1
Kyiv
2022
An explosion rocked the ground outside Kyiv’s National Museum of History. The Russian
commander didn’t even flinch.
It took more than a distant blast to shake Nikolai Morovski. He’d seen war in multiple theaters—some known to history and the media, others redacted and erased from any possible
public awareness.
Colonel Morovski stood by the armored personnel carrier, surrounded by ten of the best warriors the elite ranks of the Russian army could offer. Even with the thick-plated steel of the vehicle, and ten pairs of eyes sweeping the area nonstop for trouble, the determined leader would have had a tough time finding a place of graver danger for a man of his standing and rank.
Two generals, men he knew, had already been killed in action by the drones continuously
launched by the Ukrainians. Many other high-ranking officers had fallen to sniper rounds. One
had even been taken out during helicopter transport in what had been previously considered a safe zone.
Despite all this, Morovski stood tall, out in the open air with thick columns of black smoke
rising from various parts of the city to meet the churning gray clouds overhead.
Specks of snow drifted around him, some blown from the ground around them, and some falling from the sky. Resolute, the man never shivered. He’d experienced worse cold than this on assignment in Siberia—a frigid hell to which he swore he would never return.
He stared at the building with disgust, despite its impeccable neoclassical design.
While architecturally beautiful, the three-story structure wasn’t huge by any stretch of the
imagination. Six columns held up the triangle-shaped roof and façade over the front steps. The
middle section was hugged by two wings on either side, both angled inward slightly as if to funnel visitors through the heavy wooden doors at the entrance. Three cypress trees stood together on the left-front side of the building in an overgrown patch of grass.
“Their entire history is contained in this unimpressive structure,” Morovski said with disdain, to no one in particular. “Pathetic.” He shook his head.
He spit on the ground near his boots and crossed his arms.
“Sir,” his second-in-command said from his right, “we should get inside.”
Morovski looked at the blond man, who stood an inch taller than him. Kostya Arshavin didn’t fear his leader, but he didn’t want to disrespect him either. He knew better and had been loyal since his assignment to the colonel’s side.
Morovski’s eyes displayed irritation, but he spoke with the calm assuredness of a psychopath. “I want them to sweat,” he said. “Before they suffer.”
The second offered a curt nod and returned to scanning the area for threats.
After one more minute, not a second more or less, Morovski gave his own nod. “Kostya, shall we take a tour of the museum?”
“Yes, sir,” the second responded. “Clear the building,” he ordered to the rest of the men.
“You four, take point. You four,” he said, indicating another cluster with an index finger, “take the rear.” He looked at a stocky brown-haired man to the left of the colonel. “Chevchenko, you’re with me and the colonel.”
Chevchenko nodded and tightened the grip on his submachine gun.
The group moved as one, swiftly ascending the steps under the towering portico at the
entrance to the museum.
The building—designed like so many others from a Greco-Roman architectural influence—had somehow avoided every bomb and rocket the Russian army had thrown at the city.
While the Ukrainians may have considered this luck, Colonel Morovski knew it had nothing to do with good fortune. He’d made certain the museum remained entirely intact, for inside awaited something he desperately desired.
The point team passed between the columns, their weapons sweeping left to right and back again, with knees bent and eyes narrowed. They didn’t expect trouble. Morovski knew the Ukrainian army was too engaged in too many places to worry about artifacts, art, and relics. Survival, to them, was paramount right now.
The colonel strode toward the front doors with confidence and a total lack of worry—the way Mike Tyson stalked into a ring in his prime.
The front four fanned out, two to each side of the main doorway with two hugging the frame—weapons at the ready.
Morovski appreciated their caution despite what he perceived to be an overabundance of it. He stopped eight feet short of the door and nodded to the two men closest to it.
The one on the left pressed down on the latch and pulled. It didn’t budge.
The colonel rolled his eyes and looked back to one of the men in the rear guard—a soldier carrying a steel battering ram with a flat, square head.
He flicked his index finger at the guy, then pointed at the door.
The man took his cue and hustled to the front, hefting the heavy metal cylinder. He stopped close to it while his comrades waited on either side, ready to provide cover fire the moment the door burst open.
The rammer swung hard. The head smashed into the wood, and the door shuddered but didn’t budge. He swung again, just as hard as the first time. Once more, the door resisted, but this time something cracked in the frame.
“Again,” Morovski commanded.
The man with the battering ram didn’t need to be told. He’d done this a hundred times, both in training and in the field. He swung again, harder than the first two times.
The instant steel struck wood, the door caved, bursting inward against its intent and design. It flung open, ripping the hinges off the frame, and fell to the parquet floor inside.
Within seconds, the first four men flooded into the lobby, sweeping the room as they’d practiced so many times before.
The first two aimed upward toward the alcoves and balconies, checking for threats from
above, while the other two swept the main floor.
The colonel and his guards strode into the building and waited for two of the rear guard to follow. The last two men remained at the door as they’d been previously instructed—a preventative against an ambush.
He stepped between the first four men while the rest spread out, weapons ready.
The empty lobby only offered a single soul to greet the trespassers—a tall woman in black suit pants and a gray sweater. She stood in front of the information desk with her arms crossed, blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her eyes shimmered like fiery liquid sapphire—a subtle yet unmistakable display of her disdain for the Russian invaders.
Morovski walked forward ahead of his men with Arshavin and the other guard trailing just behind each shoulder. He knew neither of them would give him an inch of space. They’d been trained to protect him at all costs without question, even if the only threat before them was a woman in fine clothing.
“You’re going to need to pay for that,” the woman said to the colonel as he approached.
“You should have left when you had the chance,” Morovski replied in a tone as grim as the
reaper’s shadow.
“Better to die on my feet than on my knees.”
The colonel tilted his chin up slightly at her spirit.
Not that it would save her, but at least she had courage. “You’re brave for a Ukrainian,” he spat. “Foolish, but brave.”
“Our people are the brave ones, Colonel. Your people don’t want this war. Your president is the fool. This is a war you cannot win. And you know that.”
Morovski put up his right hand to signal his two guards to hang back. He stepped closer to
the woman. Arshavin’s only protest was a sidelong glance at his partner, but he remained in his
position.
The colonel stopped so close to the museum curator that her sweet perfume filled his nostrils like a summer walk in a field of wildflowers.
He leaned in even closer, and sensed her breath catch—a revelation of her inner fear.
When he spoke, it was only loud enough for her to hear. “I don’t care if we win,” he whispered. “The president can have his war. My victory comes within these walls.”
He returned to an erect stance and watched the confusion wash over her face from her porcelain forehead down to her dark red lips.
She swallowed and exhaled, resetting her resolve in a single breath.
“You’re here to pilfer our heritage,” she stated.
He chuckled and made a show of looking around the room as if he stood in a circus tent.
The colonel removed his hat and ran his thick fingers through his thinning brown hair, speckled
with strands of gray.
“I couldn’t care less about this… pitiful heritage of yours,” he sneered. “Your nation’s true place is with the Russian Federation. Your history is our history. Your people would be wise to kneel. But if they want to die, it makes no difference to me.”
“Bold words for a man who just said he didn’t care if his army won or not.”
Behind the colonel, Arshavin’s eyebrows tightened at the statement, but he remained steadfast.
Morovski shrugged. “I am a bold man. How else would I attain my rank?” He raised his right hand and swept it around the room, pointing up to the balconies, and the display cases that encircled the floor. “You can keep your history,” he said. “I’m not here for any of these trinkets.”
She fought to keep the stoic expression on her face, but he caught the slight twitch in her jaw. “It may seem humble to you, but this is the history of a proud, resolute people. You may take these things, but the resolve will remain until you are gone from our land.”
“Again, you think I’m here to take an old wooden wagon or a collection of medieval armor.” He sized her up in two seconds. “You think me stupid?”
“Obviously.”
The colonel laughed and looked back at Arshavin.
“She has spirit. I’ll give her that.” He returned his focus to her, staring her in the eyes.
“But you’re a terrible liar.” After a deep inhale, he crossed his arms and asked, “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” she asked.
Her game was so feeble that he could almost feel her heart skip a beat inside her chest.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb with me. My men know how to extract every possible ounce of pain from the human body. And they are not above torturing a woman.”
She swallowed and clenched her jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everything we have is here for all to see, Colonel.”
He hummed shortly, amused. “That’s twice you’ve called me colonel. That means you know who I am.”
“You’re a butcher. Everyone knows who you are. It’s only a matter of time until one of our
men kills you like they have some of the others.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “Every man dies sooner or later.” He inched forward. “But you know why I’m here. These things you offer me are of no consequence. So, I’ll ask again. Where is it?”
The artery in her neck pulsed rapidly, another signal that she couldn’t keep from him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Where! Is! The gold?” His voice thundered up to the vaulted ceiling and back down to the hardwood floor at their feet.
The volume and staccato of his voice startled her, and she shifted nervously. The curator inclined her head, stiffening her spine. “What gold?” she asked.
“You know exactly what gold.”
She smiled, taunting him with the wide crease of her lips. “It isn’t here, Colonel. Do you think we would be so stupid to keep our most priceless treasures here with you barbarians storming our gates?”
He gauged her carefully with all the wisdom of his decades in the military. Then he snorted. “You didn’t move anything,” he said. “Your people are too full of feeble pride to do something like that. Tell me where it is, and perhaps I won’t have to put you through any pain.”
“Search the entire museum,” she offered. “You won’t find it.”
“Very well,” he said. “Pain it will be.”
He turned to Arshavin. “Squeeze it out of her.”
She shook her head as the officer stepped toward her without hesitation. “You can torture me all you want. I will never tell you where it is.”
Morovski cocked his head to the side. “I guess we will see. Won’t we?”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
