The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  Both men were locked in a fight to the death.

  Pulling with all his might, Sheppard swung his opponent out of the cabin and into the train carriage’s narrow corridor. They bounced noisily off the walls as they struggled to gain an advantage over the other. Suddenly, the train took another sharp bend, sending both men sprawling back into Sheppard’s room. Crashing up against the far wall, both men gasped for air as they struggled desperately to get a hand free to strike their opponent.

  Unnervingly, Sheppard could feel his adversary’s hot breath on his face. He knew that he could not keep this up much longer; unlike himself, his opponent did not seem to be tiring. He had to do something fast or he would lose the fight and his life. Thrusting his head forward like a coiled snake, Sheppard launched his forehead straight onto his opponent’s nose, shattering it with a sickening thud.

  Blood instantly gushed forth from the man’s broken nose. Sheppard felt his rival flinch in pain causing both his strength and concentration to wane for a second, giving him the split-second of an opportunity he so desperately needed. Without hesitation, he quickly brought his right knee up into his foe’s stomach, hitting him as hard as he could, causing the man to buckle over and moan in pain. With anger surging through him, Sheppard launched his knee once more, this time into his adversary’s downturned face. With a loud thump, Sheppard’s knee struck the man’s jaw, causing his head to jerk back splattering blood onto the wall beside him. Fatigue gripped Sheppard’s body; he knew he had to finish off his rival before he recovered from the pummelling he was taking. Again, Sheppard pulled his knee back slightly and then with a loud grunt he sent it as hard as he could into his rival’s head. With an ear-popping crunch, Sheppard broke the man’s jaw.

  “Drop the damned knife,” demanded Sheppard, struggling to catch his breath.

  The assassin said nothing. He defiantly continued to hold on to the knife while his blood continued to pour down his face and onto the floor of the cabin.

  Both men were breathing hard and near the point of exhaustion. Sheppard was amazed that no one had come by to see what was going on.

  Twisting his adversary’s hand some more, Sheppard was surprised that the man still refused to yield the knife.

  Shaking his head, Sheppard delivered another powerful blow to his foe’s skull with his knee. More blood flew everywhere. After a second’s hesitation, Sheppard felt the man’s hand release the knife, clattering onto the floor beside Sheppard. With a swift kick of his left foot, Sheppard sent the knife twirling away from them both and out into the hallway.

  His attacker remained doubled over on the floor, his breathing hard and laboured while he sought to gather his strength. However, Sheppard did not intend to allow him the chance to regain his strength. Releasing his opponent’s hands, he quickly brought his own hands together and then swiftly delivered a blow straight on to the back of the man’s head, sending him flying onto the slick, bloodstained floor.

  Sheppard, his head spinning, staggered around his tiny room, trying to bring his own breathing under control as his body ached everywhere from the fight. Leaning against a wall for support, he surveyed the scene. His adversary lay bloodied on the floor while Campbell still lay motionless in a heap beside his bed, their personal effects strewn everywhere. For the first time, Sheppard noticed the man was dressed as a train employee. So that’s how he got on board and passed the message, luring me back to the cabin undetected.

  Through the shattered window in their room, a strong cold breeze blew through the room, cooling Sheppard down. The sudden rush of fresh air helped him focus his mind.

  Walking over to the knife, Sheppard picked it up; he looked at the switchblade with utter disgust and then threw it out of a broken window. Turning about, he stared down at his rival wondering if he was a Red agent, like the girl who had killed the prince. Suddenly, the man thrust out an arm and grabbed onto Sheppard’s closest leg, pulling him off balance in one swift motion. Reeling in surprise at the unanticipated attack, Sheppard fell backwards onto the blood-soaked floor, hitting his head hard against the ground. Stinging white light filled his eyes as he fought to remain conscious. His foe, far from beaten, launched himself straight at Sheppard, grasping his throat and with his meaty hands he started to choke the life out of him.

  Sheppard struggled to breathe. Grasping his attacker’s hands, he tried pulling them away. It was in vain; the man, no matter how beaten and bruised, was just too strong. His lungs ached, burning in his chest as he gasped for air.

  Sheppard knew he was dying. In desperation, Sheppard brought his hands up and then smashed them hard into his attacker’s temples. Moaning in pain, the man momentarily let go of Shepard’s throat and reached up to his battered temples. Gasping for air, Shepard tried pushing the man off him, but it wasn’t enough. His attacker quickly regained his composure, grabbed Sheppard by the collar, and tried to pin Sheppard once more to the floor so he could finish him off. Struggling with what little energy he still had left, Sheppard tried to push his attacker away but it was to no avail; the man was not going to give up until either he or Sheppard was dead. Desperate to end the struggle, Sheppard brought his right hand over onto his adversary’s sweat and blood covered face. Slowly, he felt along the man’s slick face until he found his eyes. With what little strength he had left, he jammed his thumb hard into his rival’s left eye socket.

  With a loud cry, the man pulled his head back. Reaching up with both hands, he fell back on the floor, writhing in pain.

  Panting for air, Sheppard quickly rolled away from his opponent, knowing he only had a few seconds before the man recovered enough strength to come at him again. Weakened, Sheppard struggled to haul himself up off the floor. Seeing the man start to get up on his knees, Sheppard gathered his energy. Hauling off, he kicked his rival square in the face, sending his head crashing against the far wall. With rage blinding him, Sheppard kicked his opponent’s head over and over until his shoe was covered in blood.

  Stopping only to catch his breath, Sheppard looked down. His assailant lay motionless on the floor.

  Completely exhausted from his struggle, Sheppard knew he would collapse if he didn’t sit first. Leaning up against the wall for support, Sheppard, through the haze and pain clouding his brain, contemplated his next move. Then, from behind, he heard a faint, disorientated voice.

  “What happened?”

  Sheppard turned and saw Harry Campbell standing in the doorway to their cabin. He was holding his head; it was obvious to Sheppard that his compatriot had been attacked from behind and was now nursing a sizeable lump on his head.

  The adrenaline coursing through his body was starting to wear off and Sheppard began to shiver as though he was catching a cold.

  “Harry, this man tried to kill me,” said Sheppard, pointing at the lifeless body in their ruined cabin. “He might be a Red…I’m not sure, right now I also don’t care either,” Sheppard said as he gasped for air. He took a long deep breath to calm himself, then walked over beside Campbell and checked out the lump on the back of his head. “What happened to you?”

  “I remember you leaving the room, me rolling over and that’s it. Until I woke up on the floor with you standing over this guy,” replied Campbell, as he moved over to check on their attacker.

  “If you’re going to ask me who that is laying there, save your breath,” said Sheppard, wiping the blood off his hands with a rumpled bed sheet. “The fact of the matter is that I honestly don’t know who he was. However, he did try; unsuccessfully I might add, to kill both of us.”

  Hesitantly, Campbell bent over to examine the body. He rolled the badly beaten man over and looked at his bloody face for a minute before turning to Sheppard. “Captain, I don’t know who he is either. I don’t recall seeing him when we boarded the train back in France. He isn’t breathing and I can’t find a pulse,” said Campbell, now busy rummaging through the dead man’s pockets searching for identification, but found none.

  “Better him than me,” S
heppard replied under his breath as he took a deep swig of scotch from his flask found among the debris in the room. It burned as it went down, but Sheppard didn’t care. He was scared and he wanted more.

  Campbell stood, closed their door, and then looked down at the dead body. “Sir, what are we going to do with him?”

  Sheppard stared at the body for a few moments before answering. “Harry, we can’t tell anyone on the train that we have a corpse in here. That would drag in the police and god knows who else. We don’t need that kind of attention. It’s obvious someone is on to us or he wouldn’t be here.”

  Sheppard lightly kicked the body with his foot then walked over to the shattered window, the cool air rushing past him cooling his sweaty face, slightly reinvigorating him. “Out the window,” he said, motioning towards the window with his thumb.

  Campbell looked down at the body, nodded, and then together they bent down and hauled the dead assassin up from the floor. The body was surprisingly heavy. Both men struggled to raise him to the window. Sheppard looked out into the night and saw that they were passing through a wooded area. It was ideal—no one would be around and it would probably take days for someone to find the remains. Both men exchanged a glance and then heaved the body out of the window and into the shadows.

  “We can’t leave the room like this,” said Campbell, as he started to wipe the blood off the floor.

  Although exhausted, Sheppard knew his companion was right, so painfully he bent down and joined him in tidying their room before someone from the train came in, saw the mess, and started to ask questions.

  Questions they knew they could never answer.

  CHAPTER 6

  MOSCOW

  It was a cool morning. The sun had just begun to rise on the horizon, slowly turning the sky from slate gray to a dull rose colour.

  Colonel Dmitri Grusian was growing agitated. It was all taking far too long. Looking over his shoulder, he brusquely waved at some of his men to get back behind cover. Their black leather uniforms would soon become too conspicuous, even on the early-morning streets of Moscow. He turned his head and stared up at the rundown three-story brick building that he had been waiting in front of for the past three hours while waiting for additional secret service soldiers to arrive. With the building now surrounded, he felt confident that the mouse inside would not escape his trap this time.

  Grusian looked at the nearest group of men; he was waiting no more. “You two come with me, the remainder of you stay in your positions; I do not want that counter-revolutionary bastard escaping again or you will all have to answer to me…understand?” said Grusian menacingly, at a teenage security lieutenant.

  The young soldiers all hesitantly nodded in unison.

  Deciding that it was finally time to move from his hidden vantage point, Grusian quietly stepped towards the building, turned, and addressed his two men. “Listen and listen carefully, I want this bastard alive—he’s no good to me dead—so no shooting unless I tell you to.” Both men quickly nodded their acknowledgement. Grusian's temper and retribution were legendary and neither man wanted to be on the receiving end of his wrath.

  Drawing his 9mm Makarov pistol, Grusian checked that he had a round in the chamber and then like a cat sneaking up on its prey, he started to ascend the dimly lit wooden stairs. His quarry, a former White Russian Captain, who had once served on the staff of Major-General Prince Alekseev, was now a key leader for one of the more efficient resistance cells still operating in and around Moscow. Grusian felt no fear as he climbed the stairs. However, he was very much afraid of losing his target. Twice before, Grusian thought he had cornered him, only to find the nest empty once he arrived. Learning not to underestimate his opponent, Grusian had taken his time and through his private network of double agents, he had been able to find out the exact location where Bagration was hiding.

  Looking out from the stairwell, Grusian saw that the hallway was dimly lit.

  Stopping just outside the door of his target, Grusian raised a finger to his lips, signalling to his men to remain silent. He then looked down at his watch—it was precisely six o’clock in the morning. Right on schedule, a phone noisily rang inside the apartment. Grusian heard footsteps and then the sound of someone answering the call.

  A smile crept across his face. The trap was sprung.

  Immediately raising his leg, Grusian, with a grunt, kicked the door, which instantly shattered and flew inwards. Without hesitating, Grusian rushed inside, his weapon at the ready, only to find a man standing there, a sub-machine gun aimed directly at his chest. In the split second before the man opened fire, Grusian dove for cover behind a moth eaten old couch. The rhythmic sound of the gun firing was a shock to Grusian. Behind him, he heard the cries of the men who entered the room a second later. With holes torn into their bodies, the two soldiers died in a hail of bullets.

  Gathering his wits, it quickly dawned on Grusian that it was him, not his opponent, who had been set up. Lying as low as he could, he tried in vain to see what was happening. The instant the shooter finished killing Grusian’s men he turned his weapon on where Grusian was hiding. The sub-machine gun’s bullets easily ripped through the old, worn couch and into the floor behind him. The sound of the gunfire was unnerving. Pinned against the wooden floor, Grusian had no choice but to lie there and take it until his opponent ran out of ammunition.

  Suddenly, the firing stopped. Silence filled the room.

  Grusian instantly leapt up from behind the destroyed couch, with his pistol held out in front of him. He fired two quick shots where the man had been standing. They flew harmlessly into the far wall, gouging out pieces of plaster as they struck home.

  His prey was gone. His opponent was more like a ghost than a man, thought Grusian.

  Grusian screamed in a fit of rage as he ran towards an open window, just in time to see Bagration jump down onto another building’s roof. Knowing that he couldn’t let the man get away again, Grusian quickly climbed out of the window. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself across to the adjacent building, landing squarely on the roof. Rolling over on his shoulder, Grusian leapt up onto his feet and darted towards an open door. Peering inside the gloomy stairway, Grusian made sure that he wasn’t stepping into an ambush. Seeing no one, he cautiously stepped inside.

  Darkness, like that of a crypt, greeted him.

  Grusian raised his pistol and fired off a shot into the darkened stairwell, hearing it strike the far wall.

  He was alone.

  Grusian swore, and then bolted down the hallway until he came to a rickety-looking set of wooden stairs. Looking below, he saw a man on the bottom rung of stairs. Grusian vainly fired, missing the man. Snarling in anger, he sped after the escaping man. Taking three stairs at a time, he frantically tried to recall if he had placed any men around this building. Cursing himself, he realised that he had not.

  In seconds, Grusian was at the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly, a man stepped out from his apartment to see what was going on, only to be sent flying back into his room as Grusian charged past the stunned onlooker.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Grusian raced out into the early-morning light, his gun raised in case his quarry was waiting for him. Looking left and right, Grusian caught a fleeting glimpse of the saboteur as he turned the corner of a building down the street. Pulling out his police whistle, Grusian blew it loudly to attract his men’s attention. Unwilling to wait for them, he sprinted after his prey. Though slightly over forty, Grusian was in excellent condition and soon found himself closing in.

  Chasing his target through the sharp twists and turns of Moscow’s narrow and cluttered backstreets reminded Grusian of running through a child’s maze. A man wanting to know what was going on foolishly stepped out from a doorway and stopped right in front of Grusian, blocking his way. Grusian coldly raised his pistol, shooting him in the head. Without stopping, he leapt over the body and kept on running. Nothing was going to stop him, not now…not when Bagration was so close.


  Turning a corner, Grusian skidded to a halt on the cobblestone pavement.

  Captain Bagration stood there breathing heavily with a look of utter despair on his face. His opponent had run straight into a dead-end street. There would be no escape this time.

  Grusian grinned, raised his pistol, and then triumphantly walked towards his quarry.

  “Get on your knees traitor, and put your hands on your head,” barked Grusian.

  Oddly, his adversary’s face grew calm. He became motionless for an instant and then, with amazing speed, he reached behind his back and drew a hidden pistol.

  Grusian saw the weapon pointing straight at his head. Instinctively aiming his pistol at the man’s midsection, he squeezed the trigger of his Makarov.

  Both pistols fired simultaneously.

  Grusian felt a rush of air as a bullet passed within a hair’s breadth of his head. However, his aim had been better. Bagration stood for a moment and then slowly dropped down onto his knees; pain filled his eyes as he placed a hand over his stomach, and blood began to pour through his fingers. Seeing Bagration struggling to raise his pistol once more, Grusian fired into his prey’s right shoulder. Twirling back from the impact, Bagration dropped his pistol onto the ground.

  The sound of boots hitting the cobblestone pavement filled Grusian’s ears. Turning his head slightly, he saw several of his secret service agents running to join him. Striding over towards his badly wounded opponent, a satisfied grin grew across his weathered face. Grusian first kicked the man’s pistol away, then reached down and roughly grabbed him by his hair, hauling him to his feet.