Andrea sighed and rubbed her face with calloused hands. They'd just gotten back from a mission up in Nunavut.
God, she hated Canada.
The people were too polite, and it was so goddamn cold. And then there was a the bagged milk. It was all just so weird. She was pretty sure that Ellen had never gotten so badly beat up (Ellen's forte was not hand-to-hand combat) by somebody who kept saying 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as they punched her in her face.
And the snow. Oh god, the snow. It was so cold that all of their water froze, and they had to sleep with the frigid water bottles pressed against their stomachs to melt them. It was, overall, a sucky mission.
But they did what they had to do. A rich old man who had a suspicious past with drugs and, more specifically, drug dealing, had escaped up North to escape the authorities. But the organization that the Archers worked for had been almost completely sure that he was their guy.
They had captured him and took out a couple of the higher ups who were confirmed to have been involved in illegal dealing.
But Andrea was now lying on her bed, black silk sheets tangled around her torso (the people who got thrust into situations where the chances were against them coming out alive got paid a lot more than you'd think. Probably because of the death risk...) as she contemplated calling Mortician. He probably wouldn't want to hear from her until she was ready to go over the previous debrief, though.
Ellen was passed out on the floor, Eve was curled up at the end of the bed like some weird cat or something, Alex had raided the fridge and then gone to slink somewhere, Aleksander was probably asleep on the couch after watching about 5 consecutive hours of reality telly, Derek had most likely drank a couple shots of vodka (the only one who could outdrink him was Andrea herself, but she didn't feel like it right now) and then gone to read a book, and who knows where Tammy went.
Oh well. It wasn't like anyone was going anywhere right now.