The driver and the bodyguard were not ready to give up, though. Each pulled a submachine gun from the clips under his seat. The president’s chief adviser happened to be a former general in the Russian Army as well. He had never stopped wearing the uniform. He had spent years fighting in Afghanistan and, along the way, had scrapped his way out of his share of ambushes. His first instinct was to grab the president and throw him to the floor. The ex-general pulled a Czech CZ-52 automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, slid back the action to chamber a round, and prepared to do battle. If they could manage enough cover fire, maybe the president could make it out of the car, across the narrow alley, and into one of the building doors.

It was hopeless. They were in a deadly cross fire, but these three would die protecting their leader. Another burst of machine-gun fire from the first APC shattered the car’s windshield.

The driver and the bodyguard flung open their doors simultaneously and crouched behind them, using the meager armor plating for protection. They bounced up and opened fire at the APC in front of them. Their bullets ricocheted harmlessly off its armored sides. Its cannon spat another burst of machine-gun rounds just as troops, shooting from windows above and behind them, opened fire. The APC behind them joined in with its own machine gun, shattering the car’s rear window. The bodyguard twisted around as he directed a short burst of gunfire upward, toward some movement he had seen at a window across the alley. Someone screamed and a body fell out, landing awkwardly in the dirty snow.

A quick burst from an AK-47 stitched across the bodyguard’s back, flogging him, flinging him against the brick wall like a discarded marionette. He slid to the ground and lay there, still, bleeding and lifeless.

A second later, machine-gun fire caught the driver, cutting him in half, throwing him down brutally onto the ice.

The old general raised his pistol to open fire, but Smitrov grabbed his arm and stopped him. The president struggled up from the floorboards.

“It’s over, my friend. No sense in you dying for nothing.” Smitrov raised his arms high and shouted, “Enough! Enough! We surrender. Don’t shoot.”

It was a loud, authoritative voice that shouted back, “Drop your weapons and come out slowly. One wrong move and we will open fire again.”

Smitrov and his adviser emerged from the battered limousine. They both raised their hands high in the air. Smitrov winced as he stepped over the bloody remains of his driver. The man’s open, lifeless eyes seemed to be accusing Smitrov, somehow blaming the president for leading him to his death.

The searchlights still blazed, blinding them so that they still couldn’t see their assailants.

“Face against the wall, keep your hands high!”