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The last job

“I’m getting too old for this” uttered Vlad as he gazed across the hustle and bustle of Nevsky Prospect and into the dreary September morning in the northern metropolis of St. Petersburg. On a clear day, one could see across the bay and into Finland, but this wasn’t one of those days. “Winter is coming” he thought, and with it, the melancholy existence of soul sapping, freezing 18 hour nights.

It wasn’t going to be a winter that Vlad would be partaking in ever again. He knew he had put in more than most men do in an entire lifetime. His illustrious career as a loyal son of the USSR and rump Russia had taken him and his Spetsnaz unit across the deserts of Afghanistan and the seedy bars of East Berlin. He had done battle with the Mujahideen and CIA operatives alike and bested all of them at each turn. The medals he was once so proud of, conferred on him by a grateful empire were now collecting dust in an old tin his babushka used to store treats in. The crumbling of the USSR and the actions of his corrupt superiors had shattered any illusions he had about service to his country. Instead, he embraced the best capitalism had to offer and made his services available to the Bratva.

Scores of dead rivals and henchmen spanning two decades, remained in his wake through his new career, earning him a fearsome reputation and a healthy demand for his services.

But Vlad had decided to call it a day. His once fit and agile body had now resembled the ordinary man he had come to despise. I have a certifiable “Dad bod” he chuckled as his second coffee of the morning received an ‘Irish up’ treatment with a generous double shot of Beluga.

This was to be his last job before retirement. A deposit on a home overlooking the Port of Hvar on the picturesque Croatian island had already been made. Two months ago, he stood on the terrace of the villa surveying the crowds below, as a party of newlyweds emerged from the local cathedral. Never married, but always something of a romantic, Vlad nodded appreciatively and raised a glass in their honour before fixing his gaze on a yacht gently swaying in the light Adriatic waves. “Live forever” was what he had christened her and this one last job would secure the rest of his days in this paradise. A steady stream of Instagram bunnies rotating through the yacht’s penthouse would take care of his more earthly needs.

“Just this one last job”, he grinned contentedly at his laptop and UBS Bank Geneva balance displaying more zeros than mere mortals can comprehend. He shut his laptop and gazed across at the deathly contraption he had painstakingly laboured over through the night. Two kilos of Semtex with a remotely detonated charge encased inside of 7 large crates of farm fresh eggs. “Egggcellent” he chuckled to himself as he marvelled at his ability to close out his illustrious career with a bang which would shatter windows across at least two city blocks. The top lieutenants of a rival Bratva were meeting at the Komsomolsky restaurant this afternoon. He had painstakingly cased the joint, noting the steady flow of suppliers making their deliveries on a daily basis. He inserted himself into the schedule, posing as a local chicken farmer making deliveries for six consecutive weeks. It didn’t come without its humiliations, with one of the lieutenants at the kitchen asking him whether he enjoyed “raising cocks” for a living. Vlad would however have the last laugh, when at the press of a button, the smartass and his comrades would be turned into dust particles.

Even after all this time it never got easier, and Vlad needed a final cigarette to ease his nerves. Through shaky hands, he lit the Camel up and watched as the first plume of smoke rose toward the ceiling. Once the ritual had taken the edge off, he put on a nondescript brown coat, picked up his contraption and walked out into the crisp autumn air.

He walked at a steady and confident pace past one of many small corner stores in this part of town. His gaze locked with the figure in blue standing aimlessly outside one of them while drawing on a puff of smoke. As they sized each other up she gave him a suggestive wink. He instantly broke off eye contact with some measure of disgust. After all, his bank balance had allowed him to sample the delights off a much fresher and tastier menu. As he turned his attention ahead of him, he spied a young, lithe figure leaning forward and adjusting something at the base of her feet. His steps had now brought him in for a much closer look as he couldn’t prize away his lustful stare from this seductive figure clad in a leather jacket. Her mini skirt, which didn’t leave a huge amount to imagination gripped around her curvy derriere, in stark contrast to her slim outline.

“Baby got back, hehe” Vlad recalled some of his favourite lyrics from the Amerikanski culture. Indeed, it was the kind of a behind which gave you an impossible choice – whether to first slap it or to use it as a pillow. Why not both?

He couldn’t avert his lustful gaze as he felt blood pooling away from his head and down into his lower extremities making him light headed. Miniature trickles of sweat rolled down his temple. “Dat ass!” he exclaimed as his teeth bit hard into his lower lip.

Those were to be the last words uttered on this Earth by a sentient being who had gone by the name Vladimir Petrovich for the last 56 years.

His eyes had barely registered a blur as the young figure pivoted towards him, brandishing in her left hand the steely outline of a Croatian made “HS Produkt HS-9” handgun, increasingly the choice of law enforcement agencies and guns-for-hire alike. Two shots pierced the relative calm, with the woman delivering a professional “double-tap” into his chest area.

The giant outline of a man had dropped his stash of farm fresh, organic chicken eggs, their shells spectacularly hitting the pavement and shattering into a thousand pieces, releasing their gooey yellow contents. The Semtex pack rolled off a few paces away.

Vladimir clutched at his chest area, lurched two steps forward, only for the sole of his shoe to make contact with a carelessly disposed banana peel. As he lost traction he was propelled backward in a sort of a mock half spin. His 115 kg frame hit the pavement with a thud as his eyes took their last gaze into the sky above. He lay motionless in a swirling mess of red and yellow.

The young figure approached him and placed something on his chest. In a flash, she discarded her Manolo Blahniks and put on a pair of sensible Chuck Taylors. Lyudmila from the corner store smiled at her and motioned to hurry up. The mysterious woman dashed gazelle-like into the store, through the back and into the nondescript Lada Niva with its engine already warm and running. One of her Chuck Taylor’s floored the accelerator as the diesel engine roared to life and propelled the car down the back alleys and far from what had just taken place.

A loud snort echoed through the interior of a standard police issue car as Chief Inspector Oleg Blohin consumed his usual morning upper. He opened the door and stepped out into what was now an active crime scene, with beat cops keeping a curious crowd behind the demarcation line. Oleg paced briskly behind the tape and surveyed the scene. He had witnessed much throughout his career but this was one truly for the archives. The early responders had done a good job of leaving the scene undisturbed. As he approached the giant outline of a man lying prostrate on the cold pavement, something had caught his attention. He bent down, careful to avoid stepping into the red and yellow goo, picking up the item with his latex glove. It was a plain white business card with gold embossed, raised lettering. It simply said ‘Svetlana’.

Oleg released an anxious sigh and muttered under his breath – “There is a new player in town”.

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