Page 32 of Rogue

Mikhail Kuznetsov hated America.

He hated everything about this cursed place.

He detested the small-minded, liberal society.

The weakness and greed of its government, the arrogance and ignorance of its people. He loathed it all.

Even the sheer hypocrisy of it all grated on him. A land built on conquest and bloodshed that claimed to champion the cause of justice, liberty and diplomacy while bullying the world with a policy of threats of military and economic reprisals.

How such a place still existed after 300 years baffled him and he hated it. Every bit of it.

He was a son of the Soviet Union.

His father had been a Narkom, a People’s Commissar for the District Minister, his mother a receptionist for the Council of Ministers. They had raised him to be a son of the state. That state might be dead, but the Communist fires still burned in his heart. It made him who he was and had given him the dedication and loyalty to put his Bratva first, before any worldly wants and lusts of the flesh, before the duty he owed to a wife and family. He had devoted himself to his brotherhood and his Pakhan.

He didn’t belong in this hotbed of capitalism, but his Pakhan had given him the order, and like any good soviet, he obeyed.

But what he hated most about this fragmented MTV rap-video culture was how it had corrupted and indoctrinated even the soldiers of their Bratva. Soldiers like Rory Novikov, or Roy, as he now called himself.

“Mikhail, what are we gonna do?”

The impotent worm. He even dared to address him by his given name. He didn’t even speak to him with respect or call him Brigadier anymore. Ignoring the question, Mikhail broke out two ibuprofens from the pack in his desk drawer and washed them down with a swig of People’s Pride vodka.

It burned like fire all the way down. That was what he liked about it. It was genuine Soviet vodka, a brew first concocted by the soldiers of the red army to help keep out the cold while they defended the motherland from the Nazis. Now, it was just about impossible to buy anywhere in the Americas or Western Europe. He imported a dozen crates every month from the only distillery left in mother Russia still manufacturing it. Its cost was outrageous, but all loyal sons of the state had to do their part.

Of course, everything burned after his impromptu lynching the previous evening. A fact that wasn’t doing anything to improve his disposition to the man opposite him.

“Mikhail!” Rory snapped with such energy that Mikhail couldn’t help glancing back up at the younger man. Amidst the old-world opulence of the Avtoritet’s office, a man’s space of hard wood and rich dark colours, he looked like a clown. A posing hard man in combat pants and a too tight t-shirt that showed off the cut of his muscles, desperate to disguise the fact he’d got his ass kicked twice the previous day and had spent much of the night heavily sedated while the best dentist in Seattle worked to save his teeth.

The soldiers of his unit, who’d been with him at the bar and were lounging around his office like it was their own personal club, were little better. If this was the future of the Bratva, Mikhail wept for his brotherhood and how far they’d fallen.

“What are we going to do?” Rory asked, in Russian this time. Perhaps he meant to emphasise the seriousness of the question, but his atrocious American born accent made it sound more like a bad Ukrainian comic.

Mikhail just stared back blankly. “About?”

“That fucking bitch at the bar,” Rory snapped again, his temper flaring, and with it, he slipped back into English. “What will you do about him?”

The older man sighed mournfully. Rude, thick-headed, and just a downright bloody fool. Ivan would turn in his grave if he knew what his son had become.

Ivan had been Mikhail’s brother in their Bratva. As boys, they had fought, side by side, in the streets of Moscow. As men, they’d come to America with their Pakhan. Together they had fought their way across the new world, annihilating or assimilating all the other factions of the Bratva, and given Alexi the greatest kingdom the world had ever seen. An empire stretching from east to west, the likes of which Hitler, Napoleon, and even Stalin himself could only ever dream of. Mikhail had stood best man at his Ivan’s wedding, and helped carry him to his grave, brother’s side by side to the end.

He’d tried to watch over his brother’s son, to guide him as a Dutch Uncle should, but the lad had been Americanised all the same. Now it was only the love he held for this boy’s father that kept Mikhail from making an example of him right there.

Anyone else would be long dead and rotting at the bottom of the straits

Thinking of his old friend, Mikhail touched a hand to his Saint Vasily Medal and tried to remember the boy he’d raised. “Haven’t you had your ass kicked enough for one day?” He said calmly, easing back into the big leather chair, knowing he needed to keep his control despite the cold worms that had wriggled their way into his guts through the night. “You just concentrate on your part. Leave the Englishman to me. He will be dealt with. I’ve already called New York.”

He deliberately took his time with the words. Emphasising the last part with a finality that brokered no argument.

A sudden hush descended as all eyes in the office rounded on their Brigadier. Even Rory seemed to forget himself, momentarily humbled by the implication of the statement. “You called Alexi?”

Mikhail nodded. If it had been for any other reason, Mikhail would’ve congratulated himself, maybe even allowed himself a moment to dream there was some hope for him.

However, this was not the day.

That call had doomed him as much as any of the fools scattered around him. Still, what choice did he have? Ten soldiers assaulted or near enough, including himself, in a day, by one man. Whatever else he might be, that Englishman was a threat. An insect compared to the Bratva perhaps, but a dangerous insect all the same. One that needed to be squashed quickly. He’d be lucky to come out of this with his command. That being said, if Alexi had learned of it later that Mikhail had tried to cover up this shit storm, it would be he who would be made an example of.

Better to be a good soldier and take responsibility for this fuck up, then get caught trying to cover it up. The cemeteries of the Gulags were full of men who had made that mistake once.

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