Author's Note: For mols. Fill for the Easy Co Troopers 2018 Summer Fic Exchange. This is a story that's been a little bug in the back of my mind pretty much since I first got into this fandom two and a half years ago. It's mostly inspired by Anthony Horowitz's novel, Russian Roulette, and the movie Our Kind of Traitor. I highly recommend listening to the soundtrack for Our Kind of Traitor as you read. The songs "The Ballet" and "The List" are my personal picks for the overall theme.

Tags include: AU - Modern Setting, Assassins & Hitmen, Enemies to Lovers, Seduction, Introspection, Referenced Carwood Lipton/Richard Winters, Dick Winters makes a lot of bad decisions.

US-30 Highway, Pennsylvania

Folk rock plays softly inside a silver 2010 Honda Accord as it cruises down the highway, just above the speed limit. Dick Winters taps his fingers on the wheel in time with the beat of the music, otherwise entirely focused on his driving. He sits upright, stiff in his USMC service uniform.

It's been two years since he's been home, and he's ready to see his family again.

He turns off the highway and into Lancaster County, letting off the gas a bit as he passes through the city. Nothing has changed, but he has, and it feels like looking at it for the first time. A few people recognize him, waving, and he smiles and returns the gesture. It's good to be home, despite everything.

Dick pulls up at his parents' house, noting his father's truck is parked up front, and his little sister's new car beside it. But something feels wrong. The lights are all off, and there is no sound from the barn.

He steps out of his car- dusty and sun-bleached now from two years in a parking lot in Arlington, Virginia- and approaches the house. He's not sure what he's expecting, but when he finds the door unlocked he goes on high alert. Instinctively, he reaches for his weapon, but remembers belatedly that he has none. Dick swallows, stepping inside. It's eerily silent. He checks the first floor, finding nothing and no one.

Upstairs, he finds them. His father and mother, still in bed, a bullet put through their skulls. Blood-soaked pillows, still wet. He finds his sister down the hallway- she would've heard, tried to escape. She hadn't made it out. Dick looks over the scene in silence for a few minutes, the grief swelling hard in his chest. This was recent – almost certainly the night before, if not in the early morning. If he'd come home just one day earlier he could have stopped it.

Dick had thought then that he'd seen enough death for one lifetime.

But the truth is, he had only just begun to scratch the surface.

+07 months

New York City, New York

Dick watches the man fall over dead, a bullet clean through the head. He presses send on his cell phone and shuts it off, pocketing it. When it's turned on again there will be no message history and no saved contacts. Only one number is able to contact him. He appraises the rifle in his hands for a moment before taking it apart, putting the pieces into a sleek briefcase. He pulls a false bottom over it and snaps the case shut.

Five minutes later he walks through the streets of New York, by all appearances a regular businessman on his way back from work. The man he shot will be discovered soon enough, when someone notices he hasn't left his office, and the police will find no trace of his presence atop of the building just across the street.

He returns to his hotel, a business-class Westin where he has checked in with a throwaway credit card and a false identity. He takes the stairs up to the third floor and returns to his room, a single furnished with a California king bed, desk, TV, kitchenette, bathroom, and personal safe. It's a far cry from his rural homestead origins. He takes his laptop out of a duffel bag sitting on the bed and pops it open, changing out of his suit and into a T-shirt and jeans as the computer boots up. He checks his bank account, nodding as he sees the newest deposit, and checks his private email. There's no work for him yet, and he sits back with a sigh, contemplating what to do next. He can't stay at the hotel past tomorrow morning, but until then he has complete freedom.

A few minutes later, Dick steps out into the city streets again and walks to a restaurant down the street. It's a family business, unassuming and low-traffic, and he sits at the bar around the corner, his view of the place completely unobstructed. A habit he'd developed in Iraq, and found useful in his line of work afterwards.

After he orders his own meal, another customer comes in and sits down next to him. He's handsome, a little shorter than Dick and a bit stocky, but the button-down and trousers he wears are tailored nicely to his figure. His dark hair is parted and slicked back cleanly. Dick can tell that he is very, very wealthy. But he doesn't carry himself like a rich man- he slouches over the bar and stares into his drink- a whiskey and Coke. His face has a melancholy look to it- thick eyebrows, soft cheeks, almond-shaped dark eyes.

Dick can't say he's not interested.

It'd taken him a long time to come to terms with his sexuality. It wasn't until he was serving in Iraq that a man named Carwood Lipton had caught his eye in a similar way to the man at the bar today. Lipton was a first sergeant subordinate to Dick, and he was short, heavily muscled, and fair-haired, with a boyish face. He was a good leader, a good soldier, and when Dick finally realized his own homosexuality, a good lover. He was Dick's first- there were a few others in the months after returning home, guys he let pick him up and left afterwards, whose names he didn't ask. But Lipton was the first to press him down against an army cot and make love to him. His kind demeanor hid a rougher side, a more possessive and dominating facet of his personality, and Dick was surprised to learn of his own submissive tendencies. He'd always been a romantic, but never thought of lying back and letting someone else come into him, leaving marks on his chest and shoulders and thighs. Of course, Lipton was softer afterwards. The others usually weren't, and it left Dick feeling used. But he expected it, and felt on some level that he deserved it.

Dick can tell just from looking that the man at the bar is not a submissive person by nature. He seems weary, yes, and over-taxed, but he holds a very careful control over himself and everything around him. He looks up for the first time, his eyes meeting Dick's, and he smiles. It's a shark's smile, leering and confident. Dick sits up a bit straighter.

"Hey," the man says. "Haven't seen you here before."

"It's my first time in New York," Dick replies casually. It's not a lie. He'd never been in the city before. "I'm Dick." If this goes where he thinks it will, his name will be forgotten by the end of the night. Not that it matters. It's easy enough to make up a last name.

"Lewis." The man smiles. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I don't drink," Dick says. "But you can buy me dessert."

Lewis raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He doesn't comment, and then they're both distracted as the server brings their food. Lewis is already very close to Dick, sitting on the stool just next to him, but as he eats their elbows brush together a few times and the man smirks knowingly. It's entirely intentional, of course, and Dick rolls his eyes.

"Childish," he says, and Lewis winks.

After their meal, Lewis does in fact buy him a dessert, and he makes small talk while Dick drinks his milkshake. Dick doesn't learn anything significant from it and it's better that way. There's no ring on Lewis's finger, but he could still have a family. It's better not to know these things, he's learned. Attachment isn't a good idea in his line of work. It gets you killed, or it gets you heartbroken.

After Dick finishes his milkshake and they pay their tabs, Lewis herds him into the sleek black Corvette parked on the street outside. Dick doesn't miss the man standing outside by the door of the restaurant, the nod that Lewis gives him to signal that he wants to be left alone. Lewis is wealthy enough- significant enough- to have a bodyguard, and Dick wonders how he's made the kind of enemies that call for a personal security detail.

Lewis rests a hand on Dick's thigh as he drives, his fingers touching the inseam of Dick's jeans, and Dick stops thinking about it.

After the sun has gone down that night, Lewis drops Dick off at the hotel, and they share a lingering kiss before Dick steps out and watches the man drive away. They'd fucked in the car, in a parking lot along the shore, and Dick is sure he will never see Lewis again, and that's just fine. He goes up to his room and runs a bath, soaking in the hot water to ease the aches and pains he knows he'll be feeling in the morning. Lewis wasn't as rough as other men have been, but he took what he wanted, and the back seat of his Corvette was a tight fit for someone as tall as Dick.

He soaps himself down and rinses off, ghosts of Lewis's touch purpling on the skin of his hips and shoulders.

In the morning, Dick checks out of the hotel and leaves New York. Still without an assignment, he goes home, to Lancaster County. As he steps out of his car he looks at the house. A quaint white homestead, the barn a few meters away. He'd sold off all their livestock, and his father and sister's cars. When he goes inside he's greeted by an orange tabby cat who meows plaintively, and he bends down to pet her, rubbing the scruff under her chin.

"Hey, Piper," he says, and goes to the kitchen to fill her food and water bowls. Piper is a barn cat and a mouser; she is perfectly capable of fending for herself during Dick's long trips abroad. But she hangs around the house keeping Dick company, and he doesn't mind it at all.

After he's fed the cat he goes up the stairs, ignoring the two closed bedroom doors and going to his own room. He's outgrown it, the pastel blue walls and soft sand-colored carpet, the full bed with its star-patterned covers, the stuffed animals and books on the wall. But he hadn't had the heart to change anything when he left for college, and now it's just one more relic of the life he's lost. Dick drops his briefcase and duffel bag on the bed, sliding a locked trunk out from under the bed. He enters a combination, then pushes a key in and turns it, and the trunk opens. He takes his guns out of the smaller briefcase; the rifle and two small pistols, and tucks them away into the trunk with his other weapons. Dick closes the trunk and locks it up, sliding it back under the bed, then slides the briefcase under as well.

He takes his duffel bag from atop the bed and leaves the room, closing the door behind him and going back down to the main floor. He puts the rest of his things away, having set up camp in the living room. There are no pictures on the wall, and none of the original furniture. He sleeps on a fold-out sofa bed and keeps his clothes in a black armoire; he eats dinner and works at a short metal desk.

It's a solitary life - the life he feels he deserves.

+01 month

Baltimore, Maryland

Dick pulls up to the gate of a private residence buried deep in the forest, rolling down his window and showing the guard his identification. The man nods, going to unlock the gate. Dick drives in, following a gravel road about half a mile up a hill until he approaches an imposing colonial mansion. As he climbs out of his car a man steps out onto the porch. He's tall, rather plain looking, but the expensive, tight-fitting grey suit he wears gives him a sense of superiority, of power.

"Dick. Welcome back," he says, smiling as Dick walks up to him. When Dick joins him on the porch, he leans in to press a kiss to his cheek, and Dick allows the gesture, inclining his head respectfully. His stomach twists with disgust, but he bears it. It's better not to offend Sobel, he's learned. The price is steep.

"Herbert," he says, following the man inside. "Was there a reason you wanted to see me in person?"

Sobel smiles, leading Dick to the dining room. "I have a contract for you," he says. "Our client is rather high-profile and asked us to discuss this by word of mouth only. He's very concerned for his safety, you see. There could be huge backlash if it traces back to him. He asked for our best man."

Dick frowns, sitting down at the table. "There's got to be someone better than me," he argues. Sobel just smiles, waving a butler over and requesting a meal for them both.

"You're my best man," Sobel says after the butler has left, taking a sip of water. "I have confidence that you will meet my expectations and complete the job without any loose ends. You know the consequences of failure better than anyone else."

Dick nods. "Who is the target?"

Sobel puts down his glass of water. "A young man by the name of Lewis Nixon," he says. "Have you heard of him?"

Dick shakes his head. "He sounds familiar, but I don't know offhand." He thinks of the man he met in New York, but shakes the thought. It couldn't be him.

"His father is Stanhope Nixon, owner of Nixon Firearms," says Sobel, and Dick looks up in surprise. Sobel smiles. "Yes, our primary weapons supplier. Word is that Stanhope has fallen ill and doesn't have long to live. Lewis is set to inherit the company, but…" Sobel trails off as the butler brings them food, fussing over his sandwich when it doesn't meet his expectations and having it sent back. Dick eats his own without complaint, watching the interaction silently.

"As I was saying," Sobel resumes, huffing, "Lewis is set to inherit Nixon Firearms, but our client is close friends with both him and his father, and has learned that Lewis has been selling weapons to...certain infamous terrorist organizations, and rather recklessly so. If Stanhope passes away, and this is found out, Nixon Firearms would be shut down. As you know, this would hurt our business as well as theirs. It can't happen."

Dick nods. "What happens when he dies?"

"His younger sister, Blanche, will be next to inherit," Sobel says, pausing as he is given a new meal. "She doesn't care to be involved at all. She will give it over to our client, who will straighten things out and continue to run the company as is it is run now."

"Alright," Dick says, finishing his meal. "What information can you give me?"

"Photographs, his home address, his work schedule. You'll need to piece the rest together yourself," says Sobel, sending the butler a significant look. The man turns to leave, and Sobel looks back at Dick. "Evans will bring you the information in just a moment. You have until the end of September to make the kill. If Lewis Nixon is not dead by midnight of October first, you will no longer be under my protection, Dick. There is far too much riding on this for you to fail me."

"I understand, sir," Dick says mildly. He takes the flash drive Evans presents to him, tucking it in his jacket pocket.

"There is a safe house for you just across the street from Lewis's home," Sobel says, and Evans hands Dick a folded piece of paper. "You may stay there to observe him. There is equipment set up for you already."

"Sir."

Sobel smiles, getting to his feet. "I suppose that will be all," he says, tinged with regret. "You're welcome to stay the night."

"No thank you, sir," Dick refuses politely. "I'd rather get myself to New Jersey, if it's all the same to you." He stands, letting Sobel lead the way to the door.

"Next time, then." Sobel murmurs, kissing Dick goodbye.

"Maybe," Dick replies, shaking his hand and turning to his car. He leaves Sobel's home, a sick feeling in his stomach.

The price of failure is steep, indeed.

Dick drives back home. He packs his things, feeds the cat again, and sets out for New Jersey. It's not a long drive, and he pulls up to the house just as the sun is beginning to set. He's taken aback by the neighborhood, though he shouldn't be surprised - the homes lining the streets are easily five to seven bedroom mansions, elegantly decorated with expensive cars parked out front. The safe house is a four bedroom, with brown cobblestone walls and elegant windows, and he pulls his car into the garage to find a blue 2017 Cadillac sedan waiting inside. He could afford to live like this himself, but he chooses not to.

He closes the garage and gets out, going into the kitchen. There is food in the fridge, and all the cookware he could need. On the dining table there is an envelope, and he opens it to find credentials; a debit and credit card, a state ID, a driver's license, a social security card. All fake, registered to a Richard Price. Dick explores the rest of the house, finding a living room, guest bathroom, and the four bedrooms upstairs, with one bathroom connected to the master bedroom and another open for the other rooms. In one of the spare bedrooms he finds an office set up, CCTV feeds showing the interior and exterior of another house. He realizes it's Nixon's home, and feels an unexpected pang of guilt.

Dick doesn't like to take jobs like this, where he has to get close, to get the know the person's life. He prefers to kill from a distance, knowing the bare minimum, going on with his life without the knowledge of a family to mourn the death of their loved one, a father, a husband, a brother- he'd killed women before, too, and he'll never know if they were mothers or sisters, wives or aunts. He's no better than whoever had killed his own family.

Dick goes to the master bedroom, setting down his things and taking out his laptop and the flash drive. Once the computer is booted up he opens the flash drive, paging through the information. He hovers over the pictures folder for a moment before clicking.

"Oh, no," Dick groans. On his screen is the same dark haired, handsome man he'd slept with in New York. He clicks through the other photos, his heart sinking as they are all, clearly, Lewis Nixon; the man he'd let fuck him in the backseat of his Corvette, heir of Nixon Firearms, and apparently, father to a little girl as well.

"Christ."