Evening, August 26th, outskirts of Dutch Harbor Alaska

Rusty reclined in his favorite chair. Rain pattered on the roof of his modest manufactured home in Dutch Harbor. He looked outside and saw the rain streaking down his window, while the heater purred comfortably. Jets screamed across his old tube TV, from his well worn VHS of Top Gun. Rusty smiled under his rust-red mustache. The best movie in the world, he thought, takes me back to the Gulf War. He took the last long pull from his ice cold can of beer, shook it, and found it empty.

Rusty paused the movie and levered his fifty year old body out of his chair with a grunt. He smoothed his receding hair down, scratched his thick, powerful torso through his white t-shirt, and padded down the hall to his fridge in socks.

Four blocks away, Bogdan and Aleksandr parked their weathered white sprinter van and opened their doors into the evening rain. Bogdan, the older of the two, shrugged his six foot tall, stocky frame into a long rubber raincoat. He flipped the hood forward, covering his close cropped brown hair and framing his stubble-covered lantern jaw and harsh, deep-set eyes. Aleksandr circled around to the front of the van. His short, wiry frame flashed in front of the headlights.

"Ready?" Said Bogdan.

"Sure. Seems simple enough."

Bodgan punched him in the arm. Aleksandr tipped sideways and caught himself with a scuffle of shoes on gravel. "Sasha. You're putting on a brave face. Do this enough, and it becomes nothing."

Aleksandr sighed. "I guess. It's new for me."

Bogdan grunted. They started a slow walk at the margin of the road. Gravel crunched under their heavy boots.

"I've never torn up a passport and flushed it down a toilet before."

"Get used to it. I've had a lot of names."

"I guess. I was Konstantin Abdulov for JFK to Seattle. Then Fyodor Popov to Anchorage. Konstantin isn't a bad name. I kind of liked it." Aleksandr smiled and swung a canvas tool bag as he walked.

Bogdan said nothing. The road had no street lights. They passed a few manufactured homes, set down gravel driveways at odd angles to the road.

"Why are we walking anyway?"

Bogdan sighed heavily. "You'll learn. These Americans all have guns. A stranger pulls up to the house making a racket, and they have time to get ready. Knocking is less suspicious for the neighbors than kicking a door down anyway."

"Oh."

They kept walking. The lawns were damp and green, behind chain link fences. Aleksandr's eyes tracked a heap of cars, piled under a blue tarp. The tarp's edges rippled in the wind.

Aleksandr spoke again. "I think I'm starting to miss Little Odessa. We've only been here a week."

"I miss Varenichnaya. The pelmeni and borscht. Phew." Bogdan shook his head ruefully.

"You're going to make me hungry. I don't think they have kasha and onions here. Or herring. Did you see the shithole airport? There was only one terminal. This town is a backwater."

Bogdan shrugged. "I guess. You can still enjoy the simple things. Did you know we're further West than Hawaii?"

"​​Сука, really?"

He nodded. Rain sluiced off his hood. "We're practically in Siberia. This used to be Russian once. You see the church? Oldest one in Alaska. Russian."

Aleksandr scoffed. "You're not even religious."

Bogdan waved the comment away. "Whatever."

They found Rusty's house number and continued on the damp grass to either side of the gravel. The steps on the porch were crooked, and gave slightly as they stepped. Bogdan stood in front of the door, feet firmly planted. Aleksandr stood to the side, out of sight, with his well worn old Soviet pistol drawn under his jacket. Bogdan knocked, four staccato loud raps.

"Just a second," called Rusty. He kicked the footrest of his recliner down. This time of night, it's probably Bruce. He shook his head in frustration. Probably here to bitch about the bears messing with his garbage cans again. He pictured Bruce, standing too close like he always did, gaudy chain necklace nestled in his greasy chest hair and A-shirt.

Rusty opened the door, and his face immediately registered his surprise.

Bogdan stepped forward into the doorway, pushing Rusty backward. "Rusty Kowalski! Good to meet you."

"What... who are you?"

Aleksandr took a step in and quietly closed the door behind them. Bodgan put his large hand on Rusty's shoulder and squeezed. Rusty winced. "Not to worry, my friend. We just want to have a chat about your work day tomorrow. Just some extra planning to do. Nothing too serious."

Rusty saw the door close and immediately felt a cold prickle of panic. He thought through his exits. If I can push the wiry kid out of the way, I can get out the front door, he thought. Bogdan fixed him with a stern glare, and Rusty swallowed hard. This big guy is a problem. If I get them to sit down, I can slip out the back door off the kitchen.

"Sure. Where are my manners? Have a seat." He gestured to his couch, upholstered in a mouse fur fabric and worn down in the middle. "What about a beer?"

"That would be perfect. We've had a long day." Bogdan sat down, and nodded at Aleksandr.

Rusty made his way to the kitchen, and to his chagrin Aleksandr followed tightly behind. "It's fine, I can grab them. You sit. I insist."

Aleksandr's hand rested inside his jacket. "Can't do that."

Rusty swallowed hard, and turned to open the fridge with shaking hands. He carried the cold, sweating cans back to the living room and closed his eyes in mute frustration. Stupid, stupid, why did you think that would work?

He handed one to Aleksandr, who sat down in the recliner. He handed another to Bogdan, who gestured to sit beside him.

"Thank you for this, Rusty." Bogdan opened his beer with a click-fwish and tipped the top of the can in a small salute. "Look, what we have is a simple problem. We are just two men, with very little luggage, who want a ride tomorrow. You give people rides all the time. This is no different." He held his hands open, palms upward in a motion of mock innocence. "It's no big deal. We won't cause you any trouble. We'll just have a little more luggage than we stopped with."

The little guy sat in my goddamn recliner, thought Rusty. His eyes flicked to his shotgun, his father's old duck hunter, balanced against the mantle by its long and unwieldy barrel. It's long odds, but this is going nowhere good fast. I'd rather go down swinging. Never get taken to a secondary location. That's the rule, right?

Outwardly, Rusty kept his cool. He shrugged. "We can talk about it. Is it just the two of you? How much luggage?"

"Just the two of us, yes. Not much luggage. Just one big duffel."

"Where are you headed?"

"We need a ride to a ship. We understand you run tours there. It's a normal stop for you."

"It might be fine." Rusty sighed. "But look, it's getting too hot in here. Hang on just a sec. I need to close the damper on this stove." He got up with a small grunt from the low couch.

Rusty padded over to the stove in his white socks. As soon as high back was turned, Bogdan was up out of the couch following behind. Rusty leaned down to close the damper. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the stock of the old pump shotgun and lifted it to his shoulder. He started to rise up out of a crouch and spin toward the recliner.

He couldn't see Bogdan behind him, holding his own handgun by the barrel. As Rusty came up, the butt of Bogdan's gun came down in a fast whipping motion. It thumped as it connected with the side of Rusty's head. The shotgun clattered to the floor, and Rusty followed. He fell sideways onto the carpeting, and lay still. Aleksandr was happy that the carpeting had muffled the sound.

Bogdan straightened up and put his gun away in his waistband. Rusty lay in front of him, crumpled in the fetal position.

Aleksandr got up and stood next to him. "​​Сука. What the hell was he thinking?"

Bogdan looked down at Rusty. "He fought back. Have some respect. It's what you'd do too." He fixed Aleksandr in a steely glare. "Or at least, I hope you would."

Aleksandr looked away. He stammered. "I mean... of course. I guess. Sure, boss."

Bogdan grunted his displeasure. Aleksandr dropped to a crouch and looked closely at Rusty. "Блядь! Is he dead? Гавно. He's no use to us dead."

"Idiot. Check his pulse. No one teach you how to do that?"

Aleksandr looked up with an expression of mute outrage and embarrassment. "You aren't born knowing how to tell if someone is dead, you know? Cut me some slack."

He gingerly placed his finger on Rusty's stubble-covered neck. It throbbed with a strong, steady heart beat. Rusty's chest rose and fell gently as he breathed.

Aleksandr stood up again. "Ok, fine. He isn't dead. But why the hell did you have to give him a head injury? He won't be able to fly straight now."

Bogdan shrugged. "It was this or shoot him, Sasha. Then he'd be dead and the neighbors would call the police."

Aleksandr sighed. "I guess so." He set his tool bag on the recliner and unzipped it, then pulled out a roll of duct tape and a bundle of zip ties.