The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

afforded. There were too many variables to guarantee success in a mission such as this, but Nikita knew himself well enough to admit that there was little to compare to the thrill of having to improvise on a mission. Doing so in a prison break-in gave him a shot of adrenaline it would be hard to recreate.

Looking around him, he could see pots, pans and all of the things you would expect to see in a prison, albeit with an absence of sharp objects. His eyes fell on the gas stoves and he moved over to them swiftly. Lighting one of the hobs, he dropped a large pile of dirty rags on top of the flame and swiftly moved back towards the door, carefully propping it slightly open with a one rouble coin. He then hid himself behind a large cupboard door adjacent to the kitchen door.

The flames quickly grew and greasy black smoke began to rise. Within a minute, he heard a cry of alarm from one of the guards and the door burst open. Watching through a crack in the cupboard hinges, Nikita was relieved to see both guards come charging in and over to the flames billowing from the top of the industrial stove. He silently slipped out, and keeping to the limited shadows along the wall, he darted quickly over to the doorway on the left. It was not a moment too soon, as other guards then descended the metal stairwells and ran to see what the commotion was all about.

The noises quickly fell into the distance and Nikita moved with haste down a surgically white corridor. When he reached the end, he climbed down another metal gridded staircase, before finding himself in a crumbling old corridor that could only be described as the dungeons of the prison.

Gas lights were lit along the walls, flickering dimly, and the scattering footsteps of rats could be heard as he made his way along, long tails briefly glimpsed at the edge of the gloom. A terrible odour grew steadily worse the further Nikita got along what felt more like a tunnel than a corridor. He covered his nose but could still taste the stink. What manner of hell was this place?

As he rounded a corner, he saw a guard sitting on a chair next to tap and basin, reading a newspaper. The guard looked up and his eyes widened in horror. He reached for the whistle around his neck, but in three leaping strides Nikita was upon him. With his right hand balled into a fist but with the joint of his middle finger extended forwards he punched the guard hard on the temple. He crumpled instantly. Nikita checked his pulse. He was still alive, but would not be awake for several hours, possibly longer.

He continued forwards. When he reached the end of the corridor, he found the cell that Yerin was inhabiting and silently slid the metal slat in the door open.

He jumped as a pair of fearsome eyes was pressed firmly to the gap. They were gripped by the first tinges of madness.

They widened upon comprehending Nikita. “You!” Yerin gasped, falling backwards against the wall directly behind him in the tiny box that was his lodgings. His eyes were puffy, his lips dry and bleeding.

Nikita was appalled by what he saw, a level of squalor reserved for the middle ages.

“How long have you been in here?” he asked, gasping between putrid breaths.

“I do not know the meaning of time. I think, perhaps three days. No man can endure more. Are you here to kill me?” he asked simply, only seeming to be semi-aware, on the brink of unconsciousness.

“That would be merciful,” Nikita replied.

“Then Klitchkov has some other plan for me? I will do anything to be free of this tomb,” Yerin said.

“Then tell me everything, and do not lie. You made sure I was trained to detect a lie.”

“What do I get in return?”

“I promise you nothing in return. But perhaps you can regain some honour.”

Yerin forced his swollen eyelids open to look at Nikita. “I beg you to open the door and let me sit. Do this and I will tell you everything. As you can see, I am in no condition to escape.”

Nikita knew he would have to open the cell regardless, and so, nodding silently, he swiftly picked the lock, hearing the tell-tale click of the internal bolt mechanism sliding across. He pulled the door open, stepping aside to avoid the expected flood of Yerin’s own filth pouring out. Instead, the door revealed a low wall inside the cell itself to keep the detritus contained.

Yerin tumbled out, his legs giving way and fell over the wall onto the floor. Nikita bent over to help him up to a sitting position.

“AAAHHHHH!” cried Yerin as he rolled over and sliced at Nikita, aiming for his heart with a short sharp object. Nikita fended it off but it managed to draw blood from his forearm, and his eyes blazed.

He disarmed the feeble Yerin and punched him hard in the face, forcing him back to the floor. He looked at the weapon; it was perhaps eight inches long from the tip of the blade to the foot of the handle. At first, he thought it was plastic, but on closer inspection it looked to be carved from bone, with hessian sacking material wrapped around the handle. The blade was around four inches long. Long enough to be lethal.

Yerin rubbed his cheek where Nikita had struck him. It was already inflamed and red, as well as filthy from where he was rubbing with his dirt-caked hands. Never had Nikita seen a more pitiable creature. The filthy grey vest hung down to his thighs, and the once blue trousers he wore were now caked in faeces and wet with urine. Whether his own or not, Nikita could not