Love Is for Tomorrow

by Michael Karner

  ***

  Priya saw the fire exchange as a blur of muzzle flashes. Every few seconds bullets raced past the square.

  “Watch your fire, friendlies,” Priya said. “Jason is at that position. Get him out of there.”

  She steered the drone around to get a view on the Tsar Bell. The two Spetsnaz stragglers were close behind but too occupied with the fighting to notice. They were on the back foot.

  Jason came out of the bell. He shot one in the back. He knifed the second, pulling the man back into the bell with him.

  As he turned, a grenade dropped at the entrance of Tsar Bell. Jason dove headlong into the shadows of the bell.

  Priya’s breath stood still. A bright flash and a supernova rang out in front of the bell.

  “Jason!” she gasped.

  Nothing.

  Her eyes fell to her cup filled with coffee as black as the feeling in her heart. She would have to speak the words she had hoped she would never say: agent down.

  “I’m fine,” Jason replied, coughing hard. “Still in one piece.”

  As the dust settled, he crawled out of the bell, taking up his weapon and re-joining the fight.

  ***

  The van zoomed past Antoine towards the red-brick gatehouse beneath Borovitskaya Tower.

  It was not the Vostok’s presence that had caused their retreat. Looking over the field of wrecked and blackened cars, Antoine could see guards running towards them, storming out of the Arsenal.

  “Multiple hostiles, twelve o’clock,” Khabib said.

  The building opposite of the Senate was home of the Presidential Guard. Its members wore the traditional full dress uniform in blue.

  “Riflemen.”

  They opened up with their ceremonial SKS rifles from across the square.

  The Spetsnaz advanced into the parking lot. Antoine rolled under a car and aimed his Kalashnikov at the heels of the closest Spetsnaz. It was Abukhan. He fired.

  Another sniper shot brought a Spetsnaz down. Its echo lingered in the air. Antoine looked around to locate the source.

  It had come from the top of Building Fourteen to their east. Khabib saw it too.

  “Three o’clock, sniper.”

  Khabib pressed on to get out of its field of fire. Only a couple meters further into the parking lot, the angle would be blocked.

  “Reposition, let’s get them,” Khabib said.

  Four Spetsnaz would take on the onslaught of the Kremlin Guard, fed by an increasing stream of reinforcements from the Arsenal.

  They emptied their magazines in controlled bursts into the rows of blue uniforms, standing calm against the storm like towers of strengths. Three shots per target, no more, no less. They brought them down like cutting wheat.

  “Keep it up, we’re breaking them,” Khabib said.

  Stealth-technology and modern weapons beat numbers and relics of the Second World War. Spetsnaz were always outnumbered, never outgunned. It was fear of the invisible what ran ahead of them. The guards ran and scattered over the square.

  They left the way open for Khabib to reach the Senate.

  Antoine came upon Dzhalal. The Spetsnaz was taking cover and reloading his magazine. He looked up at him.

  An explosive detonated under a vehicle. It blasted the car into the air and flipped it toward them. Dzhalal was blown away in one massive shockwave.

  Antoine fired on Abdulbek as the blast reached him. Windows all around him splintered and he was thrown against a vehicle door. When he lifted his head, he could see the Spetsnaz lying in front of him, riddled with bullets.

  Abdulbek reached for his weapon.

  Antoine drew his sidearm.

  The Spetsnaz raised his gun to shoot. If Antoine pulled the trigger now, it was down to Khabib and him. He would know by now that Nazyr or whoever was behind his identity, was a traitor.

  Time was running out. He had to pull the trigger. Another shot hit Abdulbek in the face and punched the back of his head against the car wreck. Khabib turned in time to see the muzzle flash out of Building Fourteen, second floor one of the windows. They had found the sniper, or the sniper had found them. Khabib opened up with his rifle, pinning the sniper down behind the window ledge. The wall was riddled with bullet holes.

  “Now is the time to do what we came for,” Khabib said.

  Antoine nodded. It was instinctive. However, no one could see him nod under the stealth gear.

  “I’m with you,” Antoine replied. Because I can’t let you disappear.

  They pushed themselves away from the wrecked cars. Flying bullets, hurtling bodies, the whole air around them was in chaos. They chased through the eye of the maelstrom.

  Behind him, Antoine could hear window glass splinter and rain down from Building Fourteen. A figure jumped out of the Presidio’s second floor, crashing into the roof of a vehicle below.

  Khabib was up and running, closing the distance over the Senate. Antoine had to follow.

  Khabib stumbled across the square. A stray round hit him in the ankle and brought him down onto the bomb in his backpack. The shots pinged off the concrete forming showers of sparks. They flew over his head from the entrance to the Senate. Khabib killed the guards that had made him bleed. Antoine had to catch up with him. Under the cover of his ghostly appearance, Khabib launched a solo assault.

  Khabib started to scream. It defied the whole purpose of stealth technology, but it did one thing above all: inspire fear.

  Only Antoine was his equal as he followed him. They were like ghosts, half material, half visible, with their voices echoing and booming into the hall of the Senate. It resembled the howling voices from the grave or the barking of wolves. And Antoine realized it wasn’t even his own anymore. Antoine saw the wooden door swing open with no one in sight.

  It must be Khabib.

  Antoine realized the Kremlin Guard hadn’t seen Khabib slip into the Senate building. He was already among them.

  Antoine rushed towards the building. Khabib had reached his end goal and would be moments away from detonating the bomb. He reached the steps to the building. The wooden door wings swung open and spat out soldiers into the courtyard to stop the attack. Ironically, they stood in his way to prevent a devastating attack. A hail of bullets preceded him, meeting flesh, bones and gunmetal.

  Antoine threw himself against the door, pushing it open with his shoulder. It splintered like cardboard.

  He shook himself as he entered the lobby and looked around for Khabib. Chipped wood and dust ran down off his silhouette.

  The air was filled with gunpowder. Smoke clouds lingered over the bodies at his feet like a shroud. Brass rolled over the marble floor. He crunched them under his boots as he entered deeper into the building.

  “When you are at home, even the walls help you,” Khabib said. “You know what the man said who restored this place? Crushed walls, ripped air ducts and piles of two-hundred year old bricks remind me of wandering around ruins of Berlin‘s Reich Chancellery in nineteen forty-six.”

  Khabib spat on the ground as they ascended the stairs.

  “The people sitting inside here also remind me of someone,” he said. “On ninth May, Hitler’s Germany fell. On ninth May, the modern Russia shall fall.”

  A deep clunk made Antoine turn around, heavy metal crashing on marble. Khabib had set his backpack down. He was looking up at him, the detonator in his hand.

  “Tomorrow it will all be over. Moscow wasn’t built in a day, but it will go down in one and then rise from the ashes. It’s time. Like that mission in Georgia, Nazyr. Remember what we said. The church is near, but the road is icy; the bar is far, but we will walk carefully.”

  “I remember,” Antoine said.

  Khabib drew his weapon, lightning-fast.

  “The scythe has hit a stone. You have never been to Georgia!”

  Antoine lashed out, both his feet hitting Khabib in the chest. Khabib raked the air with shots, ripping out chips from the ceiling as he lost the detonator. Antoine landed on hi
s back.

  The device tumbled down the stairway.

  He rolled into the adjoining room, scrambling to find cover behind the door frame.

  Khabib was gone. Even his squad readings had vanished.

  Antoine pulled out the cables of his own suit to go blank as well. He switched the feed in his goggles to RFID signal, but he’d never put the tracker on Khabib. There was no signal.

  Antoine could hear Khabib’s rifle falling into the lobby. Khabib was probably low on ammunition, but he still had his sidearm.

  Khabib laughed out loud.

  “Fled from the wolf but ran into a bear.”

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  “One of us has to die and it won’t be me,” Antoine said.

  “Maybe both,” Khabib answered. “When planning for revenge, dig two graves. In your case, make it a thousand more.”

  Antoine considered his options and cursed. The detonator was on Khabib’s side. He had to move.

  Antoine pulled his sidearm and swung around the door frame.

  He shot the fire sprinkler and set off the alarm. Water showered down from the ceiling into the hallway. Through the rain, he dove headlong into the room. Immersed in mist, he twisted sideways. He saw something, a man sized shape, where the rain disappeared like a black hole. It was invisible but defined by its absence.

  The shape lit up with a flash, firing at him.

  Antoine managed to fire two shots before hitting the ground and rolling.

  He got up, dazed and taking a split second to orientate. Bright flashes riddled the air with silent shots that trailed him along the wall. He shot another two rounds, then dove behind the backpack bomb before jumping forward to the stair’s handrail.

  He hit something.

  The blurred thing stumbled. It spat out blood, dripping into reality. It crashed down the stairs, slithering on its back to the detonator.

  Antoine chased it with gunfire.

  The ghost stopped. It spat out flashes of lightning.

  Antoine stumbled, falling down the stairs. The muzzle flashes ceased.

  The hollow clack of a dry fire mechanism followed. Antoine slid his knife out. He thrust the dull and blackened blade down at Khabib. It met the cold steel of the Spetsnaz’s own blade.

  The knife recoiled in Antoine’s hand. He threw his body into the next stab, but hit plates, steel and armor. It could find no entrance.

  Antoine felt the impact tingle up his arm, drawing blood. Khabib stumbled forward, reaching for the detonator.

  He loomed over Antoine. There was the sense of betrayal in his eyes. Khabib couldn’t see Antoine’s face. He still believed that Nazyr had turned.

  It was the only reason he hesitated to press the button.

  Antoine picked up a guard’s Yarigin pistol from the ground.

  “Die, Koschei,” Antoine said.

  He fired. The weapon jammed.

  Khabib stood before him.

  “There is no way for two deaths to come for you, but from one you will never run away.”

  Khabib lunged and rammed the stock of his rifle into Antoine’s face. His goggles and nose broke. The glass cracked and shards cut into his face.

  He was exposed.

  Khabib saw that he wasn’t Nazyr.

  “Whoever you are, when death comes, no tricks can help you.”

  A Colt 1911 blew the gun out of Khabib’s hand. A second shot, yanked his body around. A third, slammed him against the wall and a fourth bored a hole in his torso.

  Khabib fell. His gun and detonator clattered to the ground. A whisper escaped his lips. He reached for the detonator.

  “Grasp all…,” he said.

  A boot stepped onto his hand, stopping him from reaching the detonator. Cloaked in a construction worker’s overalls- stood Antoine’s old comrade, Gabriel Hunter.

  “...lose all.” Hunter ended the sentence for him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  RED SQUARE

  “The strongest wins.” - Motto of 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment

  Moscow, Russia

  Hunter aimed his Colt at Khabib’s head. Khabib’s fingers went slack. With his other foot Hunter kicked the detonator out of reach and it skidded into the hallway.

  Hunter held out his hand to Antoine.

  “Good to see you again, Hunter,” Antoine said. His friend smiled as he helped him up.

  “Just like in Paris,” Hunter said.

  “Well, more bloody,” Antoine replied, breathing through spit-wet teeth.

  Through the windows they could see Kremlin guardsmen regrouping for another attack. Some were trying to flank them. They were aiming at their position.

  “Well… Antoine, if that is your name now,” Hunter said. “We should get going.”

  The stealth-suits were still working. Hunter put on Khabib’s. Antoine followed Hunter. They made their way out of the building and headed eastwards. It was the same way Khabib had taken to reach the Senate.

  Kovac drove the speeding van towards the west exit gate. The guards were closing Borovitskaya gate in front of them.

  Mini cringed in the passenger seat, clinging to the safety handle. The doors were still open on both sides.

  Kovac slowed down, just enough to let Jason and Smith jump in. No time for seatbelts.

  The massive gate closed tight. It would stop a car or even truck dead in its tracks.

  Mini spread her arms as if bracing for an impact.

  “Not this time, sweetie,” Kovac said.

  Kovac hit the accelerator.

  “Mini, hit that door,” he said.

  Mini leant out of the passenger cabin, holding on with one hand and reaching out with the other. She aimed the under barrel grenade launcher of her assault rifle at the gate.

  “A little more left Kovac,” Antoine heard her say.

  Kovac jerked the wheel violently. There was not much time left before the impact. “You really should have let me drive,” Mini muttered, one eye narrowed to a slit.

  She fired.

  The loud hollow thunk sounded not a moment too soon. The grenade hit the gate and stuck in the middle of the door. Nothing happened. The van was only a second away from impact.

  Mini fired the manual detonator and the gate exploded off its hinges.

  Kovac didn’t have time to brake. He steered clear of the bigger obstacles and barely fit the car through the gate at break-neck speed.

  Side mirrors shattered on the wall. The back of the van collided with the exit wall and banked out. Kovacs yanked the wheel back. The van slid over a patch of grass. It was only seconds away from overturning. Kovacs brought it back on the road. The wheels squealed as he hit the brakes. They were entering traffic on a busy road. Cars rushed past them honking horns and swerving to avoid the intruding van.

  “Woman, you almost gave me a heart-attack!” Kovac exclaimed.

  But it was also their chance to hide in the crowd. Behind Kovac, Smith and Jason shut the stowage doors close, taking a last look at the red walls of the Kremlin. They had made it out of that fortress, at least for now. But the same red of the walls, had crept inside their car.

  “Van team, what’s your status?” Antoine asked over the comms.

  “Fine, but we will have to clean the car,” Smith replied. “There’s blood sprayed over the floor, walls and ceiling. Partly our own.”

  “Damn, Smith,” Jason said. “Your fingers are drenched in thick purple.”

  “I’m sorry boys,” Smith said. “Khabib got me.”

  Antoine followed the traffic on the comms, his finger pressed on his ear.

  “If we get him immediate medical care there’s still a chance,” Mini said.

  “We can’t afford it,” Kovac said.

  “What other options do we have?” Mini said.

  “If we leave him here, a worse fate than that awaits him,” Jason said.

  Antoine knew Kovac wouldn’t make the decision lightly, but it’s what they signed up for. This operation was
not officially sanctioned by any country.

  “As long as no one saw the evidence, we are simply criminals at best, terrorists at worst,” Jason said.

  They couldn’t get Smith any help until they were safe on friendly ground.

  “So we truly are alone.”

  Antoine approached the east gate with Hunter. The raising of the alarm had led to a lockdown. No one was let in or out. They were trapped with the energy reserves of their stealth suits running low.

  Antoine closed in on the guard watching over the gate house. A second one stood on the other side of the walkway. Hunter would take care of him. Antoine nodded, then closed in on his target.

  The watchman couldn’t see him. Antoine knocked him out with the stock of his rifle. Hunter let his crack against the second guard’s neck. The two slumped beside the gate.

  Antoine broke into the guardhouse. A third soldier stormed out and crashed right into him. He reached for his sidearm and shot the guard. Antoine cursed. He hit the button for the gate. The door swung open. Hunter was outside, covering their backs. Shots hit the wall all around them.

  “Let’s go,” Hunter said.

  Together they ran through the exit, a bright field opening in the gap and expanding in front of them. Antoine could smell freedom but they would have to make it much further. Beyond that gate lay Red Square.

  They passed the memorial of the nameless soldier. The statue watched over them. They too were nameless. No IDs and no one to take responsibility for their actions.

  Police sirens wailed everywhere. Antoine turned right to reach the south end. There was no cover. All that could save them was their stealth technology and speed. From opposite the plaza, Antoine spotted Priya leaving the building. She was running towards them, but headed southwards. She knew it was safer to stay separated.

  A vehicle crashing through the barricades got Antoine’s attention. It trailed white smoke behind it as it fishtailed over Red Square. There were still civilians there. They scattered and fled in all directions. The Dodge Grand Caravan sped past them, and braked. The door opened.