I went along quietly with the guards to be taken to Lenin. I only had the vague notion of a plan. I was going to go in there, I was going to decapitate the communist movement by killing that son of a gun, and then I was going to get the hell out of there. Honestly for a sergeant that’s pretty high-grade strategizing.

I certainly wasn't going to let him monologue. I wasn't going to try to debate him on the finer points of communist philosophy.

But I'm ashamed to say that's what I did.

No, you don't want to hear any of that. It was boring as shit. What's worse is, I think I lost. Hell, I'm an excavator driver and a sergeant. I'm not a political science major. What the hell do I know about communist ideology? I just know when a smarmy asshole tells you he's going to turn the factory control over to the line workers, he's full of shit. What the hell does a factory worker know about balancing the books of a major manufacturing facility? Not a damn thing. Giving control over to him would be a stupid idea. And an even worse idea is to lie about it to all the workers just so that they'll overthrow their previous taskmasters and put some eggheads that know even less about production in charge.

Which is more or less what the communists did. I think. Honestly, it's not my area of expertise. But it certainly explains why their economy popped like a soap bubble when it finally ran out of steam.

So I made snide comments that made one or two of his people laugh while he debated rings around me and made me look like an ignorant buffoon. I’m not proud of it, really. I probably wouldn’t have been proud of putting my fist through his skull, but damn, it would have felt good.

I did get to hear his plan, though. You don't want to hear all that monologuing he did, but you do want to hear the plan, right? So let's get to the point.

General Petrov was throwing a big shindig to impress all the other army brass and the yokels with how badass his military hardware was. He had brought in some eggheads from Germany to show off their latest toys. The communists were planning on sabotaging the whole shebang and making him look like an idiot. Which was exactly what the Tsar wanted them to do.

They were also planning on murdering the Tsar in a public spectacle, and I'm pretty sure that's not what the Tsar wanted them to do. Lenin didn't come right out and say it, but he talked enough about the grand gesture and how all the workers would rise up and throw off their shackles after their demonstration. So I'm pretty sure Tsar killing was on the agenda.

When I had heard enough, I left. Okay, it was a bit more complicated than that. There was a lot of face-punching and stuff involved.

Oh, do you want to hear that part? Oh, alright.

Lenin sneered at me. "I've wasted enough time with you. I would have kept you to make an example later, but the tsar has given me too great an opportunity. I'll make my point with him."

He glanced at the group around me with narrowed eyes. "You men look tired." Lenin turned and summoned another squad of goons.

"What's the matter, first comrade? Too chicken shit to do me in yourself?"

Lenin whirled back to glare at me. "You worthless little automaton," he spat through clenched lips. Then he drew a revolver and shot me through the chest, right through the heart.

I gasped as the bullet passed through me. A man behind me grunted. I turned my gasp into a theatrical moan and collapsed to my knees.

“Get that pile of garbage out of here," Lenin sneered. He tucked the revolver back in his pocket and turned away.

The next squad was almost there, so it was time to go. I reached inside my jacket and pulled out two wooden batons. As I did so, the movement dislodged a small swirling black square of cloth that fluttered away. I made it to my feet, then lunged forward in a quick charge across the room.

Maybe punching through his face would have been more satisfying, but the sound the baton made when it crushed the skull of the father of communism was pretty darn satisfying.

I turned and ran for the closest door. It just so happened the fresh goon squad was between me and it. I charged straight into them, batons whirling. These guys must have been shopping at the Stick Warehouse because they all had the same two-foot-long wooden bat that I had.

The first guy I met swung high for my face as I charged in. He had admirable reaction time. My left-hand stick blocked his, and my right removed most of his teeth as it shattered his jaw. I brushed past him and struck out at the next two men. I took the left across his upper arm, and he dropped his stick, falling back with a cry. My right-hand blow was blocked, and the man slugged me in the ribs with his free hand. It hurt a little. I slugged him back with the fist holding the stick. The blow struck him as I was coming in and he was stepping forward. My fist sunk deep in his face, crushing his nose, and his whole body rotated, feet flipping forward and high into the air. I was on to the next thugs before he fell to the cement floor with a heavy thud.

There were three more. Two were close and ready, the third one moving in on my flank. I shifted away from him and gave one of the two my full attention for about a second and a half.

My batons blurred in a frenzy that would have done a heavy metal drummer proud. I hit him a dozen times in the space of a breath. He staggered back, dropping his stick. He was still on his feet but he was out of the fight and didn't know it yet. When the pain from five or six broken bones hit him, he was going to go down.

The next two caught up with me together, sticks flying. I blocked their blows as I dropped back a step, giving myself a little space to look for an opening. I found it, striking one man's forearm, breaking it and sending his stick flying. I went for the other man with both of my weapons. Six or ten blows later, his stick dribbled from his limp hand, and he fell to his knees, gasping around broken ribs.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Most of these men would live. I wasn't feeling vindictive. I just dodged around the last man standing, who was clutching his broken right arm.

As I turned to run, I saw a revolver laying on the floor next to the outstretched hand of one of the men. A star-shaped piece of metal was sticking out of the back of his hand. I bent to grab the gun before heading for the door, shoving it into my pocket.

Beyond was a stone hallway. I started down it at a run. I had hoped the long hall would lead to the outside. It didn't. It led straight to a barracks.

The large room was full of bunks, three tiers high, and blanket rolls. It smelled of old gym socks and, most importantly, it was full of communists. They didn’t smell much better. I didn’t get the feeling these were actual workers with real jobs. My hunch was that these were goons on Lenin’s payroll to do his dirty work, just like the ones I had been beating up.

At least, that's what I told myself as I tore into them. Probably it was true.

I remember this movie where the hero burst into a dojo full of bad guys, and he had to punch and kick his way through the whole damn crowd. Fortunately, I didn't have to do that. On the other side of the room was an open door with daylight shining through. I took off running. Most of the men in the place were standing around talking or even napping on their bunks, so I was halfway across the room before anyone made a move to stop me.

Two big dudes got in my way close to the door. I stiff-armed the first guy and knocked him back against a bunk, sending the whole thing toppling. The other I body-checked against the wall next to the door. The sound he made when he hit the concrete block made even me wince. And then I ducked through the door and was gone.

Only, I wasn't gone. I was in an alley. A dozen surly-looking guys were slouching around smoking. High walls loomed in front of me.

To my left, the narrow alleyway ran off between warehouses. Parked 20 feet to my right was a heavy truck, its back full of crates. A group of men were loading it from an open door farther along the building I had just come out of. They all turned to look at me.

Three of the men standing around smoking had rifles leaning against the wall next to them, and many of the others had pistols tucked in their waistbands. I could have taken off running down that long narrow alleyway, but I might as well have just shot myself.

In the moment it took me to process it all, somebody in the barracks behind me yelled, "Get him!" through the open door.

I had lost one of my sticks somewhere, but still had the other in my left hand. I smashed the closest guy across the bridge of his nose and drew the revolver from my pocket. The gun was puny in my massive hand, and I couldn't be sure if it held 5 or 6 shots. Many small caliber revolvers often only held 5. The first guy I hit with the stick staggered back, clutching his bloody face. I spun and stuck the end of the baton in the next closest man's throat. I didn't have time for niceties like minor recoverable injuries. I needed these guys down hard and fast. Zero chance of any of them behind me with a gun.

There were still at least 10 more of them, though I didn't stop to count. Two of them were already reaching for guns, so I just plunged on ahead. I shoved the man choking on his injured throat towards a group of others who were only now realizing the situation.

A smoker a few meters away was picking up his rifle. I shot him, then squeezed off a shot at the man behind him who was also shouldering a gun. Two men hit me from the side, knocking my aim off. I lost my grip on the gun and it went spinning away.

I grabbed one by the throat with my left hand and backhanded my right across the other. It was an open hand slap to the cheek, but it still sent the man sprawling. I snap kicked him in the ribs on the way down, then balled up my right and punched the man I held by the throat twice in the face with a short, brutal jab. I squeezed hard with my left hand. When I let him go, he fell, choking and spluttering and clutching at his abused face.

I was going to hit him one more time just to be sure, but I got tackled from behind by more than one of them. It sent me staggering forward and I almost fell headlong when I hit the man I had just dropped. I managed to plant my feet just in time.

I threw out my arms and spun in place, partly to dislodge the men on my back and partly to interpose them between several others I saw who had drawn revolvers. The sound of gunfire in the close confines of the alley was loud, but my ears were still ringing from the shots I had fired.

The man on my back grunted and the grip around my neck loosened. I spun back and he fell away, but now I faced two revolver-armed men at close range. They had me dead to rights and were already squeezing their triggers.

Then both of them sprouted shuriken, one in the temple and the other in the side of his throat. This caused them to lose interest in shooting me, instead turning their attention to bleeding.

"You couldn't have done that sooner?" I yelled as I kicked the ones clutching me away.

"That's two more you owe me,” Hiroshi called. It sounded like he was right beside me, but he was nowhere insight. I still had my hands full with the swarm of bodies headed my way.

I ducked the grappling arms of another attacker and dove for the nearest rifle. I rolled over awkwardly and came up to a crouch, holding the weapon. As soon as my hands found the polished wooden stock, I knew I had made the right decision. Whoever Frankenstein had killed to download the skills to use a Mauser action rifle, the man had been an artist.

I flipped up the bolt, cracked it back, saw there was a round already chambered, slammed the lever back home, and fired at the closest attacker. All this in less than a second, without raising the weapon from my hip. I had used hunting rifles many times, whose actions were derivations, or modern renditions of the classic Mauser pattern. The skills slotted into my brain with the barest twinge.

I worked the bolt, ejecting a spent cartridge, and loading a new one in the chamber. As I did so, the downloaded skills in my brain told me exactly where the action could use a little bit of polishing. It told me the previous owner had barely ever cleaned the weapon. I could picture just where residue had built up and was grinding against the smooth action of the bolt.

I knew everything about the weapon, as if I had been born with it in my hands.

The gun's balance felt wrong in my hand, because its barrel had been cut down from the original length. It was common for a military rifle repurposed for hunting, or in this case, crime. The long rifles issued to soldiers in that era were unwieldy in heavy brush or close quarters like this alley.

I ducked behind the corner of the truck. The driver came out of the door, pistol in hand. He raised it as he caught sight of me. I dodged around the corner of the truck. His first shot tore into the wooden sides of its cargo bed, showering me with splinters. I dropped into a low crouch and leaned out around the corner of the bed. At this range, it was doubtful I would have needed to use the rifle sights. With the skills I had in my head, the concept of actually aiming the weapon was laughable. I shot from the hip, striking the man's center of mass.

Then, letting my wired reflexes take over, I shifted the rifle to my left hand, firing it one-handed, then working the action with my right. Boom, boom, boom! I put a bullet into everyone still within reach of a weapon and emptied the magazine in two seconds.

I didn't have time to search bodies for ammunition. My instincts cringed at the idea of dropping it from any height. I set the rifle on the ground and stepped over to grab up the other one that still lay next to the groaning man I had shot earlier.

No one moved. I eyed the door of the building. No one else came through. I turned to go with every intention of stealing the truck to make my getaway, and that's when I saw what they had been loading into the back.

It was crates of dynamite.