This is a work of fan fiction and not for profit. I do not own any rights to Kim Possible as they belong to Disney.
World's Best Assassin
I - Dream
By Pat Squared
If you like it,
If you hate it,
Please write a review,
Because sharing something with the world
Is no fun
If no one says thank you.
Ron Stoppable woke up with a scream.
The dream was so sick-wrong.
A blond-haired killer with facial freckles put three rounds into his wife's skull. The killer merely dropped the pistol on the body. The killer walked away as if he was just the FedEx guy dropping off another parcel on a delivery route.
Ron Stoppable tried everything to stop the nightmares. Working out until exhaustion did not work. Taking strong drink until he almost died from alcohol poisoning did not work. Even shooting drugs into his veins did not work.
No matter what he did, the nightmares came anyways.
Every night, Ron subconscious witnessed his alter-ego killing someone he loved. Even the dreams about monkeys were not as disturbing as the nightmares.
Ron loved his wife.
Twelve years and four kids later, Kim was still the only woman in his heart.
Kim was safely at home watching the kids and working for Global Justice as the Director of Operations and Training. Her expanding girth told the world that Kim and Ron would have a fifth child in a couple months.
Ron always wanted to be there at the hospital when Kim delivered their children. However, the bad guys seem to frustrate this simple desire. They instinctively acted up when he wanted to be home. Ron always ended up missing the birth of his kids.
Ron hated Moscow. He hated the Russian winters. He hated the Russians most of all.
Despite two generations since the fall of the Soviet Union, the mark of centuries of autocratic rule still lingered in the air and upon the psyches of the masses. There was a hint of fear and self-defeat in the faces of the masses and a multitude of predators looking for a free lunch.
After college, the powers that be at Global Justice selected Ron Stoppable to work as an undercover agent in Central and Eastern Europe. Unlike most other Global Justice Agents, Ron Stoppable never had an official or diplomatic cover. No one outside a few senior Global Justice executives knew what Ron's assignment really was. Everyone else back at HQ just thought that he was some kind of courier.
Ron worked where only an agent in the shadows could be effective.
No one seemed to remember Ron's face or name. Only two of the villains he fought in his youth ever remembered his name. The world forgot he existed.
Ron had the face-like face and average build that allowed him to disappear into crowds almost anywhere in the world.
The phone rang. Ron Stoppable snapped out of his dark mood.
Vladimir Petrovich Rasputin was on the line. Rasputin, Boiarskii's factor, discretely ran Boiarskii's interests in Eastern Europe.
"Vasilii Alexovich Boiarskii, there is social club at corner of Kuybysheva and Rybnyypereulok. Name is Den of Hungry Wolf. Tell fat doorman...you are old friend of Maria Natasha. You went to school with her in America. Be on your good ... your best behavior, Maria does not suffer fools."
"Vladimir, stop the native speech routine. You might have been born in St. Petersburg, but the folks at the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti (Russian Foreign Security Bureau) taught you how to speak New York style. I know about your six year field study. You have six kids and five wives."
"Well coz, go give yo'self a flaming enema. It's seven kids and one wife."
Ron laughed, "That's much better, you bastard. You aren't such a disgrace to New York cabbies anymore. Tell Maria that I will there in two hours. I fought three rounds with a she-bear last night. The horny bitch wouldn't take no for an answer until she mauled me good."
"Liar! Your palms wouldn't be so hairy if you didn't go wanking off your sorry excuse for a dick all the time you bugger. I will be waiting nearby with two boys. They are wonks."
"I know that Vlad. They can't back girl scout troop at cookie sale."
"If things go bad, you know what to do?"
"Get money. Get wife and kids. Take first flight out of East Block to New York City. I personally hand your wife damned letter."
Ron nodded and suddenly remembered that he was on a cell phone.
Christ, I'm slipping. I have been spacing out way too much.
Cell phones were not a secure way to talk in the land of the suicidal, alcohol poets.
"Sorry buddy, thoughts of the family."
"That's why we are all here. Without family, man is nothing. Just remember to shave your palms before you leave. Maria does not have a taste for uncultured barbarians."
Vladimir was Ron's only friend and backup in this God forsaken country. He was Ron's only link to Global Justice. Vladimir was the only soul in Europe who knew that Boiarskii was really Ron Stoppable. Global Justice's Senior Sentinel of the Central and Eastern Europe would be an unknown to the world.
Russia had changed since the glory days of the former Soviet Union. However, things did not change all that much in the Wild, Wild East.
The Russians took to the philosophy if you can't beat them, join them.
The average Muscovite was more capitalistic than any trader on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The good thing for Ron was that most of them were lousy gamblers who believed that they could out bluff anyone. Ron always won enough to cover the bills and stash away some get out of town funds.
Ron knew that Global Justice was stingy with funds.
To be stingy with bribes was as obvious as wearing a cape and your underwear on the outside of your pants. The prize for which is having various parts of your anatomy ripped off during an enthusiastic interrogation session.
Ron learned early on to pad his expense reports and under-report the take from his authorized illicit activities. He did not trust the bookkeepers at Global Justice to properly fund and maintain an escape network for his agents.
Ron took it upon himself to protect his people. Twice, his agents' cover stories were compromised. If he had not broken the rules, the agents would be photos on Global Justices memorial wall. Instead, they were reassigned to work at Headquarters training the next generation of agents.
Ron staggered into the shower.
He hated this assignment. He hated this life of deception and intrigue. He could not call home or even utter a word of what he was doing in this hotel. All the hotels were bugged courtesy of the old KGB and the locals kept up that tradition.
Slowly, the hot water did its job. The chemically induced mental fog was thinned out. Ron was fully conscious and ready for the meeting. It took three months of gamesmanship to arrange this meeting. Not even in the Wild, Wild East, does an arms merchant not go out and sell military grade biological weapons without checking out the buyer.
Vasilii Alexovich Boiarskii was the ideal buyer for such contraband.
From AK-47's to attack helicopters and hazardous chemicals, Boiarskii dealt it all.
Boiarskii was the man that every third world dictator called friend.
Every western intelligence organization had dealings with Boiarskii.
As an arms merchant, Boiarskii bought and sold illegal or hard to get commodities worldwide. Arms and trade embargos simply serve to pad his bottom line. His merchandise starred in most of the world's civil conflicts in the past seven years. He was worth more than the GDP of most nations.
It was a resume that any arms merchant would trade both their nuts for.
Ron's problem was the Vasilii Boiarskii was really Ron Stoppable.
To keep the legend alive, Ron did things that troubled his conscience and fueled his nightmares. He wanted to stop. Vasilii fueled wars. Ron wanted to stop being Vasilii.
If Ron stopped, the intelligence would dry up. The bad guys would be another step ahead of justice. If Ron quit, many more innocent folks would suffer.
The cold equation was simple. Save one man's sanity. Save the world. Six billion souls was more important that one man's. Ron was expendable. Ron lit another cancer-stick in celebration.
Vasilii Boiarskii was everything Ron was not. Cool, calculating, cunning, a bottom-line kind of guy with a taste for pretty flesh and gambling. Boiarskii had developed a reputation as someone you don't want to cross.
The reputation was fertilized by the blood.
No one crossed Boiarskii.
Even Keyser Soze would be envious of Boiarskii.
Boiarskii personally did his wet-work. Family, friends, and even the family dog suffered a slow, painful death.
Boiarskii was the classic psychopathic merchant of death.
Nicholas Cage could not play a more cold-hearted bastard.
Ron checked his Yarygin MP-446 'Viking' 9x19mm pistol. The round was in the chamber. The only safety was his trigger finger.
Only pussies and idiots relied on mechanical safeties.
There were seventeen rounds in the magazine and one live one in the chamber. Two spare magazines loaded with 147 grain jacketed hollow points were places in the magazine pouch. Same load as perfected by the US Federal Bureau of Investigation. These bullets link Boiarskii to America. However, Boiarskii was rumored to be educated in the West.
Ron depended on three lethal weapons. Boiarskii reputation for ruthlessness, Ron's mind, and a pen injector filled with 7-micrograms of a nasty poison that who look like a heart attack to any medical examiner.
Unlike many other businessmen peddling arms in the world, Boiarskii seemingly ran alone.
The contempt for danger added to Vasilii's mystique ...the mystique that prevented Ron's internal organs from being imperforated by copper clad lead projectiles. No one in their sane minds would cross Vasilii Boiarskii.
Boiarskii walked out of his suite.
Sergei Kantorovich was waiting for him.
Ron hated Sergei. Sergei was corrupt, vile, and enjoyed all the vices that the diky-diky vostok or Wild, Wild East could offer. Nevertheless, Sergei was Boiarskii number one arms procurer in Eastern Europe. Sergei was one of the many scroungers that Boiarskii kept on the payroll.
"What is on the menu?"
Sergei rose and bowed to his benefactor. Ron nodded.
"Someone lit a fire at army armory near Gdansk."
"How is that suppose to interest me?" Vasilii replied.
With Sergei, there were no accidents or coincidences. Vasilii knew that Sergei arranged for the fire. The rat would take an extra cut from the seller on top of the commission that Vasilii paid him. However, dealing with Sergei was worth the extra cash. Sergei was a crook, but one smart enough to know that you make more in the long run by playing by the rules of the underground.
"My man, he called me. He said that he got 5.56 NATO KBSWZ 04 Beryl assault rifles before fire destroy records."
Boiarskii motioned Sergei to continue.
"They were reserve stock for Polish Army. Only test fired, cleaned, and put in storage. All are new. There are four rifles per case. Two hundred fifty cases time four rifles is 1,000 rifles...enough to arm a battalion. Each comes with cleaning kit, sling, six magazines per rifle, and American-NATO spec two point five power optical gun sights already mounted. His price is two thousand Euros per case if you buy fifty cases - One thousand seven hundred per case if you buy all. However, it is all carry out."
Boiarskii looked his scrounger in the eye.
"Tell him ... tell your man that I will pay him in high quality diamonds. His total price is four hundred twenty five thousand Euros. He gets one million US dollars worth of diamonds if the goods are in Rotterdam, ready for sea shipment, upon inspection. The deal is good for two weeks tops. If he agree, we meet in diamond exchange Friday, two weeks from this Friday. Safe location for all to meet as no one can bring any weapons into the exchange. Tell him that Samuel Bergman from Tel Aviv will hold the crow and personally will value diamonds."
"Sir, what about..."
Ron cleared his throat as he play the role. He had to be decisive. He could not afford to look weak in front of the sharks.
"Columbia, por favor mi amigo."
Ron rubbed his cold hands.
"Vladimir will make the calls. Our associates in Bogota will fax over end user certificates in forty eight hours or I will pass the deal onto some old friends of mine in east Africa who want to sell more arms to two opposing tribes of shits."
His dark brown eyes locked into the vile soul of the rat.
"Don't get drunk yet, my friend. We drink tonight; lift skirts. We will see if there is any virgins still in Moscow. We will live like real men. Damn Americans...we have no real man for leader. How have we fallen so far? Catherine the Great had more balls than our current president. Kerensky the Eunuch bows too much to the West."
Sergei was a rat. But, Sergei was Boiarskii's rat. He knew that disappointing Boiarskii would be bad.
The last employee who disappointed Boiarskii became a poster child for not mixing bootleg vodka and blowtorches.
Ron walked down to the car.
It took 24 years.
The Russians got smart and finally allowed the Germans to buy the old Lada manufacturing plant. The Germans used Czech subsidiary to avoid arousing nationalistic protest. There were no more Fiat clones. Instead, the Skoda Motor Works now were making performance cars on par with BMW and Audi.
Boiarskii's car was a three year-old, white, Skoda 450K.
Under the muscovite exterior was a masterpiece of Teutonic engineering.
The Skoda 450K was a six-speed, four wheel drive, supercharged rally car mated with Japanese electronics, and a touch of Bond.
Q did not mount any rocket launchers or machine guns.
However, the car was ready for a tour anywhere in hell.
Bullet resistant glass and blast panels would protect the occupant from any land mine.
Biometric lockouts, electrified door handles, and anti-carjacker flame device ensure that only he could access the car's exotic feature.
Two hidden gun compartments each with the local knock-off of the Heckler & Koch G36K assault carbine and six extra magazines ensure that he was ready to rock and roll. The smoke generator, oil spray, hidden police lights, siren, covert ram bumpers, and stun lights were the cherry on top of the banana split.
Boiarskii's car suited his needs just fine.
Ron swiped his finger on the sensor. The glove box opened.
Inside were the registration paperwork, local and international driver's licenses, and appropriate permits. What was not legal were a 9 x 19 mm Parabellum Fort Model 1300 Automaticheskij Pistolet Tataryn (Ukrainian knock-off of the GLOCK 18 fully automatic pistol with a 1300 rpm cyclic rate), three loaded thirty-three round magazines loaded with man-stoppers (Federal 147-grain Hydra-Shok Jacketed Hollow Points), and a bottle of green pills that did not come from any doctor.
It was the green pills that he sought.
Ron hated himself.
He cursed his weakness every time he took another pill.
However, the pills kept Ron sane. The pills kept him awake. The pills kept him from having the nightmares. The pills allowed Ron to live with the monster that lived inside him.
Ron swallowed two pills. He vowed to end the addiction.
This will be the last time. I will stop being a junkie.
However, he knew that he would use more tonight, more tomorrow, more until the bottle ran out. That would be his hint to quit popping the little green pills for a while.
In three weeks, Global Justice would run him through a medical examination. Ron would purged himself for the week prior to returning home. No one back home could know of his need to chemically silence the screams inside his head.
Ron would take this secret to his early grave.