Free Black Widow by Cliff Ryder

the young soldier said.
    Taburova kept moving forward through the shadows. He studied the darkness with his one eye and stayed within the safety of the night's shadows.
    Grozny wasn't the city Taburova remembered from his childhood. His father had lived in a village outside Grozny, but he had traveled to the city as work had demanded. Sometimes he had brought Taburova with him.
    Those were better times, Taburova thought. Not like the times that stretched before the city and the country now. He stepped cautiously through the debris that filled the alley.
    Another explosion sounded, followed immediately by small-arms fire. Taburova kept going.
    A few moments later Taburova stood in the bombed-out third-floor room of a gutted apartment building. Looters had claimed what the instant destruction and resulting fire had not. Whatever had remained of the families who had lived in the building were long gone.
    He pulled his coat more tightly around him against the night's chill as he stared out across the city. The men with him filled the room nervously. The Russians had marked him for death. They wouldn't hesitate to kill any who were with him. The bodyguards knew that.
    Most of Grozny had come back to life over the past few years. Some of the businesses had started staying open late again. They no longer believed their lights marked them as targets.
    Taburova blamed Western capitalism. Greed factored into everything in Russia these days. Men and women did everything in pursuit of money. Taburova's father hadn't lived to see the Berlin Wall fall and capitalism drive its eager hands into the guts of the country.
    Before, men had worked prescribed shifts and gotten by in a meager existence. Now they worked two and three jobs in order to starve more slowly.
    The Chechens in the outlying lands away from so-called civilization lived better. They still managed to thrive off the bounty of the land by hunting and farming.
    Give a good Russian a little patch of land, Dmitry Taburova had often said, and he will raise potatoes to feed his family and make cheap vodka. Those things were enough to help a man survive through his sadness. That was the Russian way.
    Now they all wanted to be like the Americans and live free like kings. The thought disgusted Taburova. If his people had maintained their honor and dignity, maybe things would have been different.
    Below in the street, a rusted Lada Niva of indeterminate color stopped at the corner. Taburova took field glasses from his coat and studied the men inside the vehicle.
    The driver calmly smoked while the passenger unfurled a street map. He talked briefly with the driver, who shrugged in response. Then the passenger refolded the map and put it away. He reached into a pack on the seat between them. A moment later his hand gripped a flashlight.
    Moving loose and easy, the man slid out of the car. He walked slowly and carefully across the open area. That caution alone was enough to mark him in the night.
    Immediately two of Taburova's guards covered the man with sniper rifles. The man halted for a moment and grinned up at the building. He knew he was being watched and didn't care.
    Taburova thought the man's behavior was an act. Over the years, Taburova had faced many men carrying weapons. There was no choice at those times except to stare at those carrying rifles or pistols. He'd had to prepare himself to die or break free. He still lived.
    A moment later the man stepped into the building. Taburova waited tensely for the sound of gunfire. It didn't come.
    "Sir," one of the men called up through the stairwell.
    "Yes." Taburova turned to face the stairwell and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. His fist closed around his gun.
    "We are ready."
    "Bring him." Taburova flipped off the safety.
    Boots struck the stairwell.
    "Hey, hey," the man protested in accented Russian. He was from Eastern Europe, perhaps Romania. Many Russian soldiers outside Moscow had relocated in those areas. They'd taken