Cameron McElwee

Prologue

Moscow, Russia

7th January 2002

"- and we will beat back the rebel scum, forcing them back into the gutter where they belong! Russia belongs to its citizens, and not vermin lowlife like Iv-"

Yuri Zietsev turned off the telivision. All day it had been filling the room with nonsense about the rebels. It was starting to tire him. He looked over his shoulder, and saw a man sat in a chair, bound by the wrists, blindfolded. Next to him were a couple of children, and the wife, also tied up and blindfolded. Two days they had been sat in that room, and for three more they would remain, unless of course, the Loyalists thought differently. The room was small, twelve by fourteen Zietsev guessed. It's walls were windowless, and only a single, metal door was placed on the furthest side from the prisoners. No escape. Zietsev was a good looking man in his early twenties. But the stress of the recent civil war was starting to show on his face.

There was a knock at the door, and a tall man walked in with an AK-74 assault rifle, dressed in a black hoody and blue jeans. It was his second in command, Lieutenant Letyev. He had only met Letyev three days ago, when they were sent on a mission to kidnap the civilian family. Eight men went on the operation, only two survived. It turned out the man of the house was better protected than the group had anticipated.

Letyev approached Zietsev, a stern look on his face.

"The enemy know we are in here, we need to finish, and get out." Letyev said. Zietsev nodded, and reached over to grab his rifle. As he grabbed the Dragonuv, he heard the faint rattle of gunshots from enemy were getting close. He pulled a fresh magazine from inside his coat pocket, and loaded it into the empty slot. His hand pulled back on the cocking handle, loading the first bullet into the chamber, and his other hand rested on the pistol grip. Zietsev turned to Letyev, and slowly nodded to him. He watched impatiently as Letyev pulled a Berretta 92 from it's holster, and pulled back on the top slide, loading a nine milimetre bullet into the chamber. There was a distant thunder of fighter jets, and a rumble from gunfire. Zietsev knew they were running out of time. He walked over to the family in the chairs, and untied the blindfolds from the wife and the two childrens faces. Instantly a look a horror flashed over their faces as they realized what was coming. Zietsev trondled back towards Letyev, who was now aiming the handgun at the fathers head. Zietsev took a final look at each member of the family. Dad was blindfolded, so there was no obvious facial expression. But by the shaking in his legs, you could tell he was scared. Just as anyone with any sense would have been in the same situation. A thick layer of dried blood was smothering the lower half of his face, what little light the room had was reflecting off of the crimson surface. The youngest of the two children, a young girl, peered into Zietsev's eyes, her brown hair caked with dust and dried blood. Her nose was broken, and her face was scratched. She couldn't have been any older than eight years old, but that didn't mean she deserved any less of a beating. The older of the two was staring at Zietsev furiously, his blue eyes burning with hatred, or was it regret? Zietsev couldn't tell. He seemed to be the cleanest of the family; no blood on his face apart from a few smears of his fathers, and only two bruises. No broken bones, no cuts, nothing serious at all. Zietsev had to admit it, the kid could fight. The mans wife was the worst looking of them all. One of her eyes had been cut open, her nose was bloodied and both of her lips were swollen. She had a large purple bruise on her left cheek, comparable in colour to a plum. The worst thing about her was the look in her good eye. She was beyond frightened. She knew she was going to die, and had accepted it valiantly. Little did she know, she would be walking out of here today.

Gunshots. They sounded louder this time, more like a hammer than a rumble. It wouldn't be long before the Loyalist army would catch them, and kill them gruesomely. Letyev still had his pistol raised to the mans head, eyes fuelled by hatred. I can't keep this man waiting any longer.

"Do it," Muttered Zietsev calmly.

Letyev tensed his trigger finger slowly, and gave it a single squeeze. Then another, and another. He pulled the trigger fifteen times within four seconds. Impressive, but unnessacary. Each bullet had hit its intended target: The head of the father. The damage done by the first bullet would have been enough to kill him, the second would have been enough to assure his death. By the time the fifteenth bullet had hit, the mans face had been messed up so badly, it was completely unrecognisable. The blood from his head now coated the wall behind him, the face of his children, and his wife. It was a nasty job, but someone had to do it. Zietsev walked up to the children, and grabbed their heads violently. Then he slammed them together with as much force as he could, cracking their skulls open. Blood oozed from both their heads, flowing freely across their faces. He checked their eyes, and as soon as he was satisfied they were unconscious, cut them loose. Next was the mother. Her face was now covered with more blood, and it was hard to tell which was hers and which was her late husbands. That doesn't matter, as long as i knock her out. Zietsev pulled up the Dragonuv, and turned it round so that the butt was facing towards her. Before she had a chance to shed one more tear, the wooden stock of the rifle collided with her cheekbone, and she lost all consciousness, still tied to the chair. Zietsev pulled out the knife he'd used on the childrens ropes, and cut swiftly through her ties. She flopped freely to the floor. Zietsev looked back at Letyev, who was staring at him blankly. He didn't agree with letting the family go, but that didn't matter, Zietsev was the leader. Letyev holstered the Berretta, and re-equipped the AK-74. Zietsev stowed his Dragonuv onto his back, and pulled his handgun from his Holster. A sniper rifle wasn't ideal for the enviroment outside the room, and the Berretta was a perfect choice. There were footsteps outside the room, and quiet muttering in Russian. This was it, judgement time. Zietsev pulled the slide on his Berretta, and aimed it directly at the metal door as Letyev unbolted it from the inside.

Time to face the music.