A Hitman's Miss

Chapter Two

or, The Rage of Achilles

He wished that he was home already, instead of out here, waiting for their ride. It was Ukraine's fault, though, for wanting to go to town, necessitating the use of the car and the valet, so that the car would not be left alone, where it would certainly be stolen or vandalized. Russia stood next to his father in uncomfortable, but familiar silence. Ukraine and Belarus were chatting on their own, but Russia didn't care to listen, especially over the winds.

"Итак, Россия." (So, Russia.) Soviet turned to his son, who faced him in turn.

"Да, Папа?" (Yes, Dad?)

Soviet suddenly looked away, gazing out at the stretches of highway that curled into the distance. "How was your day?"

Russia stayed silent for a moment. His father seldom made small talk, especially in public, and when he did, never in English. Russia took a second to translate it in his head before responding.

"Not bad," he said, following his father's eyes into the distance. "Мирное." (Peaceful.)

Soviet hummed slightly in agreement as he lit a cigarette. Russia saw a bird coming in from the distance, flapping over the road as it searched for a safe perch. It alighted on the building across the street. Russia smiled slightly, watching the bird hop over the snow, nearing the small black pipe that was jutting off from the rooftop. He squinted at it before he realized what it was.

A gun barrel.

"Son, I know this might be hard to hear, but--"

"Спускаться!" (Get down!) Russia flung himself onto his father, not even considering what the man's next words would have been, toppling them both to the ground just as there was a boom and a swish over their heads. A small part of the wall behind them burst with dust. Russia stayed on top of Soviet for a few moments, anticipating a second shot. The lit cigarette tumbled, extinguished in the wet snow.

Finally, he got up on trembling legs and pulled up the even more unsettled Soviet.

"What happened?" Ukraine asked from behind a bench, holding onto Belarus. But Russia was too busy checking his father for any visible injuries to reply.

He snapped his head over to the building and focused his eyes at the tiny figure peering over the wall.

He pointed at it. "That."

Soviet adjusted his hat, still obviously shaken. "Russia, thank you...-"

Russia stopped him mid-sentence, grabbing his arm and tugging once before turning to sprint off on his own. "No time. Inside, now!" he called over his shoulder while running to the car park's entrance. He assumed that behind him, his father and siblings were sprinting for cover.

His legs were powered by his lust for revenge. Anger made his face hot. He was going to strangle that fool right where he was standing.

"You stay right there, сука!" (bitch!) he called out, hoping the man could hear him. Up the flight of stairs, flinging open the door, he skidded to a stop on the roof of the building. It was empty. He heard a revving engine and leaned over the short boundary of a wall to see an armed man riding off on a motorcycle coming out of the stairs' entrance.

"GET BACK HERE!" Russia yelled through his cupped hands.

His voice was either muffled by the falling snow and howling wind, or he was being ignored. Probably both, considering the situation. Russia watched pathetically as the man got away, his face falling from rage to despair as the figure turned into nothing but a speck in the distance. He threw his hat into the snow. Then, he stomped on it for good measure.