Sometimes it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Siberia in April isn't in any tourist guidebook. But that is where Trapp finds himself. It's cold, dark, and the vodka tastes like gasoline.
After brawling with half a dozen corrupt Russian cops, he's taken to the infamous penal colony marked on maps as IK-29, but known to inmates as the Black Eagle. The guards are brutes, their prisoners little better than animals. It's hell on earth.
And this time, he's on his own. The Agency has no knowledge of his mission. They wouldn't back him if they did. Because men like Trapp are tools. They aren't supposed to get ideas of their own.
