Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story

by Kenneth Eade

  RUSSIAN HOLIDAY

  KENNETH EADE

  To Tim, who believes in me and supports me through thick and thin

  “Victory is no longer a truth. It is only a word to describe who is left alive in the ruins.”

  ― Lyndon B. Johnson

  “Cold War? War don’t have no temperature.”

  ― Marlon James

  CHAPTER ONE

  Aleppo, once an idyllic jewel between Mesopotamia and the Mediterranean, was the oldest inhabited city in Syria and one of the oldest in civilization. Robert Garcia had been in many battle zones before, but this was nothing like he had ever seen. Aleppo had been decimated. Jagged slabs of concrete hanging on the exposed bones of twisted, rusting steel, the ashes of wooden shops now reduced to cinders, broken corrugated shutters of what used to be jewelry stores, and the ruins of bombed-out, formerly splendid historical mosques, their once glittering chandeliers now hanging from the dusty rubble.

  It reminded him of those surreal black and white photographs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the atom bomb had been dropped. Once a thriving metropolis, now a graveyard inhabited only by terrorists and their mostly unwilling civilian subjects – slaves, held captive by the boundaries of their destinies.

  Robert set up his shot from the seventh floor of an abandoned, blown-out building, once part of the modern city, which could hardly be distinguished from its ancient ruins, now themselves almost completely obliterated by all the bombing. A bead of sweat from the intense heat dripped into his eye and he wiped his brow dry.

  He gripped his Dragunov SVD sniper rifle and simulated the shot he was about to take, beginning his breathing protocol as he observed the place where he would send General Abu Muslim al-Basara, once the pride of Sadaam Hussein’s Royal Guard, now an ISIS terrorist, to Jahannam. He watched as al-Basara’s colonel spread the battle plan out on the desk. This was to be their moment of glory, the day they would drive out the last of the infidels and strangle the life out of what was once the largest city near the Turkish border. The day which would pave the way for their growth to metastasize into and infect the land that had been conquered by the Romans and retaken by the Muslims – only to be forsaken again and was now sitting in the clutches of the Jewish empire of the United States.

  Robert concentrated on the target zone through his sight and ran his tongue across his dry lips. In front of the building, men in flak jackets holding automatic weapons were milling around, but that wasn’t going to make any difference. From 500 meters it would be a turkey shoot and he would disappear before they knew where the shots had come from. In the dead wind, the bullet would cut through the air like a hot knife through a stick of butter, finding its purchase accurately with no need for compensation in trajectory. He looked through the small window and watched the colonel studying the plans. Robert’s optics were so precise, he could count the hairs on the Colonel’s beard. He was target number two. Breathe and wait, breathe and wait.

  When the prime target finally came into focus, Robert unclenched every muscle, relaxing everything except for his eye and his trigger finger. He placed the cross hairs right on the forehead of the target and squeezed, every so softly, as if he were tickling the most intimate part of a woman. He immediately fired another round to the chest as he watched the first bullet make contact, popping the general’s head back, his lifeless body dropping to the ground, and then took out the surprised colonel with a shot to the head and one to the chest.

  Robert abandoned his equipment, vacated what was left of the room and scurried down the seven flights of destroyed stairs, sometimes leaping over patches of nothingness as he descended. He could hear the commotion and turmoil from across the street – orders being screamed out, the roar of trucks coming closer. He slipped out the exit, and briskly walked the half block to the designated pickup area, but the pickup vehicle wasn’t there.

  Shit!

  He knew there was no such thing as a perfect plan. Every good one fell apart in the field, especially when you depended on someone else. When it came to life or death, or anything else important, the only one you could count on was yourself.

  Someone’s head’s gonna roll for this one.

  He ducked into an alley, just as a Humvee and six Toyota trucks, courtesy of the U.S. Government, and packed with jihadists holding automatic weapons, pulled up in front of the building in a cloud of dust and piled out, invading it like an intrusion of cockroaches. Halfway down the alley, Robert pulled several bags of trash off a garbage pile, revealing a motorcycle hidden underneath. He pulled the motorbike out from under the clutter by the handlebars, and then he jumped on it and kicked it to life. The roar of its engine echoed down the alley and caught the ears of his pursuers as he flew out the other side in a cloud of exhaust. Robert’s Plan B packed a punch – strapped to the back of the bike was a Fagot ATGM. He was, literally, a mobile army.

  Dodging piles of rubble with rebar protruding from them like writhing snakes, and burned-out trucks and cars, he headed for higher ground. He had no Commo set, nothing to call for an extraction, and nobody would be coming for him anyway. He wasn’t officially there.

  Why the hell do they need a covert op in a shithole like this anyway? Why not just send in the cavalry?

  He took evasive moves, but could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the AK-47s and RPKs behind him. He looked over his shoulder and took a sharp left, leaning to the ground and almost scraping his knee to it, like a motorcycle racer, but one of the nimble Toyotas followed and was still gaining on him. Robert looked for cover. If he could find something to protect himself from their fire, he could hold his ground and fight it out with the ATGM, but it was difficult to find shelter. Most of Aleppo had been laid to waste. It was if a giant earthquake had flattened half of it to the ground. As he drove, turning randomly everywhere he could, he looked for a suitable building to hole up in and make his stand. He ducked down a street that was filled with rubble, pieces of metal siding and chunks of concrete, in order to slow the trucks’ pursuit.

  Damn!

  Robert heard the chopping blades of a Black Hawk helicopter in the distance, looked up and could see it was coming for him.

  Need to hide, need a diversion. Anything!

  He ducked behind a bombed-out building, parked the bike, set up the ATGM and trained it on the helicopter, which was closing in on him fast. He could see the muzzle fire from its machine guns as the bullets pelted the buildings around him. He aimed, fired, and the Black Hawk exploded in a spectacular firebomb, raining shrapnel from a cloud of smoke.

  Robert had hoped that downing the helicopter had bought him more time, but the Humvee and its convoy were still approaching. They were too close to outrun. He reloaded the ATGM and fired a direct shot, blowing up the Humvee, and sending two of the Toyotas off the road. He hopped on the bike and zipped away, confident he had bought at least a few precious seconds.

  Up ahead, Robert flew through the archway of what used to be a grand bazaar and now was nothing but a huge concrete rathole, and gunned for the opening on the other side. He maneuvered through brick and stone, pipes and crushed furniture, looking to the light at the end of the huge building which would be his salvation. That light suddenly darkened when a Humvee rolled in front of the exit. Robert saw the flash of an RPG and swung to the right side down another corridor just as the grenade exploded, raining concrete particles and dust. He jammed the throttle with his wrist all the way back in a sprint for the new exit ahead. He could see it getting closer and closer.

  It’s clear. Almost there, almost…

  Suddenly, a Toyota truck screeched to a
halt, blocking Robert’s way. He veered toward a crack of opportunity on the right – an opening – and slid, the back tire hit the bumper of the Toyota, propelling Robert airborne. He landed with a thud in the street. He was, for a moment, phased, and struggled to stand up so he could make a run for it. It was impossible. When he stood up, he was staring up at the barrels of a six-man firing squad.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Robert moved his eyes about himself like a bird, sizing up his situation. It couldn’t be worse. He knew this was the Islamic State and mercy wasn’t in their mindset. The penalty for being caught was death. Nobody was going to save him. If he broke to run he would be shot in the process. This was it; it was just a matter of time. But Robert also knew time meant opportunity. After all, what more do we have than time? We measure it arbitrarily, but as we spend it, until it’s used up, it is called living.

  As long as I’m alive, there’s a chance.

  He braced himself for the shots that were surely to come, but they didn’t. Instead, a mad, short man, spitting obscenities in Arabic, ordered the men not to fire. Robert spoke their language perfectly, which was one of the reasons he was perfect for this assignment. With his dark skin and black hair, he could easily pass as an Arab, or just about anyone, for that matter. He was a master of disguise, able to escape pursuit by blending in with any crowd. But it wasn’t going to help him this time.

  Two men pulled him from the ground and frisked him aggressively. He resisted the impulse to grab both of them and use them as human shields to bargain his way out. But ISIS could not be bargained with. They would simply shoot through both of their soldiers if need be and send Robert to hell and their two compatriots to Jannah. One of the men grabbed Robert’s 9mm Glock from his shoulder holster and shoved it into his pocket. If they had been alone, Robert could have easily retrieved his weapon, shot the man and his partner dead, and re-holstered the Glock. Not this time. The other man pulled his KBAR knife from his belt and his Ruger .22 from his ankle holster. Now, even with his clothes on, Robert felt he was truly naked.

  The first jihadi spit in his face and punched his stomach. The second kneed him in the groin and Robert doubled over silently in pain. Underneath the pain was pure, unadulterated anger, but he was mostly mad at himself for getting caught. The little guy who was apparently now in charge stood in front of him. He smelled like a rotten corpse.

  Apparently, killing his bosses made this guy a bit nervous.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I’m a free agent.”

  The little guy punched Robert in the nose. He felt the impact, could hear it crack and sensed the warm flow of blood running from it into his mouth, but stifled any reaction from the searing pain.

  “Does that help refresh your memory?”

  Robert spit blood and shook his head. “No, I can’t say that having my nose broken does stir up any memories.”

  “You are a despicable heathen.”

  Robert smiled under the bloody drip. “I’m that and more.”

  “I will be happy to see your head hanging on a spike in Naeem Square.”

  Robert grinned. “After me, there will come another, who will kill you and put your head right next to it.”

  The man grimaced. “Take this piece of shit away and prepare him for his execution.”

  The two goons grabbed Robert, pushed him toward one of the Toyotas, shoved him into the back of it and drove off, followed by the other trucks and a Humvee. They didn’t bother blindfolding him – he wouldn’t live to tell the location of their headquarters. Fifteen minutes later they rolled in to a heavily guarded compound.

  Robert was handcuffed, but he wasn’t given a prison cell or a last request. There would be no trial. This was going to proceed quickly. They rustled him out of the car, threw him down on his knees and set up a video camera on a tripod. Four of the armed men donned black masks and surrounded him, pointing their weapons at his head. Another stood in front of the camera. Then, the little man stepped forward.

  “I should let you go free so you can thank your president for me for all this wonderful military equipment.” He waved his arm around the yard, showing off the hardware. “M16s, Humvees, machine guns, M62 grenades, anti-tank missiles, howitzers, armored vehicles and personnel carriers. We couldn’t fight this war without his help.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Red in the face, he screamed. “Silence while I read this statement!” He, too, donned a black mask.

  “Fuck your mother, too.”

  The little man backhanded Robert, forcing him to the ground completely.

  “Get back on your knees, kafir! It is time to die!”

  Robert lay on the ground, not moving. Two of the armed jihadis yanked him back to his knees as the little man read his statement to the camera.

  “This assassin, sent by the CIA into our country, murdered a general and colonel of our army and for that the penalty is death. Death of one man and for all of you! Since the United States has no motivation to deal with the Muslims except by force, we are replying with force, the only language you understand.”

  The little man stepped aside and a masked executioner stood behind Robert and raised a scimitar above his neck. Before he could strike, his head exploded and the blade fell into the dust. The little man was the next to be shot, and as he dropped to the ground, Robert slid behind his body, withdrew his 9mm Glock and shot two of the terrorists as the other two dropped to the ground from sniper fire. He took cover behind one of the vehicles as more jihadis ran out from the compound, shooting wildly in all directions. As they dropped like flies sprayed with poison, Robert joined the free for all, shooting whoever was still moving and breathing.

  The military equipment which was the object of the dead little man’s boasts began to explode from ATGM fire. One by one, in rapid succession, the armored vehicles and Humvees exploded, followed by the building. Robert lay low to protect himself from the flying particles of dust and metal.

  Finally, a blanket of quiet fell over the compound, which had been reduced to a graveyard. Two Desert Tiger armored vehicles sped in and parked in front of Robert. A burly Russian man popped his head out of the top of one of them as its door swung open.

  “Get in!”

  Robert hesitated.

  “Come on! We are on same side. At least for now.”

  The big Russian smiled and Robert stepped inside the truck.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The big man held out a hand to Robert. He was still smiling. Robert took the hand and felt his crushing grip as the Tiger sped away.

  “My name Alexei, but people call me Lyosha.”

  “Bob.”

  “Boab?”

  “No, it’s pronounced Bob, like in stop. You’re saying Boab, like in boat.”

  “Boab? Like in stoap? Well, Boab like in stoap, it looks like your CIA left you for dead.”

  Robert didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Syrian FOB about 40 clicks from here, but only if you need ride. You are welcome to wait for CIA by side of road.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll take the ride.”

  “We can take you across Turkish border. No passport control.”

  He grinned. His conservative cut blond hair and Slavic face reminded Robert of Ilya Kuryakin on the Man from U.N.C.L.E., only twice as big. Robert thought for a second.

  “What are you guys doing here, anyway?”

  “I could ask you same. We are training Syrian Army and providing military equipment. Looks like you guys are providing military equipment to ISIS. That was all your stuff we just blew up, right?”

  “I really don’t know what they’re doing. I’m a free agent.”

  “Well, Mr. Free Agent, everybody knows we are here. But I don’t suppose anyone knows or would admit you are.”

  Robert didn’t answer.

  “We are doing same job as you – getting rid of terrorists. Problem is you guys are also supporting
terrorists. All they have to do is say they try to overthrow Assad government, and they get free stuff.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “We know what you do. We have been admiring your work.”

  The Tiger rumbled on through the windy, dusty roads, and out of the surreal, bombed-out landscape of Aleppo.

  “We call it Syria’s Stalingrad.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Boab, let’s get one thing straight, okay? We are here to kill terrorists; you are here to help Syrian Army kill terrorists. You don’t mess with our job and we won’t mess with yours.”

  “That’s fine. My job’s done here anyway. I’m officially on vacation now.”

  “Vacation? You mean holiday?”

  Robert nodded and the big Russian smiled. “So you do need ride.”

  “I guess so. Have you got a burner I can use?”

  Lyosha reached into his bag and pulled out a bunch of phones. He fanned them out to Robert like a hand of cards.

  “What color you like?”

  Robert smiled. He grabbed one of the phones, waited for a fleeting signal, and dialed.

  “It’s me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. That’s the problem. Your pickup wasn’t there.”

  “What about the target?”

  “Taken care of.”

  “Give me your 20, we’ll get you out of there.”

  “No thanks, I’ve already got a ride.”

  Robert clicked off, popped out the SIM card, and snapped it in half. Then he rolled down the window and tossed the card and the phone out into the desert.

  When they arrived at the FOB, Robert drew stares from members of the Syrian army as the Tiger dispersed its Russian passengers. Robert looked back at them, wondering if they thought he was a prisoner. Lyosha slapped a big hand on his back.