Fanning the Flames

A Russian man who has lost everything seeks revenge on the man who did it. It was actually the first story I meant to post, but I put it in a writing contest and it couldn't be published. It got an honorable mention, so I guess it's okay. Enjoy.

 

          FANNING THE FLAMES            

 

A cold, strong, desperate wind blew through the Siberian tundra. To Grigory Dorosov, it felt hopeless and despairing. It felt like a last chance. One last chance to make everything right. After that, Dorosov had promised himself, no more killing. He had seen far too much of that, and had done far too much himself. He shivered against the Arctic cold. Pulling his thick blanket closer, he stared into the burning fire. Rotin. The wind seemed to whisper the name to Grigory. Rotin. The reason he was here. His first client. His final target. Rotin. His best client, too. More shots had been fired for him than any other client. Dorosov had made his living off the man but then-. No, that was in the past. All that mattered was that it would soon be over. One more target.

            “Hmph. Christmas indeed,” mused Grigory. It was true. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. And Grigory had one gift left to give. It was for Rotin. He kept it warm inside his shirt. It couldn’t be said, however, that he didn’t have a special place inside him for Rotin. A .45 mm bullet, to be exact. Right next to his stomach. It had nearly killed him. But, he had to return the favor, of course. It was something that he couldn’t die without knowing he did. Rotin. The wind whispered again. Grigory stoked the fire and lay back to sleep. Yet, he couldn’t help think of what got him here. It hurt him to remember, but he did.

            It was just two years ago. What felt like a millennium for Grigory Dorosov. He was happy, living with his wife, Marie, and his daughter, Olga. It was his last job for Rotin. He adjusted the scope on his rifle to find he was sighting down his stepbrother. Grigory dropped the rifle, and walked away. He would regret that one moment for the rest of his life. A mistake he would carry to the grave. First, his extended family turned up dead, all in “accidents.” A train wreck here. A building collapsing there. His favorite uncle “choked” to death. From his grandparents to his American cousin, all dead. Then, his stepmother and father disappeared, before the call.

            “You should never have betrayed me, Dorosov.”

            Grigory’s eyes shot open. He reached for a heavy knife he always slept with. He sat up slowly, pulling the knife forward.

            “Who’s there?” called Dorosov. He lit a short branch for a torch. “Show yourself!” A rustle came from the grass. Grigory whirled, waving the torch. The ears of a startled hare popped up in the grass. Grigory almost laughed. He hadn’t laughed in almost two years. The voice had been from his own mind. The wind no longer whispered his enemy’s name. It howled like a timber wolf. Just like it had, fanning the flames. Grigory had taken his family and tried to escape, but on the ride to freedom, a bomb overturned the train. The flames grew higher about Dorosov’s family until he couldn’t see them. Then came two gunshots. Just two, and he had never thought two a lucky number. No assassin did. The lucky number was one. Seven was for soldiers on the front, not for a sniper. He heard them fall, and couldn’t stand it, not being there for them! He pulled out his pistol and fired all eight shots into the woods. Then, Rotin stepped forward from the flames. He raised a sidearm of his own.

            “You should never have betrayed me, Dorosov.” Grigory threw his emptied pistol as Rotin fired. The deflected bullet passed through his torso. Dorosov jumped through the flames and into the woods. He was the only survivor of the wreck. Rotin’s men had left no witnesses but one.

            The scars from the flames pained his legs even now. Dorosov slept fitfully that night. He was thankful for the fire, though. He had woken every hour or two to stoke and feed the flames. About halfway through the night, he awoke, and set up a slanting lean-to over himself and the fire with a tarp he had brought along. He awoke in a small rectangle of grass. Everywhere else was in several feet of Arctic snow. The fire, despite his efforts, was doused by the icy powder. He removed the tarp to have snow collapse in his rectangle. He pulled out a small can of soup from his pack. Recreating his fire, he ate his meager breakfast. Grigory removed a pair of collapsible snowshoes from his backpack. Climbing up the slope, he headed toward his target and his destiny.

 Dorosov was thankful for the light metal snowshoes that held him above the ground. It was not easy to walk through six feet of snow, especially when one was 6’5”. He was not thankful, however, for the fact that he was always standing or walking. The man wiped the first hints of sweat off of his face. In conditions like these, sweat could kill. Grigory removed his hat and replaced it with a headband to cover his ears. He ran a hand through his short, light brown hair. Dorosov looked up at the clouded sky. No snow was falling anymore. He removed his ski goggles and pulled up a pair of high-powered binoculars. There was his target, right where it should be. He pushed on. The village where his man was hiding was small and unmodernized. It looked as if it had not changed since World War One. The only advancement was a small helicopter on a landing pad. He also saw the hut where Rotin was staying. Although Grigory didn’t know why the man was here, he did know that he wouldn’t be leaving. Dorosov crept into the area. All the guards were inside the hideout. They didn’t know why their boss was in any danger, so mostly they guarded the fire inside. Of course, this was perfect luck. Grigory snuck up to the helicopter and began working.

That evening was the night it would all end. It had all been planned out to the last detail. His watch beeped. Pulling back his sleeve, his watch screen froze over. It was time. Grigory pulled the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the scope. A small crack, muffled by cloth, alerted Dorosov. His watch screen had broken from reheating in his sleeve. He magnified his target once more. A door swung open, and two guards file out, followed by Rotin. The bullet loaded into the rifle had his name on it. It was etched, Vladimir Rotin, into the round with a craft knife. He looked straight at Dorosov, and pointed. His mouth opened to yell, but never got the chance. His hand moved as Grigory’s finger had. His head snapped back from the impact, and he fell to the ground. The guards wheeled around, guns blazing. Several rounds slammed into Dorosov’s body. He collapsed on the wooden rooftop he had used for cover. He was dying, but he didn’t care. Rotin was dead, and the men who had shot Grigory soon would be.

Dorosov had bandaged his four wounds and propped himself up against the pain. The five guards piled into the helicopter and took off. They were getting out of there, even though their client was dead. Grigory smirked. He had one surprise left.

The helicopter started into the air when, suddenly, there was a loud explosion. The engine was on fire. A small, heat activated charge had been set near the spark plug. The fire was spreading along a small oil coated cord to a charge set under the propeller. Grigory also saw to it that the parachutes had disappeared. The bundled cloth made a nice pillow right now. Having only taken off seconds before the explosion, one man jumped for it, thinking the ground was close enough. He was dead wrong. The helicopter crashed seconds before the charge went off. Any man who survived the crash would not the explosion. Flaming shards of metal littered the village.

Grigory’s work was done. He felt the energy emptying from his body.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, for it was indeed. Smiling and laughing, he closed his eyes and went to his family. He was finally home.