Ghostly Beginnings

The mere whisper of his name resonates with terror amongst the criminal underground. His nefarious reputation has earned him trepidatious respect combined with the feeling of absolute horror should you learn he’s coming for you. Ruthless, cunning, and rumored to have the coldest heart known to man. He is the Devil’s Ghost. He is Colonel Gregor Alexi Nikolanovic, former Spetznaz operative, dreaded mercenary and feared assassin.

    Some say he was born from a volcano in the northwestern edge of the Pacific “Ring of Fire” in the Kamchatka Peninsula in far east Russia. Others say he simply walked through the Gates of Hell to bring forth his horrific presence upon the earth. The truth is he was born just like everyone else. Born into poverty in a remote region of the former Soviet Union. A part of Siberia that both communism and capitalism forgot when the wall came down. His family struggled to merely stay alive in the small village, a leftover faction of a collective camp from the Soviet regime. He was considered a normal child, slightly underdeveloped due to the harsh conditions of his upbringing, keeping mostly to himself. He was able to befriend a small rat that he domesticated and kept as a pet. Who knew It was this same rat that would instigate the metamorphosis of turning this mere boy into one of the most cold-hearted killers of all time.

     The day had begun like any other in the village. The adults were out in the environs of the town, working to either make their meager wages for the day or do what was necessary to keep the fires burning and food on the table. In the village Gregor was playing with his small friend when three young local bullies stumbled upon him. Piotr, Nikolai, and Anatoly were tough kids that had grown up fast in the rough environment. Seeing the frail youngster alone they took the opportunity to harass him. When they discovered what he had, they beat him, stealing his pet, leaving him battered and bleeding in an alleyway. Young Gregor recovered and went looking for the thugs who had stolen his reassured companion. He came around the corner of a building to find the trio roasting his beloved companion on a stick in an open fire. His mind had already slipped into the darkness when the boys had beaten him. Seeing the only bright spot in his dismal existence being grilled by the same thugs who had pummeled him pushed him over the edge of sanity. Young Nikolanovic had paid a visit to the common kitchen area where he had grabbed a knife which he now proceeded to use on his one-time assailants.

    Piotr was first to fall with the blade being shoved deep into his abdomen. Nikolai was second, his neck slashed as Gregor pulled the knife from the first boy’s stomach. Anatoly, frozen in disbelief as to what was happening in front of him, was shocked back to reality by a hard kick to the genitals, dropping him to his knees and into the grasp of the berserker teen. His pleas for mercy went unanswered from their attacker whose eyes had glazed over with rage and bloodlust. Another slice to the neck and the last of the bullies was dispatched. Gregor was later found by the villagers as they re-entered their small burg to the sight of him sitting at the same campfire, the three victims disemboweled. The lone survivor sat there eating the heart of one of the deceased, a blank, remorseless expression splayed across his face.

    This incident earned the young murderer a trip to a military academy for young boys that was a feeder into the Russian military, and in particular the Spetsnaz special forces group. Gregor excelled at the academy. As harsh as it was at the school it was still the nicest set of accommodations he had ever known.

     With regular meals and a demanding physical regimen, the young boy hardened into a young man both physically and mentally. He remained quiet and withdrawn from social activity, focusing instead on learning everything he could academically and tactically. His mind remained in the dark though. A streak of brutality and cruelty kept him ostracized by the other cadets. Graduating from the academy he went straight to special forces training, reveling in the severity of the training to become a soldier in the elite unit. It was not uncommon for recruits to suffer a one to five per cent fatality rate when training.

    It was during the final stages of his initial training that the legend of the ghostly young man grew. It seemed that there was a large statured recruit, Private Fedor Sidorov, that was simply using his size to bully his way through training, beating the other young enlisted men to get his way. Some of the instructors felt the best way to teach the private a lesson was to throw him into a “bull in the ring” exercise with officer cadet Nikolanovic as his opponent. As the instructors suspected the well-muscled Sidorov simply took one look at his foe, the wiry unassuming young Nikolanovic, and laughed, determined to embarrass the would-be officer. He soon found out who would have the last laugh. With the rest of the cadet class around them forming the ring, Fedor charged his prey thinking he would make quick work of this weakling. With a single sidestep Gregor hip tossed his foe onto the ground, accentuating the insult with a stomp to the ribs. Sidorov got up, incensed, determined to teach the uppity prick a lesson. Another charge only begot the brute a punch to the ribs, catching the jab in a nerve cluster, bringing him to a knee in agony. Gregor used the delay to press his attack with a booted kick to the larger man’s kidneys. Fedor dragged himself back to a standing position, facing his foe with a newfound respect and rethinking his strategy. Taking a fighting stance, he began an assault on his quarry’s ears as well.

    “I underestimated you twice, mudak. I will not do so again,” he taunted the steely eyed recruit.

    “Won’t make a difference, mudak. You lost before you even entered the ring,” Gregor retaliated.

    Snorting in contempt, Sidorov began a spinning attack against his smaller target, kicking, punching, poking his fists and open hands, trying to connect with any appendage he could.

    Gregor infuriated the younger, larger man by eluding every attempt made to connect with him, deftly avoiding each blow, by either hand or foot, with ease. During this time, he was also counterstriking with elbows, knife hands, or hammer fists inflicting a great deal of pain and damage.

    After one frenzied flurry by the battered bully, Gregor caught Fedor’s knee with a side swipe of his own leg that resulted in a loud pop heard by all the cheering young men and instructors standing around them. That was it, the big guy fell, unable to rise again. He was in part relieved because he was exhausted from all his failed attempts to teach the smaller man a lesson.

    “Where is your wit now my battered friend?” Gregor asked the swollen faced, bleeding Fedor.

    Struggling just to remain conscious Fedor was unable to respond. Sensing victory Gregor swooped in behind the crippled man, grabbing the top of his head to expose his throat.

    “If you’re not going to speak you won’t need this anymore, will you?”

    While holding Sidorov’s head back, Gregor brought his fist down hard, smashing the larynx of the man causing him to spasm, struggling to breathe now. The victor released his prey who fell to the ground, still trying to get any amount of air into his lungs. Nikolanovic leaned over and stared into his victim’s eyes, reveling in the sight of life leaving them.

    “Lesson. Complete.” He hissed at the prone man losing consciousness, then, moments later, death took him.

    The cheers of the others had quieted now such that the silence was overwhelming. Gregor looked up and slowly turned in a circle, ensuring everyone standing around him could see the ice-cold gaze radiating from him. A word was still not spoken as the victorious officer cadet slowly walked through the ring, the other young men parting quickly, giving a wide berth to the champion, not wanting to tempt fate by getting too close to him.

    The tale of this fight spread quickly among the ranks of the Russian special forces. His legend grew at an alarming rate, fueled by other deeds of ruthlessness. Fear of crossing young Lieutenant Nikolanovic preceded him as he arrived on scene to each of his postings.

    Shortly after his promotion to Captain, another chapter in cementing the cold-heartedness of the officer was written. It was an incident that didn’t make international news, but internally it spread like wildfire.

    Captain Nikolanovic’s unit was called upon to serve in an anti-terrorist action versus some Chechen terrorists in the city of Grozny. Radicals had taken some civilians hostage in a shopping mall, demanding the release of political prisoners by the Russian government. Gregor’s troops had surrounded the building isolating the terrorists while negotiations were underway by local police and Federal government agencies.

    A demonstration of commitment was shown by the terrorists when they executed a female hostage in plain view of the negotiators to show they meant business. Minutes after this incident, shots began to ring out from the building under siege. Both the negotiators and the surrounding Spetsnaz took cover while trying to determine exactly where the shooting was coming from. There was no return fire as fear of hitting the civilians restrained the units responding to the crisis. During this time, Captain Nikolanovic was nowhere to be found.

    Five minutes after the first shots rang out, the front door to the building opened up and the bloody Spetsnaz officer walked out, his rifle draped across his shoulder, an object hanging from his free hand. Walking in a direct line to the van where the chief negotiator was positioned, he approached the stunned man. As he drew closer personnel began to make out the object in the officer’s hand. It was a severed head.

    Gregor stopped in front of the chief negotiator, lifted the grotesque, bloodied head right up to the stunned face of the government agent, then dropped it at his feet.

    “Mission . . . accomplished,” was all he said in his eerie monotone voice and steely, emotionless eyes.

    The head had once belonged to the leader of the terrorist cell that had incited the incident. The rest of his body was found amongst the multitude of other bodies inside the building. Corpses littered the interior, men, women, and children. It was determined later by investigators that the young officer had snuck into the stronghold and eliminated everyone, going through civilians while they were being used as shields by the terrorists against the onslaught. The only thing that kept Gregor from being disciplined by his superiors was their fear that he would somehow retaliate against them for admonishing him. His reputation for brutality had permeated the ranks of the elite forces that much.

     Promotions came quickly for Gregor. He soon found himself holding the rank of Colonel, but it also found him being forced out of the field into a more administrative role as a senior officer. This was both unsatisfying and unacceptable to the man whose bloodlust knew no bounds. Denied orders to an active unit he resigned from the service, leaving an extremely bitter taste in his mouth.

     He soon found his new purpose in life. One that ended up being much more profitable than his military service had. His contacts in the underground allowed him to make a substantial living as a mercenary and assassin. His reputation once again preceded him, allowing him to charge top dollar for his contracts. His eagerness for those contracts and the violence accompanying them found him in a very satisfying spot in his life. The legend only grew, earning him the moniker “Devil’s Ghost” because he seemed to be able to appear and disappear at will while his thirst for violence had people believing he was spawned from the Devil himself.    

    Being so successful in such a dark occupation garnered him many enemies. Attempts on his life were met with force in kind but multiplied in cruelty. Other hitmen contracted to assassinate him, plus the original contractors themselves were often found brutally murdered along with their family members. It was believed that the Devil’s Ghost was untouchable. This changed however, one fateful night in Afghanistan. Along with his contracts for assassination and gun for hire work he also dealt in illegal arms dealing. He had brokered a deal with some Taliban fighters to purchase a large shipment of Rocket Propelled Grenades, RPGs. These particular weapons were giving American forces quite the hard time and this served a twofold purpose to Gregor; money in his accounts and eliminating as many of the hated Americans as possible. He had entered the building where the transfer of money was to take place. The transaction was barely completed when he received a radio call from his trusted comrade, former Red Army Corporal Dmitri Okulov, nestled in an overwatch position in the ridgeline above the structure.

    “Package is being looked at by an unknown tango,” the Ghost heard in his earpiece.

    “Excuse me, gentlemen. I hate to be rude, but it seems we may have some uninvited guests outside,” he told the Taliban foot soldiers he was dealing with.

    Slipping out into the dark he circled around the house to indeed find an interloper snooping in the back of one of the vans carrying the weapons. Sneaking up behind the heavily armed soldier the Russian mercenary prepared himself for a fight as he spoke to the shadow.

    “Find what you were looking for, tovarisch?”

    The sound startled the focused man, who reacted instinctively by grabbing for his weapon. This was averted with a sharp punch to the elbow of the intruder.

    “Jailbreak!” the man shouted. This became apparent as a warning to his companions, the sound of automatic weapons fire instantly permeating the night air.

    The Ghost focused on this combatant in front of him though as a sharp kick from the silhouette caught him in the chest, knocking him backwards. Recovering rapidly, he drew his knife from his scabbard and approached the figure, who was still framed by the doors of the van he’d been investigating.

    It was then the unimaginable happened. The man under attack by the Devil’s Ghost connected with a knife of his own. The signature Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife of the budding American Special Forces legend, young Captain Nathan Alexander Warr. He had struck Gregor over the left eye and continued the cut down onto his cheek. Shock and anger swept through the mercenary as he regained his composure, assuming a fighting stance to press his attack on his enemy.

    “Congratulations, tovarisch. You have done what so many others have tried to do, mark the Devil’s Ghost!” he informed his foe.

    Captain Warr once more attempted to regain possession of his rifle from inside the van giving the mercenary the opening he needed. Swiping his blade at the soldier he ended up slicing him in virtually the same place he himself had been cut, down the left side of the face.

     Bullets started impacting the ground around the former Spetsnaz and he decided in this particular instance discretion would be the better part of valor. Retreating to live and fight another day was the wisest option. With a faint “do svidaniya” as he disappeared into the sand, Colonel Nikolanovic was gone without a trace.

    That was his first, but not his last confrontation with the American. As a matter of fact, the two operators, the best in their respective fields, became bitter enemies as they faced off against one another over the years, each wearing their trademark scar from their original encounter with pride.

    The Devil’s Ghost continues to operate from the shadows. Appearing and disappearing like a phantom, he continually eludes his nemesis, Colonel Warr and his covert team of Dogs. It is hopeful that fate will someday entertain a final showdown between the evil of the Devil’s Ghost and the good men and women of the Dogs of Warr, allowing good to triumph over evil.