Sorry I haven't updated for ages! My original plan was to wait for summer to update (because school had been kicking my butt), but then I got into Attack on Titan and have devoted all my time and energy into obsessing over Commander Erwin (or Commander Handsome… Or Commander Eyebrows, whichever you call him). It's not like I haven't been writing though! In English class we were supposed to write short stories (the teacher was expecting maybe two pages, but the minimum for the assignment was 500 words) and I turned in a 63 page narrative about two brother's on the opposite sides of a war I created. It was fun… I got to start my own war and call all the shots. Ha. Of course, being evil, I killed one of the brothers… so yeah, don't think I'll let everyone live through this story. But who knows? Maybe I'll get emotional for once (though I doubt it. No matter how hard I try, I just don't get attached to my own characters, so I obviously don't expect you guys to get too attached either. Skills I need to work on I guess). Anyway… I'm going on a trip in early July, so hopefully I'll continue writing, but I won't have internet to post any updates, so if anyone still reads this story, bear with me! Sorry for ranting!

Chapter Seven:

"This is Rift, we're in position and we gotcha covered."

"Roger that, proceeding to breach, over."

Frost rose up from the snow, which glimmered and sparkled in the moonlight. "Gator, make sure the building is surrounded, if there're any gunmen, I want us to be able to return fire. Bravo, up with me."

At his side, Rookie could hear a muttered: Aw shit. Before the man could get to his feet, Rookie laid his hand on his companion's arm. "Don't try to screw anything up… please."

Bravo turned his head and found himself letting go of his irritation as he peered into the pleading emerald eyes of Rookie. He paused, trying to summon words, but ended up leaving in silence, not daring to look over his shoulder at the young, nervous, naive soldier who laid behind him.

Ducking his head low, he stayed toward the shadows, creeping up toward the left flank of the cabin. The cabin was surrounded by the woods on all sides, making it a good quality hunting cabin, as well as a temporary safehouse for a terrorist. The pine trees' branches were heavy with snow, forcing them to arch toward the ground, the stress being too much to bare, and occasionally they would sway in the wind, the snow being carried off the limbs and silently land on the blanketed forest floor.

Moving toward the doorway, Bravo watched Frost creep toward him, staying low, but moving with confidence. As he briefly paused to remove his helmet and readjust his infamous black mask, Bravo blinked as they locked eyes. The man had certainly lived up to his nickname.

His silver-blonde hair was glued to his skull, slick with sweat, and the glow that reflected off the snow made his skin appear sickly pale. Bravo broke away from him, for his azure eyes glowing hauntingly in the pale moonlight seemed to stare right into his and put him off edge. To add on to his nickname, his lips had turned a light hue of purple after being exposed to the cold, yet he quickly lost sight of them as Frost pulled up his mask.

"You ready?" Frost inquired, staring down at the silencer on his pistol. He'd have to make this quick and quiet if it were to go smoothly with no casualties.

"Whenever you are, Sir."

"Good." With that, the two men wearily crept up to the doorway. "Gator, come in?"

"What's up, Westbrook?"

"Are you guys in position?" Frost felt a slight smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Roger. Hitman, Lucky, Rift and I are at the front door. You two positioned at the back?"

"Roger. Proceeding to breach," turning to Bravo, he added, "on three."

"One. Two—"

Bravo slammed his body into the door, which collapsed under his weight, allowing him to stagger inside.

"I said three, dammit!" Frost hissed, which was followed by the loud clang as the door slammed into the wall. Bravo regained his balance and took a few steps forward, scanning the hall, his weapon ready. Behind him, Frost did the same, though his eyes drifted to his inferior.

"Back, clear." Bravo whispered into his com and Frost winced as the floor creaked beneath the man's weight.

"Front's clear. Hitman, you and Lucky check the basement." Gator's voice drifted over the com.

"What? Why do I get Lucky? Damn, now we know I'm gonna die." Hitman jeered, but did as he was told without another complaint. Frost might've been amused, but at the moment he was preoccupied with the anger he was trying to control.

"Gator, Bravo and I are falling back, send Rift to start going through the back." Frost spoke clearly, watching as Bravo stiffened without turning to look back at his Staff Sergeant.

"Shit about to get real over there? Roger. Rift, you heard the man."

With that, Frost turned and sauntered outside, pausing in the middle of the distance between the cabin and the tree line, leaving himself totally exposed. Bravo snorted and began to brush past him when Frost's hand shot out and caught Bravo by the arm.

Frost's body shuddered in a sigh, but he finally managed to keep his voice from straining. "What was that?" He asked calmly, releasing the man as he turned to face him. Bravo's eyes were narrowed, yet his face remained neutral.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I'm a bit overeager is all." He spoke with fake sincerity and turned to leave when Frost stopped him once more.

"Do you have a problem with me, Logan?" Bravo let out a soft upon hearing the use of his first name and turned to glower over at Frost.

"What do you want me to say? Oh no! I just love the fact that my old NCO is dead and that two random strangers came in to boss us around and shit." Bravo's hands visibly shook with the effort it took to control himself. With that, he strode off, back toward his position with Rookie.

"Yo, Frost." Gator's voice crackled over the comm. "We gotta a problem down here."

"Dammit." Frost cursed softly before turning and trotting toward the building. "Everyone, remain on standby."

Hitman's eyes widened as he crept down the stairs. The basement was a wide, open room, a desk resting against the back wall, a pool table in the middle, and two couches placed near the left wall, facing a small TV which was mounted onto the wall.

Oh, he forgot to mention the four men standing over at the desk, peering at a computer screen.

Hitman took in a small breath as he turned to face Lucky, who was crouched on the stairs behind him. They exchanged a quick nod before the both rose to their feet and silently shuffled down the rest of the stairway and made their way into the room.

"Put your hands up!" Hitman shouted, trying to fight the fear from his voice. He and Lucky had their weapons aimed and looked fairly menacing, but they had no idea whether these men were armed or not.

The four of them twisted around, startled and shocked expressions on their faces and froze, simply staring at the two Americans.

"Руки вверх!" Lucky hollered, cocking his head toward the ceiling. Three of the four hesitantly obeyed, lifting their hands above their heads, looking as scared as Hitman felt. However, the fourth man whipped back around and furiously began to tap on the keyboard, obviously trying to erase whatever information they had.

"Hey! Away from the keyboard! Get back!" Hitman screamed, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and beginning to race across the room. He just swerved around the pool table when one of the terrorists cried out. Before Hitman could even take another step, the man turned, pulling something from his pocket.

"No! Shit!"

Hitman watched in a state of horror as the man removed the pistol from his pocket, and lifted it.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

The gunshot rang off and Hitman skidded to a stop just in front of the man, his hands outstretched to force the gun down, and eyes widened in terror. He felt the blood splatter across his face and watched in consternation as the man's head burst open with a spray of blood. In the few seconds, he saw all too much. He saw the man limply sink to the ground with a thud—he gun still gripped in his hand—and reeled back as he made out the greyish mush that he realized with a jolt was, or had been, the man's brain. A pool of blood begun to spread around his boots, pulsing from the man's left temples. His ears rang with horrific screams and for a minuet he feared that they were his own, but then saw that it was the other three hostages who were now gaping down at their dead comrade. Lucky started screaming in Russian and somehow got them to shut up.

Glancing up, Hitman felt a little relief that Gator and Rift had arrived and were aiming their gun's toward their hostages, their faces stoic. He took take as an invitation to stagger away from the dead man and take a few strides toward his own comrades before pitching over and heaving the bile that had risen in his throat. Lucky quickly padded over, grabbing him by the shoulders and guiding him back toward the stairs, slipping past their superiors who flashed quick looks of pity before barking orders at the men before them.

"C'mon, Dylan." Lucky murmured softly, helping him upstairs. They quickly proceeded toward the back door, as Hitman tried to calm his racing heart.

Walking past a perplexed Frost, Hitman couldn't help but let his gaze rest on the blood that dripped from his hands.

Despite what his nicknamed suggested, Hitman had never killed anyone. Or, at least he hadn't killed anyone up close. He had always engaged from a further distance and didn't have to actually see the son of a bitch he'd just killed. He had received the nickname for his give-'em-hell attitude and his ability to pick off targets. Yeah, practice targets.

As soon as they got outside, Hitman wanted to get far from that cabin. Very far. "We can go now, right?" Hitman asked quietly, shrugging Lucky off. Trying to muster a smile, he turned. "I… I blame you for this… Lucky." The attempted joke was weak, but it didn't matter. He needed something to calm himself down. Wiping the blood the immersed his face on his sleeve, he grumbled, "what a mess." Once again, he stared at his trembling hands, tears stinging his eyes.

Frost felt confusion and frustration burning within him as he marched back up the stairs, the laptop clutched in hand, his pistol in the other. "Sniper team, regroup. We're getting out of here. Everyone, prepare to leave." He spoke into his com, fighting to suppress his emotions. Well, this is a failure.

"Hey, at least it wasn't a failure!" Of course, this was Gator's voice as he trotted after Frost, padding down the hallway and slipping outside. "We got prisoners, and who knows what they know?"

Frost grit his teeth, taking a heavy breath. "I suppose you're right. But… If they don't all know that same stuff, then the guy that was willing to kill himself and wipe the computer was the guy we needed. He was the one connected with Makarov."

Stopping behind him, Gator frowned, Frost's frustrating washing over as well. "Same shit, different day." He grunted.

"Hooah."