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

a t-shirt two sizes too small that didn’t quite stretch over his bloated waist. “Can I help you?” he asked, looking oddly furtive.

“I reckon so… Larry,” said Nikita, reading the name badge on the shopkeeper’s chest. He withdrew his CIA badge and flashed it at the shopkeeper. “I’m from the CIA and I need to know if you sell a certain kind of ammo,” he added.

“You sure you’re from the CIA? You don’t seem like the CIA type,” the young man said with undisguised cynicism.

Ignoring him, Nikita persevered. “It’s cartridges for a Desert Eagle. I need to know if you sell them, and if you sold any recently.”

Larry laughed. “A Desert Eagle? Man, the Israelis keep them all for themselves, you won’t find them here,” he said, but Nikita noticed he’d started rubbing his fingers together nervously.

“Well of course, you do need a special licence to sell them and I know you wouldn’t want to break the law like that,” said Nikita, “but obviously we have to do our due diligence and somebody got their hands on one round here.”

“Wish I could help you, man,” Larry shrugged, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder.

“You wouldn’t mind if I just took a look in the back, would you, Larry? CIA, we have to cover all the bases you see; I can’t go back to my boss saying I didn’t look properly.”

“You gonna need a warrant for that,” Larry said with wavering defiance.

Nikita brought the heel of his hand up and drove it up into Larry’s nose. He passed out immediately as blood spurted from his crushed nose.

Stepping behind the counter and over Larry, nudging him onto his side to avoid him choking on his blood, he walked into the back where he was sure he would find what he was looking for. Civilians had so many tells.

Sure enough, there on the floor, with no security whatsoever, was a box with Magnum .50 AE on the side. They’d barely tried to hide it. But then nobody ever challenged gun shops in the US, for which Nikita right now was intensely grateful. There was no sign of any Desert Eagles so either they had quickly sold out, or Brishnov had acquired the only one that Larry had managed to get his hands on. It didn’t matter either way.

He spotted a bottle of Jim Beam on a kitchen surface at the rear of the room, and walked over to it. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig straight from the bottle. The pressure in his head eased immediately and he felt its warmth ooze through his body. Opening the cupboards, he saw a thermos flask, into which he emptied the whiskey before pocketing it. A groan from behind him said that Larry had come to.

Nikita walked back towards him, and Larry’s eyes widened in fear as he saw him approaching. He tried to push himself back up.

Nikita did it for him. Grabbing him by the collar, he lifted him up with ease and pushed him against the wall.

“Now, Larry, I don’t like it when I’m made to do things the hard way. I don’t care if you’re selling Desert Eagles. How about you tell me what I need to know.”

Larry crumpled immediately. “Fibe, what d’you want?” he sputtered.

Nikita let him go and stepped back. “Excellent, I’m glad we can work together nicely. Did you sell an unregistered Desert Eagle and some of those .50 cartridges to this man?” he asked, showing a photo of Brishnov to him.

“Yeah, I thig so,” Larry sputtered through his bloody nose. “Didn’t like him much to tell you the truth.”

“But enough to sell him one of the most powerful handguns ever made,” Nikita said, lifting an eyebrow.

“What’s the big deal, who is he?”

“That’s classified,” said Nikita. “But he ain’t a goodie.”

Larry hung his head pathetically. Nikita almost felt sorry for him.

“I’m gonna need some of those cartridges as evidence, and I need to see any CCTV tapes you have from when he came in.”

“Sure thig” said Larry miserably, and fetched a handful of the cartridges which he emptied into Nikita’s cupped hands. He then walked to the door and flipped the sign to say closed, locking the door behind him and waved Nikita to follow him as he walked into the back.

The shopkeeper unlocked a door next to the kitchen counter to reveal a small, cluttered office within. A television screen glowed in the darkness, until Larry flicked on the light, a fading naked bulb giving the windowless room a dull yellow cast. He grabbed a cloth and wiped down his bloody face, wincing as he touched his broken nose.

He began rifling through the video strewn across the desk. “I think it was about three days ago he came in,” he said, selecting one of the tapes from the desk and jamming it into the large boxy Betamax player.

An image of the shop flickered onto the screen. He began to fast forward, showing the speeded-up movement of a small trickle of customers entering and leaving the shop.

After a few minutes, the unmistakable figure of Brishnov appeared. He expertly managed to avoid his face ever being captured on the camera, but there was no doubt in Nikita’s mind about who it was. The lithe figure walked with confidence, but managed to be somehow quite forgettable. Forgettable to anyone who didn’t know the things of which he was capable.

“That’s the guy,” said Larry. “He was pretty excited when I mentioned the Desert Eagle.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Nikita muttered. He popped the tape out. “I need to keep this. Do you have any footage from outside the shop?”

“No problem, officer,” Larry said, still jumpy every time he looked at the CIA agent before him. Nikita rolled his eyes. “We have a camera, we have to by law, but it’s a