mountain, climbing trees so fluidly he was practically flying. After several minutes he reached a wide rocky clearing - the mountain's peak. Years of erosive rainfall had left the rocks smooth and somewhat level. Perfect for a temporary impromptu landing pad.
The Apache Helicopter swung into view, descending rapidly. The powerful blades stirred up the snow - sending it billowing and crashing outwards like ocean waves. Harding stood perfectly still. The wind whipped his face and snow particles covered the man as the helicopter landed mere metres in front of him. [Burkin sent the helicopter hours before he called,] thought Harding.
The helicopter's door rolled open to reveal two COI agents. They were clad head-to-toe in camo and wore the COI's signature wide-angle night vision goggles. Their cloth-covered faces were expressionless - emotionless. Both were armed with standard issue COI combat rifles. The agents lowered their weapons and reached a hand out each to assist Alphonse. In one fluid movement, Harding leapt into the Apache helicopter. The agents lowered their rejected hands and sat across from Harding in the helicopter.
The pilot, dressed in COI camo paired with a pilot helmet, nodded at Harding before turning to the controls. He flicked several switches and pressed multiple buttons.
"Hades, this is Condor-2," began the pilot, "We have Harding. Proceeding to base November-9."
The Helicopter blades began to spin rapidly. Snow billowed everywhere as the vehicle launched into the air. One of the COI agents shook - startled - and gripped onto a railing. Harding remained still, closing his eyes and listening to the howling wind. He let his mind drift like the snowflakes outside, focusing on the robin.
Today was not the first day Harding had seen the robin. He had seen it before and hoped to see it again. During one of his morning runs, which included leaping between trees, he had startled it. A flash of red, white and black. Although it was visible for only a second, Harding had instantly recognised the bird. It was strange. Robins typically migrated south during winter. Yet this robin had stayed alone and in the cold. It, like Harding, braved the Alaskan winter on its own.
Suddenly, Harding sensed a shift in momentum. He opened his eyes to find the helicopter descending rapidly. Both COI agents clutched the handrails tightly. Harding remained perfectly still. With a slightly jarring landing, the helicopter came to a halt. Immediately the two COI agents rolled the door open and stepped outside. The pilot, disconnecting his headset first, also exited. Harding followed behind, stepping outside into the COI's November Nine base.
November Nine was a small base. It consisted of two runways, a moderately sized cabin and a large corrugated steel shed. Snipers sat perched inside the four guard towers dotted the base's perimeter. A large cargo plane sat at the start of the runway. It was dull grey and had a nose that curved into a point like a crow. Despite its size, the base was busy. Harding spied at least three dozen agents - all armed. Several were unloading the plane and carried unmarked dull grey boxes into the metal shed. Harding recognised several of the larger containers. [They brought rockets,] he thought [why did they bring rockets?]
"Is it true?" asked a voice that cut through Harding's thoughts like a razor, "is it true what they teach us about you in training?"
Harding regarded the agent in front of him. He was young and fidgety despite his gloved hands - unsure of himself. There was a unmarked metal box by his feet. The wide-eyed agent looked at Harding, face hidden behind wide-eye night vision goggles and a COI balaclava. Unlike the other agents, he was unarmed except for the standard issue COI combat knife that was clipped to his belt.
"Lend me your knife." commanded Harding, holding out his hand.
The young agent tried to unclip his knife, fumbling for several seconds before finally freeing the serrated blade. He immediately held it out for Harding - unwisely facing the point towards the man.
Harding took the knife with one hand. He shifted it from side to side, testing the weight. The young agent watched curiously. Harding had always liked the COI knives, they were nicely weighted. The corner's of Hardings lips curled into a small smile before he replied.
"Don't trust ghost stories." said Harding. With a expert flick of his wrist, he threw the knife at the metal container. The blade spun midflight, the handle striking metal and rebounding back perfectly back into Harding's waiting hand. He presented the weapon to the young agent, the point facing Harding once more before continuing, "because they'll haunt you."
Stunned, the young agent collected his knife from Harding. He mumbled an apology before desperately trying to reclip the blade to his belt. The pilot and Harding headed into the unloaded cargo plane. Sitting on a bench, watched as the plane's rear door slowly closed. The young agent stood and watched, unknowingly gribbing the hilt of his knife. Just before the door completely closed, Harding raised his hand and waved at the young agent. He would never see him again.