Assassination Failed

The Chechen army defending Grozny was a fractal chaos of allegiances. Security forces, internal troops, presidential guards, religious militants, conscripts, and mercenaries—all jostled under Dudayev's fragile umbrella of command. So it was no surprise that the armed figures emerging from the pine jungle surrounding Kadyrov's villa looked more like a militia parade than a professional force.

Some wore standard-issue white winter camouflage, others sported civilian tracksuits—blue Adidas stripes peeking out under mismatched combat vests. Their weapons varied just as wildly: some cradled AK-74s with practiced familiarity, others carried Israeli Uzis like toys from a smuggler's crate.

As they moved, the slush beneath their boots made a sickening squelch. Crows erupted from the trees above them, startled into ragged black spirals. The sky was graying fast, heavy with storm clouds. The air was wet, thick, and brimming with menace.

On a distant cliff, a lone sniper twisted the scope's dial with care. He had eyes on the guards patrolling the rooftop of the villa—two shadows pacing the edge. The sniper steadied his breath. The first shot cracked through the silence. Both guards crumpled instantly.

But before he could acquire a new target—crack. Another sniper, unseen, watching from a parallel ridge, fired once.

The first sniper slumped forward, a precise hole drilled through his temple. Blood soaked into the winter moss. His hand twitched once, then fell still.

"Sniper, report," came the terse whisper through his earpiece. Silence. Then static.

"Sniper, do you copy?" Panic now edged into the commander's voice. But there was no reply—only the stillness of death.

Something was wrong.

Before he could reach for his radio again, an explosion split the jungle wide open. A tower of smoke climbed into the clouds.

BOOM.

A second blast followed. And then a third.

Through his binoculars, the commander saw chaos unfold: bodies flying, limbs flung like broken branches, the jungle floor torn apart by remote-detonated mines.

"Ambush! It's a trap!" a hoarse voice screamed over the radio. "We've walked into a minefield—they're detonating them remotely!"

More explosions lit the forest like lightning, turning the carefully planned raid into a butchery. Blood sprayed the tree trunks, staining the snow to black slush. Men screamed, some clutching severed limbs, others dying instantly—consumed by the fire and shrapnel.

In his villa, Ramzan Kadyrov watched the carnage through a pair of binoculars, a faint smirk touching his lips.

"Let this forest drink deep," he said calmly. "Spring will come with red flowers this year."

Behind him, his guards began to set up mortars. Foreign-supplied shells were stacked neatly like firewood. The blast radius of each was perfect for jungle engagement.

As the minefield burned out, the second phase began.

Thump.Thump.Thump.

Shells arced gracefully through the overcast sky and slammed into the surviving attackers. Those who had survived the mines now scrambled, only to be swallowed by white-hot bursts of mortar fire.

It was not a firefight—it was an execution.

The jungle shook. Trees splintered. Men died cursing or weeping. The radio channels went dead one by one, choked by static or screaming.

"Retreat! Fall back!" shouted the commander, stumbling through ash and twisted roots—until he stopped. A pistol pressed coldly against his forehead.

"Don't move if you want to live," came a low voice.

Kadyrov's strike team had already flanked the remnants. Behind him, several survivors were already surrendering their rifles under raised hands.

And then, a crackle. The commander's radio buzzed—Dudayev himself.

"How is the operation proceeding?" the president's voice asked, calm and expectant.

Ramzan gave the commander a look.

Play along, it said.

The commander hesitated, then keyed his mic.

"Everything is proceeding as planned," he lied.

He earned his life—at least for now.

As the guards tied the prisoners' hands behind their backs, the commander turned toward Ramzan and pleaded."Spare me. I'll talk. It was Dudayev. He gave the order. I swear it on God. I'll testify—just don't kill me."

Ramzan looked to his men, then to the jungle still burning behind them.

"What about your men?" one asked, gesturing to the others now in custody. "Are they clean?"

The commander didn't even hesitate."Do whatever you want with them. They were just following orders. But me—I can help you."

Ramzan gave a humorless smile."Oh, I'm sure you will."

"You're honest," Ramzan Kadyrov Jr. said quietly.

He gave a small wave.

The guards raised their rifles in unison. In a single synchronized volley, the jungle once again erupted with gunfire. Blood misted the air. The detained soldiers—terrified, disarmed, pleading—collapsed to the forest floor in a twitching heap of uniforms and torn flesh.

Only one man was left standing: the commander.

Shaking, smeared in blood not his own, he was marched through the scorched woods and into Kadyrov's estate—where the warm interior of the villa felt like a stage prepared for a final act.

Ramzan was seated cross-legged on a low velvet couch, still wearing his winter coat. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched beside him. The light was low. Shadows cut across his sharp, youthful features, and the cold glint in his eyes betrayed none of his age.

A DV camera was positioned just behind him, its red light blinking steadily.

The commander's eyes flicked toward it in terror. This wasn't a debriefing. It was documentation—evidence, leverage, or perhaps an execution on tape.

Ramzan didn't waste time.

"I'm not interested in your name. I don't care who you are. You want to live?" he leaned forward. "Then speak. Tell me everything. Lie, and I'll know. Be vague, and you'll die."

The commander fell to his knees instantly.

"It was Dudayev!" he gasped. "Dudayev and the Wahhabis—they gave the order to arrest your father. Not kill, just arrest. I swear! We were just following orders—just pawns, all of us!"

Ramzan's voice dropped into a chilling calm.

"Why arrest my father?"

The commander shook his head, desperate. "I don't know—please, I'm just a field officer! They told us nothing. Maybe... maybe they feared he'd break with them, form his own faction. Maybe they wanted to force unity. I don't know!"

Ramzan studied him.

Then stood.

He clapped once, and his guards stepped back.

"You'll live—for now." He reached behind the sofa and picked up a black plastic case. From inside it, he drew a DV tape and handed it to the commander, who took it with shaking hands.

"This is a message," Ramzan said. "For Dudayev. A gift from my father."

The commander looked confused, terrified. Ramzan leaned in close, speaking in a tone so quiet it was almost a whisper.

"You're not going alone. My men will escort you. If you try to run…" he smiled thinly, "well, I think you understand."

The commander nodded quickly, sweat beading on his forehead. He could already imagine what was on the tape—images of the slaughter, the failed ambush, the twisted remains of Dudayev's handpicked company.

It wasn't just a message. It was a threat.

As the man was dragged from the room, Ramzan finally took a sip of his now-cooling tea. He glanced at the red blinking light on the DV camera and then out the window, where smoke still curled from the jungle.

He didn't need to say the words aloud, but they echoed in the minds of everyone present:

Chechnya had a new wolf. And this one didn't bark—he bit.