Anger and Revenge

The Beslan hostage crisis was finally resolved — brutally efficient, but successful. Compared to the devastating toll of the real-world tragedy, this time, only three hostages were lost, and two special forces operatives wounded. The rest — over 300 civilians — were saved. To Yanayev, it was not only a tactical success, but a statement: This is how the Soviet Union handles terrorists. No chaos, no compromise — just clean, overwhelming force.

Unlike the Russians of the future, who would storm buildings with tanks or shoot hostages to neutralize threats, Yanayev's Soviet Union preferred precision, speed, and calculated brutality.

Now, the aftermath.

The captured terrorist, Colonel Yevloyev, found himself deep inside the infamous Third Directorate of the KGB — the Bureau responsible for anti-terrorism and sabotage operations. To foreign spies and domestic enemies alike, it was whispered about like a mythic inquisition. Its methods were crude, its reputation terrifying. Once you entered its chambers, few left with their mind or body intact.

If the Soviet Union was the Vatican of ideology, then the Third Directorate was its Holy Office — with fewer robes and more blood.

Yevloyev sat at a cold metal table. His wrists were shackled by iron chains as thick as a man's thumb. A dim overhead light swung slightly, casting shadows across the pale, angular face of the interrogator — a thin man with gold-rimmed glasses, cold eyes, and the affect of a librarian.

Thirty minutes passed. Yevloyev remained silent, staring ahead with a mix of disdain and dead resolve.

"We're not asking for much," the interrogator said quietly. "Just the truth. Give us what we need, and you live. Refuse, and… well, the process will be more memorable."

Yevloyev responded with a defiant snort, then spat on the stack of papers in front of him. "I have nothing to say to you devils. Your filthy regime belongs in hell — with your dictators and blasphemers. Allah will punish you all."

The interrogator gave a nod.

Two soldiers stepped forward, gripped Yevloyev by the skull, and slammed his forehead into the table. Once. Twice. A third time. Blood smeared across the metal surface. Still, Yevloyev growled through his teeth.

"We'll burn your cities from London to Los Angeles," he snarled. "And in Moscow, we'll plant our black flag. You — communists, liberals, imperialists — all of you will fall! The fire of revolution will cleanse the world!"

"Oh, really?" the interrogator said without blinking.

In a flash, he stabbed a fountain pen into Yevloyev's hand, driving the point through skin and into flesh. The terrorist howled.

"I'm not here to trade philosophy, Comrade Yevloyev. I'm here for results."

He casually flipped open a black leather notebook and slid it toward Yevloyev. "We already know who you are. North Ossetian. Former Soviet soldier. Joined Basayev's group after being taken hostage. Severed contact with your wife and daughter — perhaps to protect them. Noble of you. But naive."

The door creaked open.

Two KGB agents entered. One pushed forward a middle-aged woman. The other, a girl no older than eight, her hair in pigtails, face pale with terror.

Yevloyev's face transformed.

"You bastard!" he screamed, trying to lunge forward. The chains rattled violently.

"When you pointed a gun at schoolchildren, you weren't thinking about being a father," the interrogator said coldly. "Now the time for ideals has passed. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll count to three. Only once."

He looked at the soldier beside him.

"One—"

A gunshot cracked the air. The woman — Yevloyev's wife — collapsed. A bright splash of blood streaked across the white wall behind her.

Yevloyev froze. He couldn't scream. Couldn't breathe.

"Speak," the interrogator said again. "Or the girl is next."

The terrorist trembled.

The interrogator sighed. "Let's try something different."

He pulled a revolver from his coat, opened the chamber, and loaded a single bullet. He spun it with a metallic click, then placed the barrel under the child's chin.

"One bullet. Five chambers. You know how this game works, Colonel."

Yevloyev's lips trembled. "No… please…"

"One."

"Wait! If I talk, Sadayev will kill me—"

The interrogator pulled the trigger.

Click.

An empty chamber.

The girl flinched but didn't cry. The soldier behind her placed a hand on her shoulder to hold her still.

"Two."

Another pull.

Click.

Yevloyev gasped for air.

"I'll talk!" he cried, collapsing against the table. "I'll talk. Just don't hurt her. I'll tell you everything. Everything I know!"

The revolver disappeared back into the interrogator's coat.

"Good," he said.

He waved for a stenographer to begin recording.

Yevloyev spilled everything: names, movements, hideouts in the Caucasus mountains, arms caches along the Chechnya–Georgia border, Saudi financial links, UAE bank accounts, foreign handlers, even the safe houses used by Sadayev, Khattab, and Umarov.

The interrogator wrote it all down meticulously, page after page.

Then, without a word, he closed the notebook.

Two agents dragged the girl and the woman's lifeless body away.

Yevloyev, sobbing, reached out for his daughter.

"Please! You said if I cooperated—!"

The interrogator turned back. His voice was perfectly calm.

"The bullet wasn't real. And you won't see her again."

He paused at the door.

"She will never grow up to become what you are."

Then he was gone.