red moscow

Chapter 3149 Attacked on the Way Home

The vehicle drove along the wide street, sunlight filtering through the trees and casting dappled shadows on the pavement. As he drew closer to his lodgings, Sokov's heart, which had been pounding in his chest, finally settled. He took a deep breath, feeling the summer breeze, trying to calm himself. He realized he was being a little paranoid; after all, the war had ended over a year ago, the victory in Berlin felt like yesterday, but peace was indeed slowly unfolding. Even if German spies remained in the city, they wouldn't dare openly attack NKVD vehicles in the street, given the frequent patrols.

Gulia noticed Sokov's nervousness. She turned to him, her eyes filled with concern, and whispered reassurance, "Comrade General, in a few minutes we'll be back in the compound. There are guards there; it's perfectly safe." Her voice was gentle, trying to dispel the worry from Sokov's brow.

Sokov was about to nod in thanks for her kindness when his gaze was drawn to a man ahead. The man, of medium build, wearing a dark trench coat and a slightly worn cap, appeared to be in his forties. He stood at the street corner, looking around furtively with his hands in his pockets. The street was nearly deserted, making his figure stand out starkly against the empty backdrop.

“Captain Chekalov!” Sokov’s heart began to race again when he saw the man, a familiar sense of unease washing over him, as if he were back in the days of reconnaissance at the front. He patted Chekalov’s shoulder, sitting in front of him, his voice low but urgent: “Look at that man standing at the street corner ahead, something’s wrong with him. Watch his movements, they’re too unnatural.”

Chekalov glanced at it casually, then said dismissively, "Comrade Deputy Commander, that's just an ordinary passerby, probably waiting for someone. Don't worry, the vehicle's armor is thick enough to pose no threat to you." His tone was relaxed, clearly not taking Sokov's warning seriously.

Seeing Chekalov's indifference, Sokov grew impatient. He suddenly raised his voice, which echoed in the car: "What ordinary passerby? Captain, have you ever seen an ordinary passerby wearing a windbreaker and hat in the middle of summer? It's so hot that even the birds are hiding, yet he's all bundled up. Isn't he afraid of getting heatstroke?" Sokov's hands unconsciously gripped the edge of the seat, his eyes fixed on the figure.

After Sokov's reminder, Chekalov also realized something was amiss. If the man's clothing were in spring or autumn, it wouldn't be a problem; it could be explained as him being cold or fashionable. But it was the height of summer in July, under the blazing sun, and he was so bundled up, even his collar was buttoned up tightly—something was definitely wrong—either he was hiding something, or he was deliberately disguising himself. Chekalov's eyes sharpened instantly; he recalled the counter-espionage techniques he had learned during his training.

Thinking this, Chekalov quickly instructed the driver, his voice decisive and urgent: "Driver, don't slow down, speed up and rush past that man. Watch your sides for ambushes." As he spoke, he drew his pistol from his waist, skillfully disengaging the safety, and slightly raising the muzzle, ready to fire at any moment. The atmosphere inside the car instantly tensed. Gulia held her breath, her gaze fixed on the approaching man in the trench coat outside the window.

As the car was about to pass the man, a resolute glint flashed in his eyes, and he leaped into the middle of the road without hesitation. The driver, eyes wide, felt his heart leap into his throat and instinctively slammed on the brakes. The screeching sound of brakes shattered the street's silence, the car jolting violently as it slowed, leaving two black tire tracks on the pavement. The immense inertia caused everyone inside to lurch forward, their arms instinctively gripping the seats or armrests, only to be pulled backward with a thud against the seatbacks. A brief, deathly silence fell over the car, broken only by the lingering vibrations of the engine and the rapid breathing of the passengers.

The man swiftly pulled a round object from his trench coat pocket and hurled it with all his might at the black sedan carrying Sokov and his companions. Perhaps due to nervousness, his arm trembled slightly; the object arced through the air but missed the intended window, slamming heavily onto the hood with a loud bang before bouncing and rolling to the edge of the sidewalk. The next moment, it exploded on the street, a burst of fire accompanied by a deafening roar. Shards of stone and metal rained down on the car, creating a dense, clanging sound. A sharp piece of gravel struck the window next to Sokov, instantly cracking it in a spiderweb pattern.

Although the incident happened suddenly, Sokov, who had been through many battles, instinctively shouted without thinking, "It's a grenade! Everyone be careful!" His voice was hoarse and urgent, and the other people in the vehicle immediately tensed up. Some bent down to take cover, while others tried to observe the situation outside the window.

Seeing that the grenade he threw had missed the car body, only causing minor scratches and dents, a ruthless glint flashed in the man's eyes. He immediately lifted the hem of his trench coat, revealing a submachine gun tucked under his arm, its barrel gleaming coldly in the sunlight. Without hesitation, he raised the gun, pulled the trigger, and unleashed a furious barrage of fire on the car's body and windows. Bullets rained down like a storm, striking the doors and windows with ear-piercing thuds. The people inside the car could clearly hear the sharp whistling of bullets, and the atmosphere instantly plummeted to freezing point.

Gulia flung open the left-hand car door, her body bending swiftly as she leaped out. The instant she landed, she rolled nimbly to the middle of the road. Kneeling on one knee, she steadied herself, gripping her gun tightly, her eyes sharp as she aimed at the man, and pulled the trigger repeatedly. Bullets whistled through the air, striking the man's chest and shoulder, but after several shots, he only swayed, not falling, as if supported by some force. The man growled angrily, turning his gun and firing wildly in Gulia's direction. A dense hail of bullets rained down, scattering pebbles and sparks on the pavement. The ear-piercing gunfire echoed through the street, forcing Gulia to continue rolling and dodging on the ground, desperately trying to avoid being hit.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Chekalov, who was sitting in the passenger seat, quickly pushed open the passenger door and nimbly jumped out of the car. He immediately crouched down, using the sturdy car body as cover, adjusted his posture, locked his gaze on the man, and calmly fired several shots. The bullets accurately hit the man's vitals. The man's body paused for a moment, a flash of pain and shock crossed his face, then his knees buckled, the submachine gun slipped from his hand and fell to the ground with a dull thud, and then he slumped down on the cold street, motionless.

(End of this chapter)