Jerry B. Marchant
A long awaited winter

Chapter 1

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered vineyards of rural France. James "J.D." Delaney stood at the window of his rustic stone cottage, the chill of winter creeping through the glass panes. The landscape outside was picturesque, a postcard of serenity that belied the storm brewing within him. He had built this life of seclusion ten years ago, a deliberate choice to escape the ghosts of his past, yet the shadows of those memories still lingered like spectres in the corners of his mind.

J.D. turned away from the window, his gaze falling on the shelves lining the walls of his modest living room. Each bottle of vintage French wine, meticulously collected over the years, stood as a testament to his resolve against indulgence. He had long since made peace with the fact that he could no longer trust himself with vices. The last time he had allowed himself to indulge—years ago in a dimly lit bar in Kiev—had ended in chaos and bloodshed. He shivered at the thought.

As he moved to the small kitchen, the scent of fresh bread filled the air. He had taken to baking as a form of therapy, a way to ground himself in the present. The loaves were golden brown, a stark contrast to the cold outside. He pulled one from the oven, its warmth wrapping around him like a comforting embrace.

But as he sliced into the crusty exterior, his thoughts drifted back to that fateful mission in Ukraine. The faces of those he had lost haunted him: colleagues, innocents, and the one person who had mattered most—his brother. J.D. had been the analyst, the linguist who had misinterpreted a critical piece of intelligence, leading to a botched operation that cost lives. The guilt had driven him to this isolated life, away from the world of espionage that had once thrilled him.

He placed the bread on the table and poured himself a cup of dark coffee, his hands shaking slightly. The tranquility of his surroundings was abruptly shattered by the distant sound of a car approaching. He frowned, peering through the frosted window. A sleek black vehicle glided to a stop at the end of his driveway. J.D. felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Visitors were rare in this part of the world, and he had gone to great lengths to ensure his privacy.

He set down his coffee, moving cautiously to the door, the Luger P08 already in his hand—a relic from his Berlin days, meticulously oiled. Through the frosted glass, he could see a figure stepping out of the car—tall, poised, and unmistakably confident. The figure moved with purpose, a stark contrast to the rustic charm of his cottage.

The knock came at 5:47 a.m.

Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks. A KGB cadence, outdated but deliberate. Delaney’s pulse didn’t quicken. He’d rehearsed this moment for years.

Through the rain-streaked window, he sees her: a silhouette sharp as a scalpel, trench coat cinched tight. Ice-blonde hair glints beneath the porch light. Russian, he thinks, but not Moscow—something colder. Siberia, maybe. Grozny.

He hesitates. Not out of fear, but ritual. Ten years ago, he’d have barricaded the door, fled through the root cellar. Now, he straightens his sweater—gray wool, frayed at the cuffs—and breathes in the scent of bergamot and impending storm.

Showtime.

(through the door, in French)

–“We’re closed. Try the bakery in town. Their lies are fresher.”

–“I prefer stale truths, Mr. Delaney. Open the door.”

He does. Rain gusts into the cottage, carrying the smell of wet earth and diesel exhaust. Her eyes—pale blue, like Arctic ice—flick to the Luger in his hand. She doesn’t reach for her own weapon.

–“I’ve been waiting for you. What took so long?”

Standing before him was a woman, sharp and striking. Irina Volkova. He recognized her immediately, despite the years that had passed since their paths had last crossed. The scar across her jawline told stories of battles fought and survived, and her piercing blue eyes held a fierce intensity that sent a chill down his spine.

“Delaney,” she said, her voice smooth yet edged with steel. “We need to talk.”

J.D. took a step back, instinctively placing a hand on the doorframe for support. “What do you want, Irina? I’m not involved in any of this anymore.”

“Not involved? You’re the only one who can help me,” she replied, her tone unyielding. “I know you have it.”

He studied her for a moment, the memories flooding back—shared missions, whispered conversations, and the tension that had crackled between them. But that was a lifetime ago.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to maintain his composure.

Irina’s expression shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t lie to me, J.D. I know you speak perfect Russian, and I know you’ve been living under an alias. The list you stole—it’s not just a rumor. The Kremlin wants it back.”

His heart raced, and he felt his pulse quicken. The classified list of deep-cover Russian spies was a ghost he had hoped to bury forever. It was a relic of his past life, one that had nearly cost him everything.

“You don’t understand the danger you’re in,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You need to leave.”

Irina stepped forward, her presence commanding. “And let you hide away in this cottage while the world burns? You owe it to those who died because of your mistakes to help me.”

J.D. hesitated, the weight of her words sinking in. The ghosts of the past were rising, and he could no longer ignore them. But as he looked into her fierce eyes, he also saw a flicker of something else—an understanding, a shared pain.

“Come inside,” he finally said, opening the door wider. “We have a lot to discuss.”

As she stepped over the threshold, J.D. felt the chill of winter seep into his bones—a harbinger of the storm that was about to unfold. The past had returned, and with it, the dangerous game of espionage he had tried so hard to escape.

Chapter 2:

Whispers in the Wind

The door clicked shut behind Irina, sealing the cold air outside. J.D. felt the weight of her presence in his small living room, the shadows of the past looming large. He gestured toward a worn chair at the kitchen table, while he took a seat opposite her, studying her carefully.

“Coffee?” he offered, his voice steadier than he felt.

“No, thank you,” she replied, her gaze unwavering. “Let’s get to the point.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “You said something about a list. What exactly do you know?”

Irina leaned forward, her posture tense, as if she were poised to spring into action. “I know that you were the last person to have access to it before it disappeared. The Kremlin is on high alert, and they believe you have it hidden somewhere. They’ll do anything to get it back, including sending people to find you.”

J.D. felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He had never intended to keep the list; it had been a matter of survival. In the chaos of that fateful night in Ukraine, he had taken it as a precaution, fearing it would fall into the wrong hands. “I don’t have it,” he lied, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Irina’s expression hardened. “You’re lying, and we both know it. You may think you’ve escaped, but the past doesn’t let go easily. Not for you, not for me.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms defensively. “Why should I help you? You’re working for the Kremlin, aren’t you? This is all just a ruse to get what you want.”

She sighed, exasperated. “You don’t understand. I’m not here for them. I’m here for my brother. You were responsible for his death, Delaney. That botched operation in Ukraine—it was your mistake that got him killed.”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. J.D. felt the blood drain from his face. He could still see the chaos of that night—the gunfire, the screams, the moment he realized it was too late. “I didn’t know he was there,” he stammered.

“Does that matter? You made a choice, and people died because of it,” she shot back, her voice rising with emotion. “But I’m not here to kill you. Not yet. I need you alive to verify the authenticity of the list. If it’s legitimate, it could turn the tide in this conflict.”

J.D. felt a glimmer of hope mixed with dread. “And if I refuse? What then?”

Irina’s gaze softened momentarily. “Then you’ll be hunted, just like I am. The Kremlin will stop at nothing to silence you, and I can’t protect you if you refuse to cooperate.”

He weighed her words, feeling the gravity of the situation. “What’s your plan?”

“I have contacts who can help us. We need to verify the list and expose the corruption within both the CIA and the Kremlin. They’ve turned this into a game of power, and innocent lives are at stake,” she explained, her voice steady now, filled with conviction.

J.D. felt a flicker of admiration for her resolve. Despite their tumultuous history, Irina had grown into a formidable force. “And what’s in it for you?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Revenge,” she said simply, her eyes narrowing. “But also justice. I owe it to my brother to see this through.”

Silence enveloped the room as the weight of their shared history settled upon them. J.D. felt the walls closing in, the past and present colliding in a chaotic dance. He had long wanted to atone for his mistakes, but the path ahead was fraught with danger.

“Fine,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “I’ll help you. But first, we need to lay low. If the Kremlin is on our tail, we can’t draw attention to ourselves.”

Irina nodded, her expression shifting to one of determination. “Agreed. We need to get to the list before they do. Do you have it hidden somewhere?”

J.D. hesitated, knowing that revealing its location meant inviting Irina deeper into his world—a world he had tried so hard to leave behind. “It’s hidden, but you need to understand that this is dangerous territory. Once we get involved, there’s no turning back.”

“I’m aware of the risks,” Irina replied, her tone resolute. “I didn’t come all this way to back down now.”

He studied her for a moment, searching for any hint of hesitation. But there was none. They were both trapped in a web of their own making, and this might be their only chance to find redemption.

“Alright,” he said, standing up. “We’ll need to move quickly. If we’re going to do this, we can’t waste any time.”

Irina stood as well, a spark of determination igniting in her eyes. “Lead the way.”

As J.D. led her to the cramped cellar beneath his cottage, he felt the chill of the past creeping back, wrapping around him like a shroud. The darkness of the cellar was palpable, full of old memories and regrets, but it was also filled with the hope of a new beginning. Together, they would face the storm that awaited them, even if it meant confronting their deepest fears.

And as they descended into the shadows, J.D. couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a long, treacherous winter.

Chapter 3:

The Cellar

The cellar was a small, dimly lit space beneath J.D.'s cottage, accessed through a low, creaky door that seemed to groan with age. The air was cool and musty, tinged with the scent of damp earth and old wood. A single bulb flickered ominously from the ceiling, casting a light that struggled to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners.

As they descended the narrow, winding stairs, J.D. felt the familiar chill wrap around him, a stark contrast to the warmth of the cottage above. The stone walls were rough and uneven, their surfaces dotted with patches of mold. Shelves lined one side of the cellar, filled with dusty jars and forgotten relics from a bygone era. Old tools hung haphazardly on hooks, evidence of a life that had once been vibrant and full of activity.

At the far end of the cellar, a heavy wooden crate caught his eye. It was unmarked and weathered, its edges splintered and worn. J.D. approached it cautiously, his heart pounding as memories flooded back—memories of the choices he had made and the secrets he had kept.

He knelt beside the crate, brushing away layers of dust. With a steady hand, he pried open the lid. Inside lay a steel lockbox wrapped in an RFID-blocking pouch, its nickel fabric neutralizing any remote tracking signals. J.D. ran a calloused thumb over the tamper-evident seal—a strip of adhesive embedded with microscopic glass beads that scattered like diamond dust if disturbed. The beads still glinted intact.

“You hid it here?” Irina muttered, eyeing the mold-streaked walls. “No Faraday cage? No biometric lock?”

“The best security is irrelevance,” J.D. said, peeling back the pouch to reveal a keypad. “Four tries before it fries the contents.”

*0402*—his brother’s birthday. The lock hissed open.

Irina leaned in as J.D. lifted the folder labeled Project Dusk. Beneath the top sheet—a roster of codenames and embassy postings—lay a second layer: pages of seemingly random numbers.

“Steganographic cipher,” J.D. said, thumbing a UV penlight clipped to his keyring. Blue beams illuminated annotations in the margins: ’89 Margaux, ’03 Pomerol. “Key’s hidden in my wine catalogs. Coordinates correlate to auction lot numbers.”

Irina’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe the Kremlin’s crown jewel is decoded via vintage Bordeaux?”

“The SVR’s counter-intel division doesn’t stockpile Wine Spectator,” J.D. snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. “It’s deniable.”

Suddenly, a muffled thud echoed from above—a floorboard groaning under misplaced weight. Both froze.

“Company,” Irina whispered, drawing a micro pistol from her boot, the metal glinting in the dim light.

J.D. snapped the lockbox shut, feeling the weight of their predicament settle in. “Back stairwell. Now.”

As they ascended, he palmed a NATO-style lanyard grenade from the crate—insurance for the unexpected. Shadows bled across the walls, winter’s teeth biting deeper as they moved swiftly, adrenaline coursing through them. Each creak of the floorboards echoed their urgency, a reminder that time was running out.

Once they reached the top, J.D. paused, listening intently. The muffled sound from above had subsided, but he could still feel the tension lingering in the air.

“Did you hear that?” J.D. asked, exchanging a glance with Irina.

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice low. “We need to be ready for anything.”

They stepped into the cool air outside, the winter sun hanging low, casting long shadows across the snow-covered landscape. The beauty of the scene was almost surreal, the tranquility of the moment starkly contrasting with the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.

J.D. led the way down a narrow path that wound through the vineyards, his heart racing as he glanced around, half-expecting to see dark figures lurking in the distance. He had always prided himself on being cautious, but now every sound felt amplified, every rustle of branches a potential threat.

“The last thing I want is to draw attention to ourselves,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We need to move quickly and quietly.”

Irina fell into step beside him, her presence both comforting and unsettling. “I can handle myself, you know. I’ve dealt with worse than a few prying eyes.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “I have no doubt, but this isn’t just about you. We’re in deep now, and I can’t afford to lose you.”

Her lips curled into a slight smirk. “You think I’m a liability?”

“Not a liability. A wild card,” he replied, a hint of a smile breaking through his tension. “And I don’t know if I can trust you completely. Not yet.”

Irina’s expression shifted, the playful banter replaced by a seriousness that mirrored his own. “You don’t have to trust me, J.D. You just have to believe that we both want the same thing: to survive.”

They pressed on through the vineyards, the crunch of snow underfoot their only sound. As they approached the edge of the property, J.D. felt a sense of urgency in the air, a premonition that their time was running out. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.

“Once we reach the road, we should be able to flag down a car,” he said, focusing on the task at hand. “We need to act inconspicuously.”

Irina nodded, her demeanor shifting back to the calculated operative he had known. “I’ll handle the negotiations. Just follow my lead.”

They reached the road, a narrow, winding path that led to the nearest town. J.D. glanced at Irina, feeling a mix of admiration and apprehension. “You really believe we can pull this off?”

“Believe? No. But I know we have to try,” she replied, her voice firm. “The stakes are too high, and the clock is ticking.”

As they stood by the roadside, a vehicle approached in the distance. J.D.’s heart raced as he raised a hand, signaling for the driver to stop. The car slowed, the driver eyeing them with curiosity.

“Just remember,” Irina said softly, “no matter what happens, we stick together.”

The car that approached was a sleek, silver sedan, its polished exterior glinting in the winter sun. The driver was a middle-aged man, perhaps in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back. His angular face bore the lines of experience, hinting at a life lived on the edge. He wore a dark wool coat that contrasted sharply with the crisp white of his shirt, and a patterned scarf wrapped loosely around his neck added a touch of color. His piercing green eyes, sharp and observant, scanned J.D. and Irina with a mix of curiosity and caution.

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