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

“Thank you kindly, it’s been a pleasure visiting the asshole of Ireland,” Nikita said. He pushed himself up, a slight groan escaping from his lips but fully aware of the rage in the barman’s eyes, and the continued glare of the man sat at the bar, his face now mostly lost in a cloud of reeking smoke.

Nikita walked from the bar unconcerned; a room full of white people hating him was nothing new. He knew going to a bar had been reckless, but he needed to clean the wound and a bar was his only option at this time of night.

He swaggered out but as soon as the door closed behind him, he fell to one knee, the pain coursing through his veins. He felt dizzy and lightheaded from the blood loss. He vomited straight onto the sidewalk outside the bar.

He pushed himself up, wiped his mouth roughly, and started to stagger towards the car, but spotting an alleyway half shrouded in darkness, the other half luminous in the moonlight, to his left, he veered down it and allowed himself to fall to the ground. He produced his smaller knife from its black sheath on his calf and ripped open his shirt. He took another swig of the whiskey and then poured some over the bullet wound, letting out a low cry as the alcohol seared the wound.

He glanced skywards briefly, looking to the gods he was not sure he believed in, and plunged the knife into the hole.

Initially he felt the point of the blade push the bullet hard against the bone and stuffed a piece of his shirt into his mouth to stop himself screaming. Moving the knife around he managed to get underneath the bullet and began to ease it out, feeling the razor-sharp knife slicing into the skin and sinew, widening the wound. He slowly eased the blade out, bringing with it the bullet, which mercifully had stayed whole and not fragmented.

He spat on the ground in pain. How can something so small cause so much pain, he thought through the throbbing.

Returning to inspect the wound, he saw that it looked like the profile of an aeroplane, with the hole in the middle and thin slits either side from the knife cut. It needed stitching but he had no needle or thread, or any way of getting any until the morning. He knew what he had to do.

He again poured whiskey on the wound before wiping clean the knife and pulling from his inside pocket a lighter which he held underneath the blade of the knife until it glowed red hot.

He looked again to the skies. “Lord, if you’re there, please give me strength.” He thrust the flat of the knife against the wound.

Pain such as he had never felt overtook him. White hot, searing agony burned through him. He struggled to hold onto consciousness, but held the knife in place as long as he could before releasing and falling back to the ground, tears of pain falling down his cheek as the knife clattered over to the wall.

He was dimly aware of a shadow falling over him as he lay back, something blocking the moonlight which had been bathing the alleyway.

He didn’t have to look up to know what was coming. Training with the KGB instilled a sixth sense in recruits, not through the training itself but through some other means that Nikita was unclear about, but not a single recruit came through without knowing exactly when danger loomed.

He ran the calculations quickly in his head and cursed that he had let his knife fall away. The barman, while insulted, would not leave the bar behind, but Black Beard and Red Beard would allow themselves to be separated from their Budweisers for a couple of minutes to beat down a black man who insulted their favourite watering hole. He doubted they would be the only ones wanting to get involved; this was west Texas after all. He reckoned four in total, but kept his eyes half closed and his hand clutching the Wild Turkey as he weighed his options and waited to decide his move.

The men approached quietly, not speaking, but not silent enough that Nikita couldn’t identify the shuffling footsteps and see that he was correct in there being four.

His body almost quivered with the adrenaline coursing through it, numbing any pain from the burnt flesh at his shoulder, for which he was grateful.

The shuffling stopped.

“Looks like this crow can’t handle his whiskey,” said one of the voices, to a chorus of gruff laughs, “Let’s give him a hangover he won’t forget.”

A single set of footsteps rapidly approached Nikita and he heard the rush of air as the man aimed a kick at his stomach.

Nikita lifted his legs and swung his body round, before leaping onto his feet. He swivelled and reverse kicked the man hard in his soft stomach, his foot sinking into the fat belly, propelling him backwards into the wall.

Nikita stood above him. He took up the Sambo fighting stance, the brutal martial art created and honed by the KGB. Entering his pose, he found a place of mindfulness and heightened awareness. He realised he could feel something other than adrenaline racing through his veins. Red hot rage.

The incorrect orders, the killing, the bullet wound and the constant, never-ending racism. He battled to control it, the words of Denisov echoing around his head — “mastering emotion is his biggest obstacle.” Then he remembered those two weeks in the cold box, and felt the ice return to his veins.

The three men in front of him looked nervous as their leader groaned and pushed himself up. The fat man bared his teeth and spat blood onto the ground at the feet of Nikita.

“You’re gonna pay all sorts of hell for that, you black piece