A/N: Better late than never as they say. Work has kicked my ass again, this time for three whole weeks. But enough excuses. Chapter 12 is here and it is more action packed than the last one. Expect the same for Chapter 13 as well. Enjoy.
Chapter Twelve
October 17th, 1940
Stalingrad, USSR
It was getting on in time. Just past eight in the evening, according to the clock hanging in the young agent's office. Although the NKVD prided itself on always being ready for any action at any time, her shift was over and the time had come to return to her flat. Her stomach growled in hunger as she reached for her blue cloak and hood. She was in need of a filling meal and a stiff, cold drink. Maybe a plate of pelmeny with sour cream and beer? Or maybe a bowl of borscht and kvass2?
(A/N: Pelmeny: dumplings consisting of a filling wrapped in thin layers of dough. The filling is often meat (pork, lamb or beef), fish, or mushrooms. It is a traditional part of Russian cuisine, and is common in Russia and other former Soviet countries. Kvass: A nonalcoholic fermented beverage made from bread, popular in Russia and the former Soviet Union.)
As she placed her visor cap on her head, an officer in his mid-30s came bursting in, almost shaking the room by the force with which he flung open the door. His dark eyes were wide-eyed and frantic, as if he had just witnessed a gruesome murder. His black hair was windswept and looked like a hurricane had wreaked havoc on his head. The officer was panting, and sweat was plainly visible on his brow.
"Agent 55?"
"340, we have a situation, and it's urgent."
"What kind of situation?" 340 replied, raising an eyebrow. "I was just about to head home."
"This is a special case, I'm afraid. The commissar will brief us all about it."
Not minding that her shift was already over, 340 followed 55 out of her and into the briefing room, which fast became swarmed by other agents from her division. Obviously, this call was something special, one important enough to warrant them all working overtime. She just hoped it wasn't another assignment destined to keep her cooped up in her office until dawn. The last time she had pulled an all-nighter, it was writing a municipal report to the Oblast soviet3 on the yearly crimes of subversion and dissension in her division. They all approached with marked cautiousness the desk of the commissar.
(A/N: Soviet in this context refers to the workers' council, which formed the means of legislative and executive power. The soviets begin at the local level and extend up to form a national parliament-like assembly.)
The commissar was a career officer, a foot soldier of the Revolution. He was in his early 50s, and his hair was graying, but he still proved to be a capable officer. He was known for boasting about his exploits in the early days of the Revolution and the subsequent civil war, rattling on stories about how he helped the Bolsheviks secure power from the bourgeois clique. The commissar even claimed to know Lenin personally when he still lived, and single-handedly convinced Stalin that Trotsky had become a counterrevolutionary. In the times since then, he had been consigned to this position, the head of a division of security in this city on the Volga.
"I am sorry for calling you all on such short notice, comrades," the commissar said in his gravelly voice, "but we have a situation that demands our immediate attention."
The commissar produced a case file, which 340 cautiously looked over. She feared it might be for the commissar's eyes only. A small photograph was clipped onto to the file folder, showing what she presumed to be the cause of trouble.
A dark-haired man in his mid-30s, with stubble on his chin, his wrinkled brow like a mountain crag. He looked to be an unassuming and inoffensive figure, hardly the kind to be involved in acts of sedition. Just as Agent 55 was about to raise objections, the commissar spoke.
"His name is Godunov. Aleksandr Antonovich Godunov. He's a columnist for Izvestia." (A/N: Izvestia: Besides Pravda (meaning "truth"), one of the primary newspapers in the Soviet Union, primarily reporting on Soviet state politics and world news. Literally means News.)
"With all respect, comrade," said a female agent with auburn hair cut in bangs, "what has he done to earn our ire?"
The commissar produced another file, this time a cutout from last week's issue of Izvestia. The cutout was taken from the op-ed section, and the title of the piece was enough for his indictment.
Non-Aggression Pact: Molotov's Folly
In light of the fall of France this past June and the ongoing battle for Britain, one must wonder what has been gained from our non-aggression agreement signed between Foreign Ministers Molotov and Ribbentrop last year. A continent in ruins. A dark cloud cast by the heel of the fascist jackboot. The forces of oppression are marching through Europe. We have, in effect, given Herr Hitler and his Nazi Party carte blanche to have free reign over Europe in a vain attempt to divide Europe amongst ourselves. We as a nation have given away the store and in time the Fuhrer will look to us with the hope of ripe plums ready to fall into his lap. Almost all of Europe already has.
What has been gained from Comrade Molotov's agreement? Merely a temporary reprieve from a war against fascism that is all but inevitable. The game is already up for capitalist Europe, and unless we take the threat fascism already poses seriously, the game may be up for our Revolution, our Workers' Paradise, and our dream of global socialism as well. If Germany turns its eyes to our nation as its next target for expansion, the only people to blame will be the traitors of the proletariat like Molotov, who naively believed the wolf would pass by the opened door.
"He wrote a seditious article indicting our allies," the commissar stated. "He called Comrade Molotov a traitor to his class. This is high treason, comrades."
"What would you have us do, then, sir?" the female agent asked.
"You are to proceed to his residency and apprehend him by any means necessary."
"And when we do, sir?"
At that question, the commissar visibly hesitated, as if withholding information from them all for fear of repercussions. 340 had a feeling she knew already what was to be done with him: the punishment deserving of all traitors to the Nation, the Party, and the Revolution. There was only one such punishment suitable for such a crime: swift and sudden death. Surely the commissar meant to spare the new, untested agents of the harsh realities that came with serving. Something she had to acquaint herself with firsthand the minute she was inducted, and something she had personally been grappling with ever since.
The commissar dismissed them and gave them the address at which to find and apprehend their culprit. The agents all said nothing to each other as they gathered their respective weapons from their respective lockers. Each agent silently and internally prepared themselves for what was to come in the next hour. It would be a scene 340 would rather not see play out, but one she had consigned herself to as a loyal Party member, and a devoted servant of the State.
Each agent was assigned to a team that rode in a designated patrol car, each with a number and holding four people. 340 joined her squad leader and quietly slipped into the backseat of the car, not minding the incessant chatter of her officer and fellow agents as they drove along through the city streets, illuminated only by the dim lampposts that marked each street block, the traffic lights shining dark green and then bright red, and the lamps from building windows casting an incandescent glow on the pavements.
The muffled splash of water as the car ran through a puddle provided a soft lullaby for 340 as she leaned against the window, trying to get at least a bit of sleep in. Undoubtedly, she was in for a long night if the previous missions had taught her anything. In truth, this kind of work was normal, and she was overdue for catching a counterrevolutionary. All month she had merely picked up petty vagrants and went after common criminals. To go after a traitor now was a much-needed perk, something that would give her some excitement that was sorely lacking the past few weeks.
A couple passed the car by, holding onto each other dearly and with clear affection. Both were wrapped up in woolen coats, as the night proved chilly. It was a good thing she came with her cloak and hood, 340 thought to herself. As her car turned a corner she spotted the Barmaley Fountain, with the statues of young children dancing around an alligator. The water was still running, despite no one being there to see it. A small chortle escaped her lips as they drove on past it, and reminded her of her school days, dancing with her classmates around that same fountain, enjoying the refreshing sense of water splashing their skins and dampening their clothes. Then adulthood came, and with it, responsibility and a career.
Life seemed to move slower in the darkness of the city, with shops closing their doors and people returning to their homes. As her eyelids slowly grew heavier and heavier, she imagined her flat waiting for her to return, her newly made bed calling out to her like a siren. What she would not give to have the comfort of being wrapped in her linens and enjoying the sweets of sleep right now! Just as her vision grew dark and there was nothing but the hum of the engine, the car stopped.
She was awoken with a jolt, as Agent 55, who had been driving the whole time, looked over his shoulder to his colleague and comrade.
"Wake up sleepyhead," he cajoled, bemused. "We're here."
340 looked outside the window and saw a 10-story apartment building, with the lights all lit up. As she exited the car, she heard the loud, rambunctious cacophony of celebration, jeers, cheers, and tango music from inside the building. 55 reminded them all of what was their mission, and what had to be done to ensure the satisfaction of the law.
"Remember: we are to apprehend him by any means necessary. This man has committed sedition, and it cannot be allowed to stand."
The car was parked just outside of the apartment building in plain sight for all passersby to bear witness. As she and the other agents traveled around the car to the trunk, 340 heard the distinct, melancholic verses of the tango, being played out on a scratchy record player.
The weary sun
Bade a tender farewell to the sea.
At that hour you confessed
That you have no love for me.
She chose her weapon from the miniature arsenal in the back of the car: a new model of submachine gun, called a PPD-40, with a drum magazine. 55 chose a semiautomatic revolver for his weapon, and the others chose the new Tokarev automatic pistol. All cocked their weapons and checked to see they were full on ammunition, however 340 knew as well as anyone that they would not need much ammunition to carry out this punishment. Without a word to anyone and with no thought to herself, they both rushed the apartment building.
I became a little sad
Without longing, without sorrow.
At that hour your words
Rang out.
340 banged on the wooden door, ordering any carouser who was not inebriated or passed out to let them in.
"Interior Ministry! Open the door!"
There was only the inharmonious sound of laughter, chatting, and glass breaking against the walls. It sounded like quite a festival, she thought, as 55 stopped her from banging on the door again.
"Sometimes, 340, you need to take the more subtle approach."
55 demonstrated, by banging loudly on the door, and calling out in a less confrontational tone.
"Comrades! I heard there was a party going on here and everyone was invited! I'd like in, if you wouldn't mind!"
As if by magic, 55's tantalizing words worked and the door was opened…to reveal a slovenly blonde-haired denizen in nothing but a white shirt, black cardigan, and striped boxers. In his hand he held a vodka bottle by the neck, and his breath reeked of the substance as he slurred a greeting.
"D-d-d-dobriy vecher', tovarischi!5 So you (HIC!) wwwwwant in on the p-p-p-party, eh?" (A/N: Good evening, comrades!)
340 sighed. Another vagrant to pester them and obstruct them in their duty. She, 55, and the two other agents swiftly stepped in, producing their Interior Ministry badges and pushing aside the drunkard. Immediately he came to ask what was the matter. It was not normal for Interior Ministry agents to join in revelry, unless they were off-duty. Even then, they only painted the town red by themselves.
"Issssssss there a (HIC!) officer, comrade problem?"
"We're looking for someone," 340 noted, trying to
"Then look no further! You (HIC!) found someone, I'd say! In fact, you f-f-f-found (HIC!) PLENTY of someones!"
340 shot a glare at the drunkard as he took a swig from his bottle with loud gulps. So disgusting, she thought to herself. The stanzas of the tango provided consolation to her as he continued on his drunken ramblings.
I haven't the strength to feel anger,
You and I
Are to blame.
"We're here for an Aleksandr Godunov," she said, interrupting. "Does he live here or doesn't he?"
"Oh, you mean Shurik? He's here, comrade (HIC!) officer. On the fifth floor, to be exact. However…"
The drunkard ushered her closer, as if the next words from his lips would be sensitive in nature. His head disappeared underneath her hood as he whispered. The penchant stench of liquor became more acute as his words tickled her ear.
"…I'd suggest you (HIC!) come back in the m-m-m-morning. That fellow is out cold and has q-q-q-q-q-quite the hangover."
"His inebriated state is of no concern to me. Godunov has committed a crime he must answer for. Now, tell me what room he is in."
The drunkard backtracked, almost bumping into a scantily clad woman, carousing with another drunk vagrant. The tango's last stanza was sung in sync to his attempt to rise and console the officer whose patience was fast wearing thing.
The weary sun
Bade a tender farewell to the sea.
At that hour you confessed
That you have no love for me.
"C-c-c-calm down, officer. I'm just thinking (HIC!) of what w-w-w-w-w-would be b-b-b-better for you. He'd much more cooperative if (HIC!) you came back when he's sober…"
The drunkard leaned in, inches away from her face with a seductive stare in his dark eyes. The smell of vodka was even more nauseating than before.
"I'll make it worth your while…you (HIC!) seem the lonely type…"
340's eyes widened to the size of saucers as his lips gently touched hers in a kiss. Suddenly she felt lifted off the ground, floating above the earth on a cloud. The feeling was short-lived as she slapped him hard across the face, and slapped herself back into the here and now. The drunkard staggered back and fell onto a circular wooden table, almost breaking it in two. Fear took possession of his eyes as he now trembled before the officer. This man was now sorely out of line, and she could easily arrest him if she wanted to. She reached for her submachine gun and cocked it, aiming at the drunkard's abdomen.
"You drunken, loathsome, slovenly filth!" she spluttered angrily, fire in her sky blue eyes. "Tell me what room Godunov is in or so help me, I will spare you a trial by putting a bullet through your head!"
The drunkard raised a shaky hand, begging her for mercy.
"P-p-please, comrade officer (HIC!)…I m-meant nothing by it…you'll f-f-find him in Room 58. Please…don't kill me!"
Having gotten the information she needed, 340 shouldered her weapon. 55 led the way to the elevators, pushing through the crowd of drunken partiers and enduring the dance of disorderly denizens and racy-dressed women. As the elevator closed, 340 shuddered in disgust at what had transpired.
"Any of you have mouthwash?"
"What for?" 55 asked.
"That drunk tried to kiss me. My breath is going to smell like liquor for a week."
"You know, 340," the female agent said, smiling wryly, "maybe you could use a boyfriend. Would help with your stress levels, maybe."
"I prefer to entertain those thoughts when I am off-duty, 1246," 340 shot back, annoyed.
A small chuckle ran through the elevator car as they reached the fifth floor. As the elevator doors slid open, 55 readied his pistol, expecting the worst. However there was nothing greeting them, except the muffled cheers and yells of celebration from the party downstairs. The occasion must be monumental for such a party to be held so late, and to involve as many people as it did. 340 and the others exited the elevator and turned right, looking for the room and any sign of Godunov. All feared that maybe Godunov knew what was in store for him, and he had beaten the authorities in capturing and executing him. It was not unheard of for those cornered by the secret police to give into suicide rather than be made a spectacle before the public. With caution and guns at the ready, they approached the small flat, the number 58 rusted on the wall.
"How should we approach this?" 1246 asked. "The drunk did say he was passed out."
"It doesn't matter," 55 retorted. "We take him, passed out or not. We'll force him out."
"And if he's already dead?"
"Then we clean up the mess and dispose of Godunov. Simple."
55 bust open the door and all four agents moved in. What they found was rather mundane, but 340 spotted something that made her cringe.
In the middle of the room was a table where there sat a woman, clad only in her undergarments, primping her hair before a personal mirror. The sudden intrusion of the officers sent her scurrying away off to the bathroom with a shriek. Further to the back was a pristine bed lined with satin sheets. On the bed lay a bare-chested dark-haired man, clearly in an exhausted state. Next to him sat the bed stand, where a chrome plate resided with a straight razor blade, a rolled up paper tube, and thin strips of white powder. A distinctive smell wafted into her nostrils and made her wrinkle her nose in repulsion. It was cocaine.
"Kto tam?6" the man, presumably Godunov, asked lazily, barely conscious. (A/N: Who's there?)
The man raised his head to face the quartet of agents, who all stood shoulder to shoulder at the foot of the bed.
"Aleksandr Godunov," 340 announced, "you are hereby under arrest."
"Eh?" Godunov asked confusedly.
His head fell back onto the pillow as he heard the charges levied against him.
"For authoring seditious literature indicting our allies and undermining the State."
"To expedite the tribunal and execution process," 55 put in, "we suggest that you dress yourself of your own volition. Then we shall not have to resort to unnecessary force."
Godunov rolled over in his bed, showing that he was completely naked underneath his satin sheets.
"Kiss my ass," he muttered.
55 nodded to 340 and 1246, and they came to the side of the bed, both grabbing him by the arms. Godunov fought them vehemently as he struggled to remain in his bed. All the while, he hurled insults at them, berating them for being the puppets on strings, pawns in some scheme.
"Get off me, you bureaucratic whores! You have got no right!"
After a battle that seemed to rage for hours, Godunov was dressed (at gunpoint) and escorted out of the building. After packing him into the car, they drove on into the night, towards the city limits and away from the prying eyes of any bystander who may come to witness state-sponsored retribution.
On the highway to Moscow, there was a pit dug on the side of the road. Two guards stood at attention, hailing the car as it approached the pit. The car slowed to a stop, and all occupants, including the prisoner, exited the vehicle. Godunov no longer had the fire of resistance in his eyes; there was only the stone cold anticipation of what fate awaited him. There was no hope, not in this world. Not in a place where God was a myth. Not in a place where being against the Great Leader while supporting the Revolutionary ideal was a crime. Not in a place where calling out the devil incarnate, naming it for what it truly was, only earned vilification in the eyes of the State.
He walked alone to his grave, where he would lay unknown, unremembered, and mourned by no one. His existence would be wiped from records. A nonperson, a nobody merely numbered among the countless others who would fall in his wake.
"Halt," called 55.
Godunov, with the look of a man who knew death was nigh for him, turned around to the quartet of officers. There was no emotion on his face, or in the gaze from his glassy, bloodshot eyes.
55 nodded to 340, expecting her to perform the deed and complete the order for the night. She produced her PPD-40 and aimed it at his silhouette, only made distinguishable by the moonlight. The cocking of her weapon echoed across the empty, lonely Eurasian steppe. Out here, no one could hear them, and no one would know of the passing of this man into the abyss of death.
"Any last words?" 1246 pried at the man.
Godunov stood defiantly and buttoned his coat. As he did, he gave his last will and testament. His statement of defiance. His surrender of body, and not of mind.
"You made a deal with the devil," he jeered as he struggled with his collar. "That agreement between Molotov and Ribbentrop is just a temporary ceasefire. Fascism cannot be content until it's destroyed everything. There will come a day when Germany turns on us, and our hope for peace with the monster will have been for nothing. And the price for our folly will be paid in blood."
"Is that all?" 55 replied dryly.
Godunov's eyes shot a glare through the darkness, as he took one last act of defiance. Raising a fist into the air in the traditional communist salute, he cried, loud enough to echo across the cold, barren steppe,
"SLAVA REVOLUTSII!" (A/N: Glory to the Revolution!)
340 pulled on the trigger of her PPD-40, and a hailstorm of bullets struck and killed Godunov. He died with his fist clenched tightly, as if grabbing hold of some rope that would guide him to a nonexistent heaven. The body fell backwards into the pit and landed with a hard thud, ending the life of a journalist who had defied the State and spoke on principle rather than party politics. As the guards proceeded to bury the remains of their dissenter, 340 could not help but feel an inkling of regret over what had transpired.
Surely, the man was a traitor. Traitors had to be made examples of. But what of his family? What of his drunken friends still partying at the flat? What of the barely clothed woman who stayed with him until their arrival sent her fleeing for cover? In truth, was his line of thinking not valid in itself? Was this agreement made between their Great Leader and Germany's Fuhrer really made to last? Was it really just a prolonging of the inevitable conflict that would surely come between their two nations?
All these questions and far more danced a jig in her head as she leaned on the window, and drifted off to sleep. All she desired was her bed. Her bed, and a night to think.
»»»»»
April 18th, 1943
Bellforest, California, USA
Try as he might, Renton just could not sleep. He had a sinking feeling of something coming. What that something was, he could not determine. It was hidden in the shadows, illusive, slithering away just as he reached out to grab it. So he lay on his bed, awake, lying next to Eureka. She was turned away from him, fast asleep. Not even the rumbling of a tank could wake her up.
Coming to sleep with her in the same bed was more born out of necessity rather than an actual desire to do so on Renton's part. With Holland sleeping on the couch, and William taking his father's bed, he was left with no other choices. Sleeping in the armchair was not exactly a healthy alternative. Eureka gladly offered him the choice of sleeping with her, and he took it with some reluctance. In truth, he was still getting used to the idea that he was her boyfriend, and she his girlfriend. He had never been in love with anyone else before her. He was too young to understand what that meant for him.
Those days he spent with her in Stalingrad were some of the best days of his life, and further evidence to him that he loved her right from the start. How else could he explain the gripping loneliness he felt for years afterward? What else drove him to write his letters to her? One word was enough to answer all of those questions. No better explanation could be offered.
The feeling was exhilarating and yet calming. It provided an anchor for him, a ship lost in the great port of life, searching for a berth. She was a person to turn to when his heart felt troubled. Her words gave him guidance and comfort when he felt astray and distraught. Her touch gave him warmth when the world turned cold.
His hand gently parted the long train of her dark brown hair to expose the nape of her neck. Her skin was smooth and soft to his fingers. It was at that moment he realized how pale Eureka's skin was; whiter than all the snow in Siberia. To an unfamiliar eye, her complexion betrayed foreign origins and gave her a strange otherworldly quality, but to him it was simply evidence of who she was, how long she had known him, and how little of her had changed in four years.
Breathing slowly, he gently kissed her on the neck, which provoked a small shudder down her spine and a quiet moan. It was such a harmonious sound to him, and left him wanting more. His lips cautiously placed another kiss on her, slightly lower on the neck, which made her shift in her sleep. One arm crept around her slim waist, the gentle sound of her white nightgown sifting beneath his fingers. She eased into his embrace, as if she was full conscious of his actions. Was she awake?
"Eureka?"
No response came from her. Nor did he need one.
Renton shifted closer to Eureka, and took in her scent, smelling faintly of sunflower seeds. She was beautiful in every way, and every aspect of her calmed him, lulling his senses. With another kiss to her neck, he was about to drift off into sleep when a sound awoke him immediately.
"I think they're asleep."
In an instant, all of his senses were on high alert, as he looked around his purview for any clue as to where the words came from. It was a female voice, quite young by the sound of it. At least his age, if he was not mistaken. He looked on the plain white walls and eyed the shadow of the windows. There stood the head of a figure, covered by her hood and obviously spying on him. There was no mistake; this was the same woman who peered through his window that night last month.
Renton in milliseconds weighed the options, wondering what course of action to take. Last time he turned to look at her, he sent her and surely whatever accomplices she had scurrying away into the darkness. However, if he did nothing, he along with Eureka and Holland might very well be killed in their sleep. He stayed still, pretending to be asleep, and listening carefully for anything that could give a hint as to who she was and why she was here. A bead of sweat ran down his brow as every muscle tightened in anxiety. The voice spoke again.
"He's definitely asleep. We can start."
We? There were more than just her? How many? And what was it all for? Renton resisted every temptation to leap to his feet and run out the door to confront the intruder…or intruders. He had to wait. He had to plan a strategy. He had to devise a way to win against them, or he and everyone in this house could well be dead.
The figure moved away from the window, to the left. Thankfully the intruder bought his ploy, and he was free to move.
Wasting no time, he hopped out of his bed, clad only in a bleached white shirt and boxers and went straight to his closet. Opening it carefully so as not to awake anyone, he looked through the shadows to find what he needed. It was propped up in the corner, tucked away in a small zipper-locked bag. He quietly opened the bag, and pulled out its contents: his father's 1903 Springfield rifle.
It was an old gun, dating back to his childhood days on the farm. His father used it when training him and his brother to hunt in the backcountry, going after wild turkeys and pheasants, and even the coyotes that threatened their livestock. He also used it in the trenches of the Great War, that horrible conflict that ripped Europe asunder almost 30 years ago. It was a rifle he hoped he would never have to use, but now was forced to in defense of his home and loved ones.
Renton said a silent prayer as he quickly loaded five rounds into the chamber of the rifle.
Lord, give me strength to protect this house, and all who dwell within it. Give me the strength to vanquish those who wish me and my loved ones harm. Forgive me for what I must do, oh Lord.
He tiptoed out of the bedroom, the door creaking as he opened it to the hallway. The slightest inadvertent sound could be a giveaway to the attackers. Moving towards the small living room, he spotted Holland still fast asleep on the sofa, facing the ceiling. A linen sheet was spread lazily over his body, exposing one bare foot on the edge of the sofa. Renton suppressed a snicker as he heard him snore loudly. He had to be serious. This was life-threatening.
He looked to his right and saw the front door. There was no to the outside, so he could only rely on what he heard. As Renton crept closer, he heard a soft scraping sound. It sounded like metal rubbing against metal. Rattling, grating against walls. The sound was coming from the door, and he instantly recognized what was happening: the lock was being picked open. Renton mentally noted to himself he would have to call the local locksmith after this, but he wondered if merely changing the locks would do him any good. All that he could do was repel the attackers.
"It will be them," he said quietly, aiming down his iron sight. "Not us."
As he waited patiently, he heard muttering from outside.
"I've almost got it," said a female voice. "Just a little bit more."
"340," asked another, slightly higher pitched female voice, "are you sure he was asleep?"
"Positive. Out cold."
Renton chuckled quietly.
"You're in for a surprise, then…"
The door lock opened with a click, and Renton brought the butt of the rifle tight into his shoulder. His aim was a slightly shaky, as his eyes were still growing adjusted to the light. Nevertheless he awaited what was to come next. The knob turned, and the hinges squeaked as the door cracked open. In walked two dark figures, about his height. Their faces were concealed by the hooded cloaks they wore over their forms. One figure, shorter than the other, took two steps in, and brandished a semiautomatic pistol, the finish glinting in the moonlight as it shone through the living room window. He recognized the design of it immediately. It was a pistol he carried with him in Stalingrad, one given out only to officers.
They were Soviets.
Holland was right. Something was coming, and it came from across the ocean. From the land he wanted so hard to forget. If these were Soviets, then Chertov was undoubtedly behind this. Renton held his breath, debating in his mind what to do. He couldn't kill them; he had to know what they were about. He couldn't let them just waltz into the house either. The shorter figure took another step in and turned its head towards him. His green eyes widened, as their visions connected in one split-second. The figure's eyes struck out from underneath the hood. They were hazel in color, much like the grass on an autumn day. The eyes narrowed, and a voice whispered.
"He's awake! He's here!"
The figure raised its pistol and aimed in Renton's direction, but Renton would have none of it.
He pulled the trigger and fired, and the rifle spoke with a crack. The shot rang out like a fire bell in the night, and the muzzle blast briefly lit up the room, and exposed his attackers. They were both young girls, easily in their late teens. The girl with the pistol had orange hair worn in a double bun and hazel eyes, and looked to be the younger of the two. Her accomplice had short light blonde hair and pale blue eyes, looking older, perhaps in her early twenties. She didn't have a weapon on her Renton could see, but he was not going to take chances.
A bullet whizzed through the air and cut through her upper arm. Blood erupted from the wound as the orange-haired girl relinquished her grip on the pistol. She fell backwards onto the floor, staining her cloak and the wooden floorboards red as she called to her accomplice in an anguish-filled voice,
"340, run! Get out of here!"
"But, 909—!" the other figured protested.
The entire house awoke to the sound of the gunshot and cries of pain. Holland threw off his linen blanket and looked to find Renton shifting the bolt of his rifle, with the orange-haired girl on the ground clutching her arm in pain. The blonde girl was wavering, considering the choices of fighting or fleeing. As she did so, Eureka flung open the bedroom door and immediately joined Renton. Seeing she was outnumbered, the blonde girl turned and sprinted out the door.
Ignoring the frenetic calls from both Holland and Eureka, Renton started off in pursuit. He was not about to let his evidence, his reasons for being so paranoid in the first place, to get away. However the orange-haired girl tripped him and he fell on his face, accidentally firing a shot out the doorway.
"Holland! Eureka! Give me a hand!" Renton called frantically as he struggled to his feet.
Eureka helped up Renton with her strong hands, while Holland attempted to restrain the orange-haired intruder.
"Rentoshka, who are these people?!" Eureka asked worriedly, any color in her face long since drained.
"There's no time. I need to get them…!"
"I could use some help here, Eurekasha!" Holland beckoned, locked in a tussle with the intruder.
Renton ran out the door and shifted the bolt of his rifle again, skinning his eyes for any sign of the other home invader. Sure enough, he saw her running out from the behind the bushes and across the paved street. Her form was difficult to pin down as her cloak made for good concealment in the dark night. Peering down the sights, Renton tried to get a bead on her and stop her hasty retreat.
He fired, the voice of the rifle calling all others in this small sleepy town to wake. One after another, lights from the other houses switched on, illuminating the street. The cloaked girl managed to avoid a fatal shot as the bullet tore at her hood and landed further ahead of her in a kick of asphalt and dirt. He shifted the bolt again, but just before he could get off another shot, something smashed into him from behind.
The orange-haired girl had somehow managed to wrest herself from Holland and Eureka's grasp, and tackled him to the ground, firing another shot into the air. As she pulled at his oak brown hair, Holland and Eureka tried desperately to save their family friend and subdue this hostile intruder. The girl shouted all manners of profanities, some incoherent, as Renton struggled out from under her.
"GET OFF ME!"
Using his rifle as a club, Renton swung around as best he could on the ground, and hit the girl upside the head with the barrel. There was a soft ding as the metal made contact with her cranium, and she was knocked out with a soft sigh. She rolled off him as Renton tried again to find the other intruder. However his hopes were to no avail. She had disappeared into the night and into darkness. She left, with only a sense of loss within him and the sounds of dogs barking, people murmuring, and the calm stillness of the night broken.
Holland picked up the body of the unconscious intruder, and dragged her inside while Eureka helped up Renton from off the stone steps. Understandably, Eureka was shaken and visibly surprised by the entire ordeal. This prompted a myriad of questions from her as Renton was escorted back into the house, the door shut behind them. Chief among them was:
"Rentoshka, are you all right? Did they hurt you?"
"I…I'm fine," Renton said unsteadily. "I'm just shook up from that is all."
Upon entering the living room, Renton found his William had woken up as well. Apparently he had been too late to the action, but he was still itching to know what had transpired in the past few minutes. Clearly, he was as confused and shaken by the event as Renton himself. It was obvious to all of them there was a lurking menace in this town. One that demanded the utmost attention, and the utmost caution. It was fear of that menace that motivated Renton's words to his brother.
"William, call up the militia. Tell them we have a situation."
"What about the girl? What if she comes to?"
"We just have to hold her until they get here. And if she comes to, we better hope she can tell us something."
William could only nod and head back to his room for the telephone, and look on as Renton assisted Holland in placing the intruder into the armchair on the far side of the living room. Eureka in the meantime found some medical supplies in a cupboard, and brought some gauze and bandages to contain the intruder's bleeding. If they were to comb any information from her, she had to remain alive.
As William left the trio to attend to their invader, he realized a fatal truth. There was something dark and sinister at work behind all of this. Renton had confided in him before all too many times about the sense of paranoia and fear he felt. He sensed someone might come looking for him and Eureka after returning from Stalingrad. Something much bigger than any of them had started. And all any of the four young people could do was hope that this would come under control quickly. Sadly, so often in life, things do not often proceed as one would hope.
A/N: As I said previously, expect chapter 13 to be heavy on action as well. Obviously the loss of an agent is not going to sit well with Chertov, so there will be a response. Their security and anonymity are at risk. Also Renton and his entourage may start to make moves of their own. What do I mean by that? Well, if you follow, review and favorite this story, you may find out, give or take a few weeks. Thanks again to everyone for waiting.