He's insane, I thought as Ghost stared down the barrel of my helicopter's gun. I smiled, say goodnight you sorry son of a-. Alarms blared and the operator screamed into the Comm channel.
"RPG, 9 o'clock!" Yanking back hard on the stick, the aircraft pitched nose up and soared backwards. The engine whined as the rain and thunder intensified. Turning the Mi-35, I faced the RPG launcher. I could see his eyes grow wide with fear as he dropped the rocket and began to run. I pressed my finger to the trigger, launching a group of missiles from the right wing's pod and strafing the field. Clouds of soaked mud and grass burst into the sky in miniature mushroom clouds. A flash of lightning struck in front of the cockpit, blinding me momentarily. A loud explosion burst not far from the left side of the helicopter.
"Fuck!" I cursed raising my altitude and turning to my aggressor. Ghost took off running down the stadium steps heading for the exit. I shoved the stick forward, throwing the throttle into overdrive.
"I need the anti-tank missiles." I shouted to my co-pilot. A green light winked signalling the weapon was cleared. Four rockets tore from the wings two smashing at the stadium gate and two landing behind Ghost. The detonation threw Ghost off his feet and sending him face first into the mud, unconscious. Tensing my finger over the chain gun's trigger, I readied to finally kill the Australian.
"Hey Russian!" A voice shouted over the radio. Swiveling my head around I caught sight of a figure on the top of the stands, they were illuminated by increasing flashes of lightning. It was Fishner and one of his soldiers, who happened to be holding an RPG.
"It's not my day," I groaned as the RPG launched and headed directly for my helicopter. Unfortunately helicopters aren't like jets, you can't pull a cord and get ejected. There's no escape, you just have to strap in and pray you don't end up a crispy critter. Shoving hard on the right pedal, the aircraft lurched right causing the RPG to strike the right wing. The Engine began to scream as the helicopter started spinning like a top. Suddenly the nose pitched skyward driving the tail rotor towards the ground, it wobbled and spun faster. In a last ditch effort, I throttled down. The helicopter lurched beneath me and slammed into the mud, it's left side digging in as momentum drove the fuselage and rotors forward. The cocpit glass shattered with the impact, metal shrapnel whizzed through the air. One fairly large piece missed my face as another smaller piece lodged in my side. The busted rotors slowed bringing the fallen bird to a stop. Rain poured into the cockpit. Instinct instantly kicked in, I tumbled weakly from the pilots seat and onto the stadium's field, water splashing around me. I groaned, holding my heavily bleeding side, as I tried to clear my hazy vision.
Rolling onto my stomach, I began to crawl across the field, only moving inches at a time. A group of Fishner's soldiers surrounded the aircraft pulling my operator's lifeless body from the destroyed cockpit. My eye caught sight of an AK-47 only feet away. Moving as best as I could I grabbed hold of the rifle and racked back the bolt. Pulling the trigger, I waited for the satisfying sound of gunfire. Nothing, I racked the bolt and pulled the trigger again, still nothing. Shit, gun's jammed. By then, two soldiers body retriever's had disappeared and Fishner's lackey appeared above me. He promptly kicked the rifle from my grasp and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, since my hair had been shaved into a high and tight.
"Fishner!" I snarled as the scarred man approached me. He grinned turning to nearby guard.
"Grab that other assassin." returning his attention to me, Fishner took a step closer. "I have plans for you, Russian." Lifting his boot above my head, he smashed it into my face. My vision crashed into a world of black.
Fishner just sat back, watching me. I was strapped onto a metal chair. Rope binding my writs and ankles, a large strip of duct tape over my mouth. Fishner laughed to himself and began to circle me getting closer and closer on each of the revolutions. Blood dripped monotonously from my shrapnel wound which no one had bandaged. Fishner stopped behind me and fell silent. There was a pause that seemed like hours, seconds later, Fishner shoved the chair over. I landed on my side, still strapped to the chair. He lifted a boot and drove it hard into the protruding metal. I wished that It didn't hurt and that I didn't have to scream, but I did. I screamed long and hard as the pressure intensified and blood flowed freely. The duct tape may have muffled my screams a bit, though I wouldn't have been surprised if they were heard all the way in Moscow. Fishner released a small amount of pressure, giving me only a small respite. In a swift motion, he tore the duct tape from my face making my skin burn.
"Who sent you?" he asked calmly taking a step back. I glanced up at the man.
"Can't you accept that your just an ugly bastard and I don't like you?!" Fishner roared grabbing a knife from a nearby table. He sat the seat up and got close to my face, pressing the knife sharply into my cheek. More blood left my body, a wave of pain made me feel lightheaded and nauseous. Fishner stared into my eyes, if he was looking for answers, I wasn't telling. Frustrated, he tossed the knife back onto the table and drew his pistol. The cold barrel pressed into my forehead, calmly I waited.
"Last Chance," his spiteful hissed. I glanced to the ceiling as if considering the offer then looked back to Fishner.
"Винт вы! Mean's Fuck you!" Fishner flipped the pistol in his hand and bashed me over the head with it, the interrogation room went fuzzy then faded to black.