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[Thomas45]

I had to write a story for English as practise for my Exam where I write a story of my choice in 1 hour 15 minutes.

Rock version of the Russian Anthem


I was listening to this at the time so I decided to write about my favourite communist country.

“You really want me to kill him?”
   The question hung in the air for a moment, and neither said another word. The rain pattered on the clay roof tiles in the elegant penthouse apartment overlooking Red Square. Bitter October gales howled outside, rustling trees and rattling windows and the sky drew dark.
   Mikhail Gorbachev looked out over the paved square and the teeming city of his youth. He was constantly considering the implications of what was just said and if he would make it out of this room alive. Yuri Dostoevsky, the most feared man in Russia, was standing directly behind him in the shadows that could block out even the light from the fire. No one crossed Yuri Dostoevsky, and certainly never questioned him in such a way as just happened. Mikhail waited a few more moments until he sensed that Yuri wasn’t about to respond to him. He gathered his courage and continued.
   “You understand, of course,” Mikhail stuttered in hesitation as Yuri shifted his posture, “that this could cause a chain reaction, beyond anyone’s control, in Russia and destabilize Europe?”
   A silent, unnerving pause echoed across the room.
“And are you ready for it?” Mikhail asked, perhaps too brusquely.
   Instantly regretting the question, he could feel a chill descend upon the room. Yuri seemed to stand motionless in the corner of the room as he stared out unto the paved square that was glistening in the dark almost like a frozen sea, reflecting the moon with creating an elegant reflection on the Kremlin almost making you forget the dark past of his country and perhaps himself. His cigar fell from his mouth, stepped on it and he began to utter the words he had been dreading since that first question.
   The car drove up to the back of the building - covered with damp and moss growing out of the cracks; it seemed to be forgotten by the city - the sound of jet engines nearby causing a deafening ache in his ears. The rain hadn’t ceased from the previous night and had gotten progressively worse, turning into a blizzard of wind and rain, the extreme weather Russia was infamous for, you could barely see 10 meters in front of you with the thick fog that had descended during the night. Mikhail knew what he had to do and had no choice to do; you do not turn down Yuri Dostoevsky unless you’re incredibly brave or incredibly insane. Five men clamored out of the black painted sedan but swiftly came into an ordered formation. All of them were carrying thick black bags while dressed as though they were about to go on Holiday to the Caribbean for a week of pleasure and relaxation but this week was going to be far from that and they knew it and soon one other man would too. Walking through deserted back corridors one of Mikhail’s men, Nikita, came up next to his ear and whispered in a thick raspy Russian accent,
“Hey there, Point Man, what’s the plan?”
   Mikhail knew exactly what they were about to do and the exact timing and operation of it but he was hesitant to inform the rest of the group, Yuri hadn’t ordered him not to divulge the operation but the plan itself was enough to make Mikhail sick enough to never utter it from his own mouth.
   “Just a standard Op, Nikita, we’ll be fine as long as we stay cool.” Nikita shrugged and fell back into line.
   Mikhail was lying out of his teeth but he knew if he told the truth that it would be more likely panic and dissent would spread throughout his squad, he knew Nikita had a family that was just beginning, he had married just last year and had a 1 month old son. He would be leaving this life forever soon but would he get the chance and if he knew that - what would he do at this moment - Yuri couldn’t afford that nor could he, these people were watching his back and if they let him down due to fear then everyone would be dead. Coming to the end of the hallway they looked out onto the wet tarmac, busy with traffic from luggage carts and personal alike. Water was dripping off the roof and the glass was stained with the drops, spreading downward as a parasite, infecting the rest of the tattered building they stood in. The fog was lifting and the rest of the building came into sight, it was Domodedovo Airport, the center of traffic in Moscow and it was about to become hell on Earth for a certain man. The group unzipped their bags and pulled out polished AK-47’s and Mikhail pulled out his High Caliber SVD.
   Mikhailovich Tolstoy was reading the Daily Worker in his warm and insulated limo which was being escorted by numerous uncountable amounts of police and two Military Mi-25 choppers overhead, it was going to be the biggest day of his political career and he didn’t want anything to get in the way of it, and perhaps because he was also quite a paranoid old man. He was about to sign the biggest Gas trading treaty with Europe that the world had ever seen, the Russian economy would become once again the greatest on the planet, secure Russia from American threats and allow continued ventures into the Middle East, someday the Soviet Union would control the Middle East, it’s oil and nations would tremble at the economic might of the greatest communist nation the world had ever seen. Tolstoy was seen as insane politically by many of his peers and his idea’s even bordering on absurdum but no matter what they said would change his mind on that fact Russia was destined to become the most powerful nation on Earth.
Now he would die.
Tolstoy stepped out of motorcade and instantly stared at his assistant and said with his resonating voice,
“Da! Perfect Russian Weather” he sounded out laughingly in his humorous tone, he was clearly in a good mood.
His assistant humored him and laughed also but in reality he was in no mood to be out in this blizzard of rain and wind today but nor did he wish to hurt his feelings.
They walked up the steps into the lobby with hundreds of people running around them with umbrella’s trying in vain to avoid getting soaked by the onslaught of rain. The plane was booked and fired up for takeoff.  Mikhailovich walked at a steady quick pace towards the gate with a grin on his face, he clearly believed he was about to secure the future of the Union in this one deal.
   Mikhail knew exactly the time to act and it was quickly approaching. He slit the glass enough to fit his Dragunov Sniper Rifle and prepared for what might be the last act of his career and very likely life if they couldn’t escape but he had no choice. The fog had receded enough for the scope to pick out a target even through the drenched glass and awaited his target with anticipation, excitement and fear.
   Boarding was beginning and Mikhaliovich’s personal protection walked ahead of him, looking at every corner and crack in the walls for anything suspicious but Mikhaliovich didn’t worry. He had a deal with a powerful man and that man was sure to keep his promise for the benefit of Russia. And Milkhalovich.
There he was! Mikhail saw him clearly through the glass windows even with the rain splatters and condensation. It was a face no one could mistake. A scar on his right cheek, balding and his pompous overconfident stride he stood out of the crowd he was amidst. His finger glided onto the trigger and he took aim, he felt the adrenaline pumping around him and he was no longer paying attention to his surroundings. He failed to hear the noise of propellers getting closer.
   Mikhails men were suddenly fleeing for dear life making whimpers and swearing but Mikhail didn’t notice, he was engrossed in his target. Suddenly his view was blocked, he didn’t notice in time to react. His scope was staring into a blackness that was spinning faster and faster then it erupted into the brightest light he had ever seen and he fell before he even heard the sound. He underestimated the scheming of Yuri Dostoevsky.
   Then it went black.