[GK]Heat Mode

Note: when i was on my tropical vacation, eating green banana from trees and paddling with my pathetic tiny arms, all i was thinking was: man, i gotta inflict this on them hoes...though they might actually enjoy it...i don't even know if they get sea otters in Indonesia...

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Ogata was coiling the last of the tangled paracord when he was finishing his mission brief. His eyebrow lifted at the mention of an extra hand. He didn't like it. A job should be fast and simple: get in, get out, get paid. That's how he liked it.
This one looked standard enough. Some wealthy old man with a dirty little secret, whose associate had walked into a honey trap set in a tropical paradise. Now Ogata had to extract the hostage.
The target was clearly holding something valuable, so much that the client didn't trust sending just the best. Although the agency wasn't in the habit of splitting the bounty, and his pay remained the same. So Ogata just shrugged. He carried his gear, strode through the jet bridge like all normal civil passengers, and slid his eye mask on. He was dead to the world long before the plane touched down in Jakarta.
The airport was air-conditioned, but the moment he stepped outside, a heatwave hit him square in the face. It was then that the reality of the tropical climate truly sank in.
Walking in the sun felt like being on a grill. Staying in the shade was like slow-boiling in the moist, heavy air.
He would've loved to hide in a cab or a motel room, but mercenary work wasn't a job for pussy. The next morning, at the sound of a honk in the yard, he climbed right out of the bed and into the minivan. If he hated this place that much, he'd do better, finish the job and leave sooner.
The driver tossed him a bottled water. Ogata just peered at the suspiciously unbranded plastic and let it slide onto the seat. "Where's the other guy?" he asked, busy checking his phone one last time before they drove into the no-service zone.
The driver didn't answer.
Ogata looked up from his phone. Maybe his pronunciation was off, or the local didn't speak the language. Silly him.
But in the rearview mirror, he saw a white guy who's covered almost head to toe. The van was chilled to near-freezing. Maybe that was why.
If only he hadn't seen the eyes also peering back at him from the mirror.
Ogata swallowed. At least he hadn't drunk from the bottle.
"Privyet," he said as if casually, already switching languages. "How's your face?"
The driver grunted. So he was still in recovery. Ogata hoped he wasn't leering too obviously, but he could see his own face spreading into an ugly, wide grin from the reflection. "Hope it wasn't too painful."
The Russian guy glared with such intensity that he stopped watching the road. He must have stomped on the gas like a kicking bag, because the next thing Ogata knew, the van lunged forward. A passing truck laid on a deafening horn when avoided them. The steering wheel jerked.
"The fuck?" Ogata hooked an arm tightly around the front seat to keep from being tossed through the open window.
He heard a murmur from under the man's facemask. "Safebelt," it seemed to say.
Now it was Ogata's turn to fumble with the seatbelt, trying to buckle himself in. Dying in a car crash on the way to a mission was exactly the kind of story that would outlive him
He fiddled around the metal clip in the backseat, feeling foolish under the Russian's silent judgment.
Eventually, Ogata dropped the belt altogether. The other guy nearly yelped as he climbed between the seats and dropped into the passenger side, if not for the injury on his face.
"You should probably take off the mask, you know." Ogata said, finally content. He leaned back into the cushion, side-eying. "Let the air flow. Heals faster."
Mr. Pachinko, or whatever his name was, muttered something under his breath again. But he couldn't possibly know that Ogata's kind suggestion was purely for his own satisfaction. Ogata smiled faintly at the pink-and-brown gash now exposed beneath the removed mask. He liked what he saw. His own handiwork.
Sure, it might have been a nasty shot, sending a bullet through the other man's cheek, but Ogata could have just as easily blown his brains out. After all, this guy was hired to assassinate Ogata's asset. It was fair, justified. Nothing personal.
In a way, he was being unusually nice, leaving him with nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Ogata pretended that he hadn't noticed the man's attractiveness even from half a mile away through his scope.
"So," Ogata began, lazily draping an arm over the back of the seat. "Didn't know you ever worked with this agency."
The other mercenary responded with a series of quick, muffled hums. Even with his mask off and his wounds nearly closed, he still wasn't speaking. Maybe he had lost his tongue, too. Ogata thought with a slow nod.
It must be deeply embarrassing, walking around with that. And frustrating. Their line of work required blending in, and now everyone who saw him would do a double take. He no longer looked like a sharp shooter capable of protecting an asset, but like a thug, a low-level goon.
That probably explained it. His old agency must have struggled to get him hired after such a visible failure. Now he was forced to look for work outside their usual zakonniki circles. And Ogata had to hold his hand through it all, like babysitting a toddler.
He sighed. He'd been hoping for an easy task. Now he'd have to watch both ways every time he got off for a pee, or there was a fair chance he'd get run over by their own minivan.