| "Weapons of Retribution" | ||
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SVR Headquarters May 13, 2008, 1831 hours The afternoon's exercise had done him good; he felt both relaxed and confident in his abilities. His teammates had enquired upon the nature of the mission he was preparing himself for but he declined to tell them, instead saying that it was classified. Being the elite soldiers they were they took it in good grace, not pushing the matter any further. He appreciated them for that; he didn't need his conscious to be brought into play, and he felt that if he had to explain his projected actions to them he might begin to question his motives, and that was something he could not afford to do at the moment. He made his way into Weapons, closing the door behind him, and stood admiringly at the racks of weapons. He was fascinated by this room; the potential for death was impressive. The size of the room was deceptive; despite the entire structure of the RGZS Headquarters being a cylinder there was one exception to that, and that exception resided in this room. It actually extended further out into the hard rock, rather like a cancerous growth on the cylindrical structure, albeit a remarkably rectangular-shaped growth. Nikolai knew that there were a huge number of weapons stored in the extension, though he had never seen them because only Denis Arturovich Filippov had access to that part of the room. "Denis?" he said to the empty space. "Da, give me a second," a voice responded. He heard a few sounds, metallic in origin, and then he saw Filippov appear. "What can I do for you Kolya?" he asked. "I need some weapons, some specials," he said, knowing that Filippov's interest was surely up now. "Sergei has authorised it, code 6423." Filippov entered the number into his computer and saw that Nikolai had approval to take any light arms he deemed necessary. That was unusual enough that he asked him if there was something he wasn't telling him. "Its classified Denis. All I can say is that I'm going in alone, and I need to be sure that I'm fully prepared for what I could meet. That is why I need these specials." "Okay then, lets see what I've got for you." Filippov walked along the rows of weapons with Nikolai in tow. "I'm guessing you're after a pistol," he said. "Three," Nikolai replied. "A small pistol, a disguised pistol, and something that won't leave any ballistic evidence." Filippov's eyes rose at the latter. "You mean, no casing or residue?" "Yes." "How about the Berretta CC-20. It fires a 0.2 inch caseless cartridge." "Is there anything else?" Nikolai enquired. "Well, the boys over at The Hole have been working on an interesting project, sent me over a couple of examples last week that I've been playing with." He gestured for Nikolai to wait where he was, then scurried off. He returned a minute later holding something that looked like an ordinary pistol. "I think this may be what you're after," he gninned. "It looks like a pistol," Nikolai told him. "Yeah, it does. The beauty is what it fires." "Ok then, what does it fire?" Nikolai enquired. "Nothing," Filippov said, pausing for effect. "Well, maybe not nothing. It fires air." "Air," Nikolai asked, slightly confused. "Concentrated air. Results in a bullet-like trauma from up to seven metres away, though the range is being improved as we speak. If you let me play with it some more I could probably up that to about ten metres." "Do it," Nikolai commanded. "Ok. What else?" Filippov asked. "Well�" Small airport outside St Petersburg May 13, 2008, 2114 hours He stood in the face of a stiff breeze, not feeling the coldness on his skin, only the warmth of Yelena's hand in his. Her touch was comforting, yet it also gave his conscience something to use against him, telling him how hurt she would be if he did not return. He tried to reason with his conscience but it was to no avail; as soon as he had gotten a foothold his head turned and he saw her face, instantly losing his place in the debate, much to the pleasure of his conscience. There was no way he was going to win now, he would have to wait until he got home. By `home' he meant England. He hadn't been back since he came to Russia, and now that it was close he felt apprehensive. For all intents and purposes he had died in the gunfight at the Russian nightclub where Sergei had recruited him. That was what those who cared back in England had been told, and that is what they believed. He even had a gravestone in the local cemetery, or so Krivenko had told him. He was dead to the world, twice he reminded himself, and that was how he must remain. There were dangers in going back, but they were dangers he was willing to face. The private aircraft taxied up to its berth near where he was standing. An attendant opened the plane door and pressed a button activating the stairs, which unfolded and locked into place. He turned to Yelena. "It is time," he said to her.Her eyes bore into his, the look in them one of fear and confusion, for she did not quite understand the meaning of this, why he had requested that she see him off. It filled her with dread, but she had to be strong for her man, even if she didn't entirely grasp the significance of this ceremony. "I know," she replied, her voice trying to be strong but failing. The tears began to roll down her cheek, and though she attempted to stem the flow it was to no avail, they continued to flow as he took her into his arms and held her tightly. "I love you," he told her, placing his hand on her chin and raising her head. "I love you too," she responded, just before the tears increased their rate of flow. He brought her lips close to his and gently locked them together, hoping against hope that he would be able to do this again soon. The longer the embrace lasted the harder it became for him to break it. In the end it took the hand of Anastasiya on Yelena's shoulder to remind the two lovers that he had to go now. Anastasiya shepherded her daughter away after wishing him well, then it was Sergei's turn. The older man took his charge's hand and shook it. "Be a shadow," he told him, using a phrase said to him a long time ago by a man who was now dead, a man he owed his life to. Return |
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