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

was gazing intently, sweeping her gun slowly back and forth across the house, ready to fire on the slightest hint of movement. Her lip was curled back in what looked like a permanent sneer. The woman who had murdered his mother, the gentlest soul of them all.

Nikita closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing his mind, clearing it of all emotion and thought. Just him and the target.

He nudged the telescopic sighting to have her chest front and centre. She was approximately three hundred yards away, and the cold air was still with very little breeze.

He breathed in, and on the exhale squeezed the trigger.

The compressor on the barrel of the VSS dampened the noise of the gunshot, reducing it to a quiet phut-phut sound, though the kickback was still hard into the crook of Nikita’s shoulder.

But it was nothing compared to the discomfort of the target, whose cry echoed across the valley as red spread across her grey coat. She fell forwards off the rocky outcrop and tumbled directly down the hill, coming to a stop right next to the prostrate Klitchkov, who could not help but release a short cry of alarm, amplified by the silent snowy surroundings.

Nikita could see that the woman wasn’t dead and upon landing had begun grappling with Klitchkov, who leapt to his feet and with a swift motion stabbed her in the throat.

It was a fatal mistake as all eyes turned upon his previously hidden location and the valley was set alight by the crackle of gunfire, just as Nikita heard the boom of a gunshot echo from the room behind him.

There was no longer any point in staying hidden, and Nikita leapt up and closer to the window. There were more men than he had bargained for, and now he could also see the one he had been searching for.

Brishnov was ambling down the track nonchalantly, the huge Desert Eagle clutched in his hand with little in the way of stealth.

Nikita’s blood ran cold. Vengeance had been his with the sniper who had taken down his mother, but he would not fail to avenge the death of Sarah Chang this time. He squatted and leant the sniper on the windowsill to take aim at Brishnov, but suddenly the window next to him exploded following a gunshot, and another chipped the stonework just to his left and he was forced back inside, cursing.

“Father! What is the situation back there?” he shouted over his shoulder. He’d been so focused on Brishnov it was only now he was aware of the booming of the shotgun from Milena’s bedroom.

“One is down; I think I injured him, and the other two cowards are hiding behind a snowdrift,” he called. “They will begin a fresh attack any moment I think.” He sounded almost invigorated.

“Ok, try to keep them at bay as long as possible. The sniper is down but I have another four approaching. Klitchkov is under heavy fire.”

Nikita moved into the adjacent room, an empty guest room, and approached the window to try a fresh angle. There was blood on Chairman Klitchkov, but Nikita was unable to tell if it was his own or that of the sniper. Either way he was taking heavy fire. Nikita again looked through the curtain and spotted two men on the left, both of whom were showering Klitchkov with bullets, rendering him unable to return fire. As carefully as he could, he turned the latch and eased the window open slightly.

Nikita raised the sniper and got the target in his sight. He didn’t have anything to lean the weapon on, but took his time to steady his hand. He breathed deeply and released the trigger. This time his aim was true and the man crumpled instantly. Nikita locked and loaded and took another shot at the other man, who had admirably not stopped firing at Klitchkov despite the fall of his comrade.

The shot buried itself in the snow just in front of the shooter and Nikita cursed. It did, however, do enough to force the shooter to take cover and give Klitchkov a moment’s respite.

Nikita didn’t pause, swinging around to see where the other gunmen were. More importantly, to see where Brishnov was.

He heard a crash of broken glass from behind him and a yell from his father. “Father!” Nikita cried.

“I’m OK. They are coming though.”

Nikita cursed again, and as he turned back to the window it exploded in a shower of glass. Shards covered him, with several cutting tiny slices into his face, one ripping the eyelid on his right eye.

He dropped to the floor and shook the glass off himself. He reached up and pulled some snow from the windowsill, rubbing it over his face and grimacing as some of the deeper cuts protested. His eyelid was flapping over his eye, blood dripping down into it. Nothing he could do about it right now.

Three down in total. Five to go. Their odds of survival were improving.

Nikita returned to his parents’ bedroom to try and get a proper view of the situation. Klitchkov had taken down the shooter that Nikita had missed. Four to go. But one of them was Brishnov. Nikita saw him now, crouched behind some low scrubs, talking to the remaining soldier on that side of the house. An impossible shot from this angle. He looked across at Klitchkov, a visible red beacon now. He signalled that he had eyes on the enemy but no clean shot. Nikita returned the same signal.

At that moment he heard a call from his father. “I am almost out of ammunition, Nikita. They are upon us.”

Nikita signalled to Klitchkov that he was going to check the rear and dashed to his father. Peering at the window he saw two men clad in black combat gear. They had spread out and were approaching from opposite