The White House
Sitting in my office in the West Wing I opened the letter written to me by Sergei Volodin, having to put it aside because of the busy schedule. The letter is written in Cyrillic but to me, not a challenge.
To my ally who aided in my escape to America,
I can never thank you enough for helping me despite that we are enemies in normal circumstances. Maybe you have seen the hostility displayed by the former presidents of my homeland, maybe you have watched the news footage of him brutally suppressing protestors who marched on the streets to fight for their rights. I heard from my contact that you are not a fan of what my country is doing right now. Vladimir has always been my most staunch ally and friend in trying to bring Russia to be a more democratic nation. Baranovsky and Yuvchenko have slandered the people's wishes for a brighter and more democratic Russia.
I also want to thank the American president for agreeing to help me to escape to America. I know that my days are numbered, thanks to the two-faced Mikhail. Let me explain if you weren't aware of who this snake is. Mikhail is a friend of Vladimir's, an old communist from the days of Soviet Russia, his views are discerning. Vladimir somehow trusts him but the extent of his trust towards Mikhail is unknown. But the problem is, nobody knows Mikhail's real name, except the prime minister now turned president. You need to be careful when dealing with Mikhail, as he is ruthless in getting what he wants. Vladimir might not be aware, but I am seeing Mikhail being more aggressive towards the United States. I am not sure that you might see this as an early warning but I have a feeling that Mikhail intend to
The letter stopped here, making me feel unnerved. This might be the moment when Volodin is overwhelmed by the two doses of Novichok. Someone knocked on the door of my office and I quickly slipped the letter into the folds of my jacket. The hallway's quiet, an atmosphere made eerier for those who felt squeamish. A porcelain vase is placed directly facing the door of my office, which I never ordered one. The vase cracked and showed a timed explosive embedded within the vase. A violent beep was triggered when I approached, exploded when I whirled to run into the office to duck for cover. Despite the size of the explosion, the propulsion sent me back a little, pieces of the vase cutting me. That was entirely my fault, as I insisted to be left alone while I read the letter. I managed to get to my feet when Bruce ran into the office but I placed a hand against the table to steady myself. "Isa!" he shouted. "You're hurt!"
I know, blood trickling down my forehead and from the long scratches on my legs. The explosion is designed to hurt me but not enough to kill. He knelt on the ground, letting me lean against him for support. He saw the ruined vase and took off his suit jacket, putting pressure on my wounds, ripping the jacket apart. "Who put that there?!" he shouted.
"That wasn't a real vase, bomb's inside the vase." I managed to explain it to him.
"Come on, I'm getting you out of here." he said, slowly lifting me off the ground. The door to the Oval Office was opened and President Reagan stepped out, with his Secret Service agent stunned to see the broken pieces of the vase.
"Get her somewhere safe." the president ordered. I know the haunted look on his face, an assassin is on the loose in America. Making our way to the Executive Residence upstairs we barricaded ourselves in a room and Agent Barrowman got to work. "What happened?" the Secret Service agent's thoughts seemed to waver, already clearing out a psychological profile for the assassin.
"You were alone in the room ma'am?" the agent asked, opening the medical bag he brought along.
"Whoever's doing this... doesn't want me to be killed. He or she, wants me to be seriously wounded enough to stoke a possible conflict between us and the Russians." I say. "But the assassin, or the client, knows the way around to try and seriously wound me."
"The vase just appeared out of nowhere." I said through gritted teeth as the agent extracted every piece of the porcelain embedded into my skin.
"Chinese ceramics." the agent said, looking at the pieces. "Whoever this guy is, it definitely has a great taste in ceramics."
"Can we track down the latest model of the explosive?" I asked.
"You're saying that the explosive isn't that simple as it seems?" Bruce asked me, I nodded in reply.
"I've dealt with enough IEDs to know that the explosive is closely linked to a form of timed explosives." I say. "It's triggered when I got close."
"Proximity?"
"Maybe." I told Barrowman. "Something tells me that, Mikhail knows."
"Mikhail?"
"The client MI6 has locked on, the main suspect in the hiring of Sean Adamson to poison Sergei Volodin."
"MI6 gave you the info?"
"First day of the summit, MI6 and BND." I say. "I couldn't ID him despite descrambling the voices. Old communist."
"Old communist." the president repeated. "You read the letter?"
"The letter wasn't complete. Volodin must have fallen victim to the doses of Novichok." noticing the letter within the folds of my jacket Bruce extracted the letter and unfolded the piece of paper.
"It's Cyrillic. Volodin knows who is he writing to."
"How could he not know?" I say. "I'm the one who saved his ass and brought him here to America. My source tipped me off, the disappearance brought me to conflict with the Langley guys." hearing this President Reagan folded his arms, his head dipping low. "My source is the guy that we could potentially spark a war with if we're not careful enough, the Russian President."
YOU ARE READING
Russian Roulette
Mistério / Suspense"This is a crossroad Isabella." he said. "There will be no return if you were captured." "Can I even turn back?" I asked.
