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Vasily was working on the weights when the guard came for him. "Villany. The warden wants to see you. The big man grunted, sweating as he let the weights back down on their rests and sat up.

"What does he want? I am not so foolish as to be one of his pets," Vasily rumbled.

The guard, Dimitri by name, watched warily. "I do not know. I just work here. He wants you in his office." A pause. "Please."

Vasily raised an eyebrow at the simple word. "I will clean up first." The statement was not one that allowed for disagreement, and Dimitri swallowed hard.

"I think... I don't think he'd mind that," he stammered.

The inmate chuckled and stood, towering over the much smaller guard. "Come. This will not take long. Then you can shackle me if you wish." Vasily stretched then, shoulders and knuckles popping. With Dimitri in tow he went to the showers.

Not long after he was standing in the depressingly opulent waiting area outside the Warden's office, shackles on his wrists and ankles, the guards stationed therein watching him nervously. Giving a snort of amusement, Vasily took a seat. The wait wasn't long, maybe five minutes; which was unusual. Warden Igonov had a reputation of liking people to be off-balance. Over the intercom at the secretary's desk came the message, "Send inmate Polykov in."

The guards instantly became wary once more as Vasily stood; at a hair under 2 meters tall he towered over them both. They opened the door, and followed him in. His eyes flicked left and right, instinctively looking for escape routes and cover before settling on the man behind the opulent walnut desk.

The only real similarity between Vasily and Warden Igonov was that both were bald; Vasily however shaved his pate, whereas the warden's hair was simply gone. In his sixties, Igonov was stooped, but his eyes still had steel in them. "Sit down, Inmate Polykov. We have matters to discuss."

"So I am to be executed?" Vasily smiled. The expression did nothing to make him look less threatening. "Good. The food here is terrible."

Igonov straightened. "No. But you won't be eating here after today. You're being paroled."

"You cannot be serious. I have not had a hearing; at the last, I was told that I was 'not redeemable' and 'a threat to society'. What has changed?" Despite his disbelief, Vasily was tense with hope.

Ignonv took a pair of glasses off his desk, donning them to look over a sheaf of papers in front of him. "Vasily Polykov. Born 1963, trouble since an early age, part of the Russian mob as a legbreaker. Sent here eleven years ago for a ten-to-twenty sentence for multiple counts of violent felonies. Correct?"

Vasily nodded. His history held no shame for him. No pride either.

Igonov continued. "First parole hearing was held five years into your sentence, and the determination was essentially as you just stated. This was repeated until this year, when yesterday I received orders for your parole and release." He set the papers down and stared at Vasily. "As I am unaware of how this could be, I was curious if you could shed light on the matter?"

"No. I have many friends in low places, as you know. None in places that would gain me release." Vasily leaned forward. "Who signed the release papers?"

Igonov watched Vasily, after a moment seeming to come to a conclusion. "You will forgive me, but I cannot say. It is official, but the signatory was redacted. We spent hours trying to get the information to no avail." He set the sheaf of pages down. "Know that I think that you are still a threat, Polykov. There is little proof, but violence trails after you like the wake of a ship. If I had my way you would never leave Vladimir Central, but it is out of my hands. Go to your cell, gather your things. The guards will see you out."

The day was cold and cloudy as Vasily passed out the gates of Vladimir Central Prison for the first time in eleven years; he blinked at the light, oddly bright despite the clouds. A bus was waiting to take him back to Moscow... But what then? And who arranged his release? He didn't trust the situation at all. And there were other concerns that he should deal with as well. Concerns that he was certain that Warden Igonov would have been shocked to know.

Getting into Moscow, he quickly purchased a celphone from a kiosk and activated it. He made several calls, the first of which was to his bank- the one the police hadn't found. His money was still there, with eleven years interest. He made his way there, withdrawing a goodly amount- it would take time for a bank card to be issued, so he decided to not bother. Arranging a room at a fleabag hotel, he settled in to deal with certain things.

Sitting at the desk, he laid out his tools- a heavy tweezer, a scalpel, needle and thread. He looked at the red lines along his forearms and grunted. What lay beneath burned, a hateful spiting poison that very likely had kept him alive for his years of incarceration. At least it had only been for three nights a month. Biting his lower lip, he picked up the scalpel, and cut.

Vasily wiped the sweat from his head; an hour had passed during the impromptu surgery, and his forearms were bloody and itching. The four-inch solid silver needles that had been embedded within him now lay in an ashtray, black with tarnish. He wiped his arms off, scrubbing hard with alcohol despite the burning pain, needing to get all of the taint OUT. Breathing hard. he watched as the wounds slowly started to knit. "Finally."

Moonlight shone in through the window, piercing the cloudcover in the early evening. He looked up at the light, full moon shing bright for a short time before being masked once again by clouds. He inhaled the night air, taking in the scents of the city; regardless of all that had happened, this was home.

Three soft pops sounded; at almost the same time, a single crack and two softer sounds of impact sounded- bullets hitting the wall and windowsill! He dove to the floor, just as another shot whinged through where he'd been. He could smell the silver, too close and hot from its flight. Listening, he heard men in the hall- two, one on either side of the door. "So. This is why I was freed," Vasily thought, a grin spreading on his face. By their actions, they didn't know exactly what they were facing with him- he decided to show them.

Piotr glanced at his partner. He and Georgi had been offered two grand apiece to nail this Vasily guy, and for that much cash- American at that- Piotr would have to think twice if the mark was his mother. He knew a third shooter was involved, but he was fairly sure he and Georgi would get the score. The room was silent; no more bullet impacts meant that either the mark was hit and down, or out of the sight of the sniper. Looking at Georgi again, he nodded, then reached for the doorknob, turning it slowly.

Within the room, a snarl rose, a basso rumble that Georgi had never heard before; he had time enough to wonder at the sound before two massive limbs exploded out on either side of him; Georgi screamed, but Piotr was already headless. The thing that had been Vasily turned to the other man, the stink of piss suddenly in the air. Georgi fainted dead away as Vasily lifted the headless corpse one-armed, grabbed his bag with the other, and leapt out the window.

As he'd expected, bullets thudded into the corpse of Piotr; Landing on the low roof below, Vasily instantly sprinted away, leaving the body behind. Loping on three limbs he barreled at top speed, getting buildings between him and the shooter. Another snarl came from him, this time maybe more amusement than anger. He stopped at the river to rinse the blood from his hands, then sought refuge for the night.

The next morning, Vasily emptied his accounts- both the one the police knew about, and the one they didn't. He made contact with a few old acquaintences, and for a large sum arranged a Visa for Canada and for the transfer of the funds to a Canadian bank. He knew that someone wanted him dead, so it was time to move on... At least until he learned who and why. Then perhaps, a visit home would be in order. Three days later he was looking back from the stern of a freighter, saying to himself, "Things move so fast; maybe I can outrun them for a time."

Epilogue

"What did you find?" Alexander Gorky's question was almost a whisper, despite speaking normally. His companion shook his head.

"Little. Other than the corpse, all that was found was these." A small plastic bottle is set on the table between them. Alexander opened it, revealing two blackened needles, a pair of tweezers and a scalpel stained in blood.

"What of the witness?" He asked.

"He was found wandering the street in shock; he remembers nothing that is usable." The taller man rubbed his eyes; the last two days hadn't been good for sleeping.

"Do we know where he went?" Alexander knew the answer, and dreaded it- his superiors wouldn't be pleased.

The answer came simply. "No."

Alexander downed his vodka, setting the glass down with unconscious precision. "Then we find him, no matter where he goes."