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

Nikita’s face. He felt his nose explode with the impact. He worked to remain upright to limit the damage they would be able to do, and started to make as much noise as he could, hopeful that a passer-by would interrupt, but the fat man caught him with a blow to his injured shoulder. He fell backwards against the wall and couldn’t keep his balance, slumping down to the floor.

The three of them surrounded him, kicking him ferociously. He clawed his way out from the wall, but they showed no mercy with their ruthless attack. He was vaguely aware of them shouting at him. The words they used were nothing new, and nothing that could hurt him.

His arms covering his head, he retreated into his mind, face screwed up in a bloody grimace. His mind sifted through long-forgotten memories of being with his family. The faces of his father, mother and Milena drifted around, smiling benignly at him, calming him and soothing him from the ordeal his body was enduring.

His body was tensed, feeling few of the kicks, but the pain was beginning to grow and he knew that soon bones would begin to break. He tried to continue to focus on his family once more and then suddenly he felt overwhelmed by loneliness. He might die and no one here would care or notice. A tear leaked out of his eye, whether from pain or sadness he was not sure. He thought of his family and his heart suddenly ached more than his body, and another tear fell. He must survive, if only for them. “It is all for you,” he whispered to them silently, willing the message to reach them across the world.

His eyes creaked open and he saw Red Beard bring a foot up to stamp down on his ankle in a move that would surely break it.

He held up a pleading hand. “Please, no.”

Red Beard paused, lowering his foot, then grinned.

“There’s only one thing I hates more than a crow, and that’s one who forgets his place,” he said then brought his foot back up.

But it never reached the ground, or Nikita’s leg.

There was the crack of a gunshot which ripped through the quiet night, and stopped the men in their tracks. They all turned to look at the silhouette of a tall, slender man standing in the alleyway, with a smoking gun pointed at the sky.

“Step aside, fellas, this one is mine,” said a cold, clipped, southern voice, unlike any of the men standing around their victim. More refined.

For the first time that night, Nikita felt truly afraid. This was no redneck, nor a former low-level soldier. This was a trained assassin; even as a dark silhouette, Nikita could tell just from his stance.

“Who the hell are you?” said the fat man, who was dripping with sweat from the exertion and smelt badly.

The newcomer stepped forward and pointed the gun at the fat man’s face. “I’m your worst nightmare if you get in between me and this… stain on our town. Now fuck off, or I start shootin’.”

Jarhead looked as if he was about to protest, but the gunman fired at the floor, the bullet ricocheting off the wall next to Nikita and disappearing down the dark alleyway.

“Now I’ve done you the courtesy of two more warning shots than I’ve ever given before. There won’t be a third. Leave and live, or stay and die, it’s up to you.”

All three of them turned tail and passed the gunman. Red Beard leant into him and whispered, “Make him suffer.”

The gunman smirked but said nothing, and as the last of the attackers sprinted back to the sanctity of the bar, he stepped into the light.

Nikita tried in vain to push himself onto his feet but was only barely holding onto consciousness. He looked up at the face of his killer, and drew a sharp intake of breath.

A scar glowed from the ear to the eye of the man looming above him, pointing the gun at his face.

“Brishnov?” gasped Nikita.

“Da… comrade,” sneered the Russian assassin.

CHAPTER 15

Nikita noticed that the gun had not lowered following the departure of his attackers, but was instead pointed directly at him.

“Help me, comrade,” Nikita croaked, reverting to his native Russian.

Nikita could see the lust for the kill in the eyes of Brishnov, could see the temptation.

Brishnov walked closer, the gun still hovering in front of him, and Nikita now believed the Soviet agent would kill him. The silent menace was written in the hard lines of his face and Nikita was powerless to stop him, only clinging onto consciousness by a thread.

Brishnov walked behind him and squatted down. Nikita could feel his breath on his neck; it reeked. He suddenly thrust something in front of Nikita’s face.

“Do not forget this, comrade, you know better than to leave any trace.” Nikita’s bleary eyes focused on the bloody, scorched knife he had dropped, before it was thrust into its sheath by his fellow KGB agent.

He heard the sound of Brishnov pocketing his gun, before arms hooked under his own and lifted him up. He had no strength to fight the assassin, and consciousness finally deserted him as he felt himself being dragged away and he allowed the darkness in.

***

Brishnov dragged his body back to the car and deposited him on the back seat. Grabbing the keys which were still in the ignition, he locked the doors to make sure Nikita could not escape if he regained consciousness, and then walked purposefully down the street towards the bar.

Reaching the bar, he looked around and saw a building two doors ahead boarded up, went over to it and broke off a sturdy piece of the wooden boarding. He returned to the entrance to the bar and put the wood through the door handles, preventing