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

He then slunk back down the alleyway in which he had discovered the men beating his fellow agent and smiled at the thought. It had been so tempting to allow them to continue and rid the Soviet Union of its black stain. But orders were orders, and now loose ends needed to be tied.

Marching down the alleyway, he reached the delivery driveway behind the bar and approached it with little caution, but with one hand on the gun at his hip. The door was not even shut; this was too easy.

Walking through it, he surveyed the surroundings. Crates of alcohol and kegs of beer were pushed against the walls in the dingy back room lit by a flickering fluorescent light above. There was a buzzing from an electric fly trap on the wall which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, covered with the gluey corpses of hundreds of cremated flies.

Casting his eyes around, he saw what he was looking for — the mains gas pipe running up the wall and towards the bar. Approaching it, he could see that it was painted over, and the pipes were old cast iron which would make his job that bit harder.

He pouted, and with an exaggerated sigh, picked up a heavy keg tap from the floor and began to bang at the pipe where it met the meter.

He heard footsteps approaching and the bar man walked in, his belly visible before the rest of him.

“Hey what the hell are you—” he began, but was cut off as Brishnov pulled his handgun and shot the barman in the stomach. With the close proximity the bullet passed straight through him, as intended, and ricocheted off the wall and into a case of vodka. Brishnov couldn’t have the authorities finding a corpse with a bullet in at the scene of the crime.

The man screamed as blood started flowing out of the hole, both at the front and the back, and looked at Brishnov in horror. Brishnov had already pocketed his gun, and after retrieving the bullet from the vodka, didn’t give his victim a second look. He picked up a bottle and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip.

“Americans make shit vodka,” he said to no-one in particular. He picked up another two bottles and walked over to the wounded man on the floor, and ripped a long strip from his apron.

“Please, help me,” said the barman from the floor.

“Be silent; I do not wish to have to shoot you again. Die quietly, old man.”

He picked up the keg tap once more and began pounding on the pipe, which suddenly with a scrape of metal ripped from the meter. The hiss of gas was palpable. Then he ripped the rag of cloth in two, dousing both pieces in the vodka, roughly shoving them halfway into the bottles, and then he walked out of the room.

There was a narrow, short corridor ending in a door opening out into the bar. Brishnov walked into it confidently, noting that there were thirteen patrons scattered around the dingy room. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird was playing loudly from a battered jukebox and few noticed his entrance until he passed the bar and walked towards the door.

Red Beard was laughing at the bar with Jarhead and Fatty, and the collection of empty glasses next to them suggested they had wasted no time in celebrating their victory over Nikita. By the time they noticed him it was too late. He opened the bottle without the cloth in and began emptying it near the door, forming a slick trail back towards the bar. Taking a zippo lighter from his pocket, he lit one of the rags. As he marched back through the bar, he tossed the bomb firmly over his shoulder so it smashed against the door, blocking the rear exit. A Molotov cocktail felt a poetic way of destroying a bar, he thought to himself while whistling softly.

He felt the heat on his back but didn’t look round, and noticed the screams from around the bar with cold disinterest.

The trio at the bar stepped sluggishly in his way. “What the hell are you doing?” Red Beard demanded angrily, slurring. It was Jarhead who recognised him first.

“That’s the dude from the alleyway!” he exclaimed, and recognition dawned on the faces of the others.

Brishnov sighed; he didn’t have time for this. He could see people beginning to move away from the door and towards the rear exit.

He swiftly punched Red Beard to the temple, making him crumple, before smashing Jarhead and Fatty’s faces into each other. They both fell to the floor, clutching their broken noses.

Brishnov ran to the rear, furious at being forced to speed up. He lit the other cloth, and holding it in front of him, counted the numbers. Only twelve. These guys were not separated from their bar easily, even in the face of Molotov-cocktail-wielding assassins, but one had clearly led a charge. He backed out of the door and threw the bomb in front of him, swiftly closing the door to prevent the firebomb from hurtling down the corridor.

Over the sound of Freebird he heard more scream from the victims who were now trapped between two rapidly expanding infernos. He was already moving quickly. He saw the missing number thirteen crouched over the barman. He was younger than the others he had seen in the bar. A handsome man, Brishnov reckoned around twenty-five, with dark stubble and a strong jaw.

As he looked up, his eyes filled with terror. He raised his fists, but was on the ground before he knew it, clutching his throat where Brishnov had spun and slit it with his combat knife. Blood blossomed from his throat and he gurgled as he tried to hold the two slippery flaps of skin together.

The barman began to scream. This would not do, thought Brishnov. It