Something else.
This is another idea I've been working on. Right now, I'm calling it "The Negotiators." This is the first bit, and it's a rough draft. Constructive comments and criticism is greatly appreciated. ^--^
Joseph Kressnov was a walking piece of Soviet Propaganda. He had the looks: tall, broad shoulders, square jawed, and a shock of thick, brown hair. He also had the ideal Soviet intellect: completely loyal, and yet had the brains to graduate at the top of his class in the Military Academy. Military Intelligence immediately drafted him into their ranks, and gave him a Captain’s bars.
When the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in 1978, Captain Kressnov went in to intercept any foreign support of the Mujahideen, the Afghan resistance. In 1981, Moscow recalled Kressnov, his mission declared successful. However, in 1987, Stinger rocket launchers appeared and started shooting down the Soviet gunships. After a long search, the KGB discovered that the weapons were going to Afghanistan through Israel. Kressnov, now a Major, received an order to find the arms depot in Jerusalem, and destroy it.
The CIA learned of the KBG’s plan and sent a special operative to meet Kressnov, and neutralize him.
Joseph Kressnov reached into his black backpack and pulled out a small set of bolt cutters. He started to snip the steel wires that formed the chain link fence. Each cut produced a small twang from the taught metal, but Kressnov didn’t concern himself with the sound. He was at the rear of the square storage compound, and the only thing behind him was pure desert. The bright floodlights on the warehouse walls cast pools of light through the fence, creating a checker mark pattern across the desert sand.
With his small hole cut into the fence, Kressnov shoved the cutters back into his pack, and pushed the bag through the fence. The massive Russian army crawled through the opening. He squeezed through, the cut steel snagging on his dark grey sweatshirt and pants.
Kressnov kneeled on the sand coated concrete and pulled his Stechkin pistol from its shoulder harness. He reached back into his bag and pulled out a long, cylindrical silencer. After he screwed it to the muzzle of the handgun, he pulled back the slide. Satisfied that a round sat in the chamber, he stood, swung the pack onto his left shoulder, and walked towards Warehouse Three.
As he moved towards the middle of the five massive buildings, his eyes never stopped moving. He glanced left, at the empty stretch of concrete dotted with small bluffs of sand. To his right, the same scene, lit with round pools of light, barely touching at the edges. Between the warehouses, deep shadows that could hold any number of unpleasant surprises for the Russian saboteur.
So Kressnov moved slowly, pistol held in standard combat position. Pistol held in his right hand straight out from his body, left hand under the grip supporting the right, and left elbow tucked in close to his chest. Though an enemy would possess the advantage of surprise, Kressnov held a stronger one. Literally. His Stechkin was a terrifying weapon, for both target and user. It was a handgun that could fire either semi or full automatic. In full auto it could put out 850 rounds in one minute, ideally. But that came at a high price; the pistol was almost uncontrollable without its optional wooden shoulder stock. Naturally, due to its size, Kressnov didn’t carry the stock with him that night. Even if he couldn’t hit his target, the Russian could at least scare the hell out of them. People didn’t often come into contact with a silenced machine gun.
He reached the rear door of the warehouse.
Kressnov leaned against the metal wall, the silencer parallel to his face. He leaned over and peered through the steel mesh enforced glass. The dim interior had less than half the yellow lights on. The cones of light struck massive corrugated containers, stacked nearly to the ceiling. Between the mountains of metal, valleys of dark aisles ran and formed a perfect grid. The Russian reached down and pushed the sandblasted metal handled down. To his surprise, it made a click as the latch disengaged from the jamb.
He swung the door inside and rounded the corner, thrusting the silencer into the gloom. No movement, no shouts of alarm, just as he expected. “Still,” he thought, “doesn’t hurt to be careful.”
Kressnov stepped inside the building and returned to his combat stance. He swept the area with his silenced barrel, and still, no one. He moved to his left, towards the small room in the corner. A green door held a red sign displaying: “NO SMOKING-- GAS” in Israeli, Arabic, and English. Once he reached it, the Russian stood with his back to the door and scanned the area one last time. All he saw were shadows, yellow spots of light, and stained metal.
As the Russian disappeared through the wooden door, a pair of green eyes shone in a dark aisle, and stared at the closing door.
Major Kressnov kneeled on the floor in front of a mass of green gas pipes. An eight-inch pipe rose straight out of the floor and split off in two different directions to form a tee shape. At the top off the tee a large, metal wheel sat and controlled the flow of the gas to the other four warehouses. Numerous two, three, and four-inch gas pipes, each with an individual gauge, rose towards the ceiling.
The saboteur sat his pistol on the ground, and reached back into his bag. From its depths he pulled a block of demolition grade plastic explosive, with a detonator plugged in the center.
He peeled the safety film off the back of the block, and leaned forward to attach it at the cross of the tee. When he twisted his shoulders, a shot of pain raced through his back. His eyes twitched, and he thought for a second of his aching knees, and the three new gray hairs he found that morning.
Still, he stuck the bomb right where he wanted it: next to the gas valve. Kressnov extracted himself, zipped his bag shut, grabbed his handgun, and stood. Three steps from the door he heard it, a small metallic sound, like a Zippo’s lid closing. He dropped into a crouch and moved forward, staring at the line of light between the concrete floor and the door. Nothing interrupted the light.
His left hand curled around the doorknob, and his right tightened its grip on the Stechkin. Kressnov turned the knob and shoved the door open so hard it bounced off the wall. He didn’t see anyone directly in front of him, but the sides--
Two sharp cracks, like thunder, echoed through the warehouse. Seconds later two fist sized holes appeared in the door as it swung back towards Kressnov. Splinters showered his head and shoulders before he threw himself back into the room. He’d just landed on his back when the thunder roared again and two massive bullets punched holes in the room’s metal wall, at about waist level. Kressnov could feel the wind they created as they somehow missed the gas pipes and went through the outside wall.
He hefted the Stechkin, propped himself up on his left elbow and aimed at the nearly closed door. He stared at the two new openings in the wood, waiting for a black shadow to--
Now!
Just as the silhouette appeared, he pulled the trigger. He held it down, and the silenced machine gun sounded like a tire with a fast leak, empty casings flew out in a sold line. He let the recoil pull the barrel up, and in just a few seconds he’d emptied his twenty round magazine.
Kressnov groped blindly at the front of his backpack, looking for his spare magazines. He couldn’t take his eyes off the door, which now had a zigzag line of light running through the center, between the gaping holes. Finally, he felt metal. He pulled the new magazine out, thumbed the catch and dropped the empty one to the concrete, where it clanked as it hit the floor. The Russian slid a custom 40 round magazine into the grip of his pistol, and with a quick smack against the floor seated the magazine.
The old spy moved back into his crouch and slid the backpack over his shoulders. He couldn’t hear his enemy, no clicks and no gunfire.
“Where is he?”
Kressnov looked at the ventilated door and wall, he knew that his opponent was directly opposite the wall. But, somehow, he just knew they weren’t there anymore. After seeing twenty rounds fly through a door, they’d move.
“So where is he?” The Russian’s brow furrowed. “Wait, it doesn’t matter. I get out, get through the fence, press the button. He’s dead.”
He tightened his grip on the pistol.
“Run for it.”
Kressnov exploded from his crouch and slammed the door with his left shoulder. Once again, it bounced off the metal wall, but the Russian didn’t hear it. He focused only on the door that promised escape. But thunder roared again, and he heard metal ricochet off concrete. He could feel stone chips bounce off his pant legs.
He turned to the left in mid-step and let the Stechkin reply. Lead rockets flew through the air and brass shells bounced off the concrete. But Kressnov didn’t stop running; he just wanted to keep the bastard’s head down.
The door! He got to the door.
When he wrenched it open and ran towards the fence, the ringing of his rounds hitting metal containers still in his ears.
He crossed the distance between the building and the fence in just a few seconds. A few feet from the fence he slipped the bag off, and in mid-step he threw the black mass over the barbed wire fence. It landed with a soft thud and sent up a cloud of sand. The spy paused long enough to lie on the ground before he started crawling back towards the other side. Halfway through he heard the door open, he glanced over his shoulder. Through the segmented metal, he could see the black shadow moving towards him. A gleam caught Kressnov’s eye, he could see his enemy carried a large knife.
Kicking and crawling he made it through the fence. The Russian ran for his backpack and the detonator inside it. He stumbled once before finally falling before the black bag. He searched for the pocket, found it, and struggled with the small zipper. It’s opening was his salvation.
His left thumb hovered over the red button. He smiled and pressed it.
At least, he tried to.
His thumb didn’t move. He stared it, mentally willed it to move and put all his strength into moving just a few millimeters. Tendons bulged and his hand shook with effort, but it didn’t move.
“What the hell?”
He heard the sand crunch behind him. He tried to turn his head, look over his shoulder. But even those muscles refused to obey his commands. He tried to kick his legs, move his arms, anything.
“Won’t do ya any good.”
At least he could roll his eyes upwards and glare at his enemy. In the half darkness it took a moment for Kressnov to realize something quite extraordinary. If it hadn’t been frozen, his jaw would have dropped. His enemy was a child.
The Russian could make out brown hair, arranged in a messy bowl cut. Nearly luminescent green eyes stared down at him. The boy’s small mouth twisted in a smile. He dressed exactly like Kressnov, dark grey sweats to blend in with the night. The spy’s gazed dropped to the object in the child’s hand. Not a knife, a--
“Colt Anaconda, 44 Caliber. Ya like?” The child held up the massive piece of chrome and let it catch the light.
Kressnov’s eyes narrowed. The boy’s mouth hadn’t moved from its smile. “How’d he--"
“Do that? It’s easy, stupid. Just need tha talent.”
The Russian felt his jaw muscles suddenly relax. He opened his mouth to curse the brat, but found the chrome barrel shoved towards his throat, nearly triggering his gag reflex. Kressnov tried to raise his right hand, still clutching the Stechkin.
“Oh no. None a’ that.” The boy grinned, and pulled the trigger.
The boy pulled his gun from what was left of Kressnov’s skull. He rolled his eyes at the blood and saliva coating the barrel. He crouched down and tried to find a dry spot on the Russian bastard’s blood and brain soaked shirt. At the end of the sleeve he found a small patch, and wiped off the barrel. When he shoved it back in its shoulder holster, it shined in the light again.
At his hip a walkie-talkie crackled to life.
“Shepherd. Come in.”
He rolled his eyes as he replied, “Yeah.”
“How’s Kressnov?”
The boy named Shepherd looked down at the body, in particular the missing back half of its head, now replaced by a dark red mass oozing blood. For a moment Shepherd thought he could see the back of an eyeball. “He’s got one hell of a headache.”
“I see. He’s been neutralized?”
The boy snorted before he pressed the button. He spoke slightly louder when a gust of wind blew over the desert. “That’s what I said, right?”
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“Was that wind? Are you outside?”
The boy looked at the shifting sand. “Well, yeah.”
Shepherd’s handler growled through the speaker. “You were supposed to neutralize him inside.”
The boy shot back, “What difference does it make?”
“The hell it-- We’ll talk about this later. Get to the extraction point.” The speaker crackled when the connection cut out.
Shepherd stood over the cooling corpse, static crackling from his hand, and wind ruffling his hair. He looked back at the warehouse complex. “Yes, Sir.”
Joseph Kressnov was a walking piece of Soviet Propaganda. He had the looks: tall, broad shoulders, square jawed, and a shock of thick, brown hair. He also had the ideal Soviet intellect: completely loyal, and yet had the brains to graduate at the top of his class in the Military Academy. Military Intelligence immediately drafted him into their ranks, and gave him a Captain’s bars.
When the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in 1978, Captain Kressnov went in to intercept any foreign support of the Mujahideen, the Afghan resistance. In 1981, Moscow recalled Kressnov, his mission declared successful. However, in 1987, Stinger rocket launchers appeared and started shooting down the Soviet gunships. After a long search, the KGB discovered that the weapons were going to Afghanistan through Israel. Kressnov, now a Major, received an order to find the arms depot in Jerusalem, and destroy it.
The CIA learned of the KBG’s plan and sent a special operative to meet Kressnov, and neutralize him.
Joseph Kressnov reached into his black backpack and pulled out a small set of bolt cutters. He started to snip the steel wires that formed the chain link fence. Each cut produced a small twang from the taught metal, but Kressnov didn’t concern himself with the sound. He was at the rear of the square storage compound, and the only thing behind him was pure desert. The bright floodlights on the warehouse walls cast pools of light through the fence, creating a checker mark pattern across the desert sand.
With his small hole cut into the fence, Kressnov shoved the cutters back into his pack, and pushed the bag through the fence. The massive Russian army crawled through the opening. He squeezed through, the cut steel snagging on his dark grey sweatshirt and pants.
Kressnov kneeled on the sand coated concrete and pulled his Stechkin pistol from its shoulder harness. He reached back into his bag and pulled out a long, cylindrical silencer. After he screwed it to the muzzle of the handgun, he pulled back the slide. Satisfied that a round sat in the chamber, he stood, swung the pack onto his left shoulder, and walked towards Warehouse Three.
As he moved towards the middle of the five massive buildings, his eyes never stopped moving. He glanced left, at the empty stretch of concrete dotted with small bluffs of sand. To his right, the same scene, lit with round pools of light, barely touching at the edges. Between the warehouses, deep shadows that could hold any number of unpleasant surprises for the Russian saboteur.
So Kressnov moved slowly, pistol held in standard combat position. Pistol held in his right hand straight out from his body, left hand under the grip supporting the right, and left elbow tucked in close to his chest. Though an enemy would possess the advantage of surprise, Kressnov held a stronger one. Literally. His Stechkin was a terrifying weapon, for both target and user. It was a handgun that could fire either semi or full automatic. In full auto it could put out 850 rounds in one minute, ideally. But that came at a high price; the pistol was almost uncontrollable without its optional wooden shoulder stock. Naturally, due to its size, Kressnov didn’t carry the stock with him that night. Even if he couldn’t hit his target, the Russian could at least scare the hell out of them. People didn’t often come into contact with a silenced machine gun.
He reached the rear door of the warehouse.
Kressnov leaned against the metal wall, the silencer parallel to his face. He leaned over and peered through the steel mesh enforced glass. The dim interior had less than half the yellow lights on. The cones of light struck massive corrugated containers, stacked nearly to the ceiling. Between the mountains of metal, valleys of dark aisles ran and formed a perfect grid. The Russian reached down and pushed the sandblasted metal handled down. To his surprise, it made a click as the latch disengaged from the jamb.
He swung the door inside and rounded the corner, thrusting the silencer into the gloom. No movement, no shouts of alarm, just as he expected. “Still,” he thought, “doesn’t hurt to be careful.”
Kressnov stepped inside the building and returned to his combat stance. He swept the area with his silenced barrel, and still, no one. He moved to his left, towards the small room in the corner. A green door held a red sign displaying: “NO SMOKING-- GAS” in Israeli, Arabic, and English. Once he reached it, the Russian stood with his back to the door and scanned the area one last time. All he saw were shadows, yellow spots of light, and stained metal.
As the Russian disappeared through the wooden door, a pair of green eyes shone in a dark aisle, and stared at the closing door.
Major Kressnov kneeled on the floor in front of a mass of green gas pipes. An eight-inch pipe rose straight out of the floor and split off in two different directions to form a tee shape. At the top off the tee a large, metal wheel sat and controlled the flow of the gas to the other four warehouses. Numerous two, three, and four-inch gas pipes, each with an individual gauge, rose towards the ceiling.
The saboteur sat his pistol on the ground, and reached back into his bag. From its depths he pulled a block of demolition grade plastic explosive, with a detonator plugged in the center.
He peeled the safety film off the back of the block, and leaned forward to attach it at the cross of the tee. When he twisted his shoulders, a shot of pain raced through his back. His eyes twitched, and he thought for a second of his aching knees, and the three new gray hairs he found that morning.
Still, he stuck the bomb right where he wanted it: next to the gas valve. Kressnov extracted himself, zipped his bag shut, grabbed his handgun, and stood. Three steps from the door he heard it, a small metallic sound, like a Zippo’s lid closing. He dropped into a crouch and moved forward, staring at the line of light between the concrete floor and the door. Nothing interrupted the light.
His left hand curled around the doorknob, and his right tightened its grip on the Stechkin. Kressnov turned the knob and shoved the door open so hard it bounced off the wall. He didn’t see anyone directly in front of him, but the sides--
Two sharp cracks, like thunder, echoed through the warehouse. Seconds later two fist sized holes appeared in the door as it swung back towards Kressnov. Splinters showered his head and shoulders before he threw himself back into the room. He’d just landed on his back when the thunder roared again and two massive bullets punched holes in the room’s metal wall, at about waist level. Kressnov could feel the wind they created as they somehow missed the gas pipes and went through the outside wall.
He hefted the Stechkin, propped himself up on his left elbow and aimed at the nearly closed door. He stared at the two new openings in the wood, waiting for a black shadow to--
Now!
Just as the silhouette appeared, he pulled the trigger. He held it down, and the silenced machine gun sounded like a tire with a fast leak, empty casings flew out in a sold line. He let the recoil pull the barrel up, and in just a few seconds he’d emptied his twenty round magazine.
Kressnov groped blindly at the front of his backpack, looking for his spare magazines. He couldn’t take his eyes off the door, which now had a zigzag line of light running through the center, between the gaping holes. Finally, he felt metal. He pulled the new magazine out, thumbed the catch and dropped the empty one to the concrete, where it clanked as it hit the floor. The Russian slid a custom 40 round magazine into the grip of his pistol, and with a quick smack against the floor seated the magazine.
The old spy moved back into his crouch and slid the backpack over his shoulders. He couldn’t hear his enemy, no clicks and no gunfire.
“Where is he?”
Kressnov looked at the ventilated door and wall, he knew that his opponent was directly opposite the wall. But, somehow, he just knew they weren’t there anymore. After seeing twenty rounds fly through a door, they’d move.
“So where is he?” The Russian’s brow furrowed. “Wait, it doesn’t matter. I get out, get through the fence, press the button. He’s dead.”
He tightened his grip on the pistol.
“Run for it.”
Kressnov exploded from his crouch and slammed the door with his left shoulder. Once again, it bounced off the metal wall, but the Russian didn’t hear it. He focused only on the door that promised escape. But thunder roared again, and he heard metal ricochet off concrete. He could feel stone chips bounce off his pant legs.
He turned to the left in mid-step and let the Stechkin reply. Lead rockets flew through the air and brass shells bounced off the concrete. But Kressnov didn’t stop running; he just wanted to keep the bastard’s head down.
The door! He got to the door.
When he wrenched it open and ran towards the fence, the ringing of his rounds hitting metal containers still in his ears.
He crossed the distance between the building and the fence in just a few seconds. A few feet from the fence he slipped the bag off, and in mid-step he threw the black mass over the barbed wire fence. It landed with a soft thud and sent up a cloud of sand. The spy paused long enough to lie on the ground before he started crawling back towards the other side. Halfway through he heard the door open, he glanced over his shoulder. Through the segmented metal, he could see the black shadow moving towards him. A gleam caught Kressnov’s eye, he could see his enemy carried a large knife.
Kicking and crawling he made it through the fence. The Russian ran for his backpack and the detonator inside it. He stumbled once before finally falling before the black bag. He searched for the pocket, found it, and struggled with the small zipper. It’s opening was his salvation.
His left thumb hovered over the red button. He smiled and pressed it.
At least, he tried to.
His thumb didn’t move. He stared it, mentally willed it to move and put all his strength into moving just a few millimeters. Tendons bulged and his hand shook with effort, but it didn’t move.
“What the hell?”
He heard the sand crunch behind him. He tried to turn his head, look over his shoulder. But even those muscles refused to obey his commands. He tried to kick his legs, move his arms, anything.
“Won’t do ya any good.”
At least he could roll his eyes upwards and glare at his enemy. In the half darkness it took a moment for Kressnov to realize something quite extraordinary. If it hadn’t been frozen, his jaw would have dropped. His enemy was a child.
The Russian could make out brown hair, arranged in a messy bowl cut. Nearly luminescent green eyes stared down at him. The boy’s small mouth twisted in a smile. He dressed exactly like Kressnov, dark grey sweats to blend in with the night. The spy’s gazed dropped to the object in the child’s hand. Not a knife, a--
“Colt Anaconda, 44 Caliber. Ya like?” The child held up the massive piece of chrome and let it catch the light.
Kressnov’s eyes narrowed. The boy’s mouth hadn’t moved from its smile. “How’d he--"
“Do that? It’s easy, stupid. Just need tha talent.”
The Russian felt his jaw muscles suddenly relax. He opened his mouth to curse the brat, but found the chrome barrel shoved towards his throat, nearly triggering his gag reflex. Kressnov tried to raise his right hand, still clutching the Stechkin.
“Oh no. None a’ that.” The boy grinned, and pulled the trigger.
The boy pulled his gun from what was left of Kressnov’s skull. He rolled his eyes at the blood and saliva coating the barrel. He crouched down and tried to find a dry spot on the Russian bastard’s blood and brain soaked shirt. At the end of the sleeve he found a small patch, and wiped off the barrel. When he shoved it back in its shoulder holster, it shined in the light again.
At his hip a walkie-talkie crackled to life.
“Shepherd. Come in.”
He rolled his eyes as he replied, “Yeah.”
“How’s Kressnov?”
The boy named Shepherd looked down at the body, in particular the missing back half of its head, now replaced by a dark red mass oozing blood. For a moment Shepherd thought he could see the back of an eyeball. “He’s got one hell of a headache.”
“I see. He’s been neutralized?”
The boy snorted before he pressed the button. He spoke slightly louder when a gust of wind blew over the desert. “That’s what I said, right?”
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“Was that wind? Are you outside?”
The boy looked at the shifting sand. “Well, yeah.”
Shepherd’s handler growled through the speaker. “You were supposed to neutralize him inside.”
The boy shot back, “What difference does it make?”
“The hell it-- We’ll talk about this later. Get to the extraction point.” The speaker crackled when the connection cut out.
Shepherd stood over the cooling corpse, static crackling from his hand, and wind ruffling his hair. He looked back at the warehouse complex. “Yes, Sir.”