"So beautiful."
Yeltsin, not far away and enjoying the fireworks, murmured the words to himself.
The four black cars pushed the accelerator, taking advantage of the night and driving toward the White House like roaring beasts. Inside, bodyguards gripped AKS-74Us, eyes scanning every shadow along the road.
Yeltsin's thoughts were a tangle. He'd warned his allies in advance that the top party leaders were planning a move. He was mobilizing every military resource still loyal to him, trying to stay one step ahead.
But most of his calls came back busy. The emergency committee was moving faster than he'd expected. Some of his officers were already out of reach.
Yeltsin smoothed his suit and prepared himself for the long fight ahead in the kremlin. If the coup turned into a prolonged standoff, he will have more cards to play.
The ignorant masses of Moscow could be stirred into a human shield, the army might fracture, and the republics might splinter. In times like this, plenty of hungry hands would reach for the dying beast's meat.
An agent beside him leaned in. "President Yeltsin, we can't communicate with the outside. Signals are down. Something's jamming the area."
Yeltsin frowned and shifted in his seat. "Confirm that," he ordered.
"No signal," the agent said.
The Volga rolled into the compound under cover of darkness and eased to a stop. "Mr. President, everything's secure," the driver said.
Yeltsin exhaled, rising from the rear seat. He had ridden in near silence, curling into himself all the way. Now, standing in the stronghold of democratic liberals the administrative heart of Moscow he felt a small, bitter relief.
He didn't spare a thought for the agents around him. Their lives weren't the concern of a man reshaping a nation. The Soviet system needed to be destroyed.
A smile creased Yeltsin's face. The stubbornness of the Communist high command worried him in exactly the right way.
When he broadcast his defiance to the city, Moscow would rally to his side.
However, if the State of Emergency Committee blatantly suppresses the people he have go with option of civil war.
He quickened his step. Allies waited in the conference room; he planned a shadow cabinet of twenty leaders, ready to relocate to a backup command seventy kilometers from Sverdlovsk. If the White House fell, there would be another base; this wasn't a one-day fight.
He had already drafted, in his head, the "Address to the Russian People" a call to arms to mobilize the city and the nation. The council's tactical errors had given Yeltsin the opening he needed.
He climbed the last marble step. Through the gap in the heavy wooden door he could see the crystal chandelier's light spilling into the hall. He put his hand on the polished wood and prepared to step through. Behind that door sat his allies waiting, ready for his command.
Yeltsin slowly opened the door, but the moment he saw the conference room scene, he clenched the cold handle tightly.
There was no warm applause, eager eyes, and a dead silence in the conference room.
All Yeltsin saw were dilated pupils, temples pierced by bullets, solidified black blood, and silent and desperate corpses lying on the table.
These dead people were Yeltsin supporters in the government, and now the murderer seems to use these corpses to mock his incompetence.
"What's going on here?" Yeltsin took a few steps back, and the sense of security he had painstakingly built collapsed immediately.
When he turned around, he saw a pair of cold eyes staring at him silently. At some point, those figures hiding in the shadows of the buildings slowly emerged, holding hands in their hands, approaching Yeltsin in all directions.
Yeltsin glanced at the fallen body behind the standing figure in front of him, and he was sure that even the last agent who could protect him was gone.
As if knowing that someone was about to die, Yeltsin suddenly became calm. He began to applaud the instigator, and said flatly, "Congratulations to Yanayev and his accomplices, you have completely won."
"You're wrong, President Yeltsin," one of the men said, smiling without humor. "This is Comrade Andrei Ivan Kornilov's miracle. We slipped in under the pretense of security back in June. We've been waiting for this day."
"What? Isn't that waste son of Nikilov? Those old fools actually let someone take over. Tell me, how did your boss find me? I thought he'd ambush my convoy in the suburbs."
Yeltsin became very Confused, he even walked into the meeting room and found a chair to sit down.
He even calmly drank water in front of the muzzles of several submachine guns.
Natasha raised her pistol. She was about to finish the job when the man at the table waved a hand.
"Wait. Be patient," he said. " At lest let me know. This is my last meal."
For a breath she felt something like pity.
" With pleasure." The assassin sat on the table and said slowly, "It's nothing, my boss said that if I catch you, let me tell you that he arranged the phone call with General Lebed and was lurking in the building in advance It was also designed by him a long time ago.
Our task is to bring everyone down first, and then disguise you and your friends as a collective suicide."
Yeltsin stopped stared at the assassin, "You mean all of this is Andrei's doing. How long he has been planning this ?
Why? Could it be that he has calculated when I make my move? I am afraid that killing me is not as simple as fighting for power. It seems that we all been lied to."
"Sorry president, that's not something i can know ." the assasin mocked, " Don't you want to know what will happen to your family?"
" Ok , that's enough." Natasha pressed the barrel against Yeltsin's temple. "Sorry. Nothing personal."
"To think I'll be defeated by an unknown worm… hahaha. Well, at least I should thank him for letting me die at the hands of a beauty."
"Do you have any last words?"
"Yes."
Yeltsin lifted his head, eyes burning with twisted excitement. A sneer spread across his face.
"Tell Andrei… I'll be waiting for him in hell."
"Alright. "
Natasha pulled the trigger. The silenced shot cracked softly. The round punched through Yeltsin's skull, spraying a dark bloom of blood as it lodged in the floor. A splash of brain and blood painted the portrait of Gorbachev hanging above, the canvas now speckled with crimson stars.
Yeltsin died beneath the gaze of Gorbachev , a grotesque satire of the collapsing Soviet Union.
"The traitor is dead."
Andrei finally calmed down.
Truthfully, he had been worried after Putin call. But his backup plan had worked, and the outcome was secured.
With a wide smile, he stepped into the room. It was the same place as before, but now no trace of blood remained. The silence was uncanny not fear, but anticipation.
The guests were different.
Every major criminal and mafia don worth his name in the Soviet Union sat waiting.
He could even see many familiar faces of the people who would later become oligarchs ...
They were here because of Andrei.
Some watched him with suspicion, others with awe, others with a dangerous blend of fear and respect. All eyes were on him. A few flickered briefly toward Yor, standing silently at his side.
Andrei chuckled.
"Gentlemen, thank you for attending on such short notice. Tonight marks the beginning of something greater. Our cooperation will reach new heights." He raised his glass high. "Let's toast to our prosperity, to our wealth. Let us be rich!"
The room exploded with cheers. Glasses clinked, voices roared, and raw ambition thickened the air.
Andrei lowered his glass, smirking to himself.
"It's time," he murmured, "to enjoy the decadence of capitalism."