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World's Best Assassin	By : PatPat Category: Kim Possible > Het- Male/Female > Kim/Ron Views: 6324 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Kim Possible, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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WORLD BEST ASSASSIN
Chapter I - Dream
By Pat Squared

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Ron Stoppable woke up with a scream.

The dream was so sick-wrong.

Ron awoke just as a blond haired killer with facial freckles put three rounds into his wife’s skull. The killer merely dropped the pistol and walked away as if he was just the FedEx guy dropping off another parcel on a delivery route.

Ron Stoppable tried everything to stop the nightmare - Working out until exhaustion, taking strong drink until he almost died from alcohol poisoning, even shooting drugs into his veins.

Nevertheless, no matter how he tried to silence them, the nightmares came anyways. Every night, Ron was forced by his subconscious to witness himself killing someone he loved. Even the dreams about monkeys were not as disturbing as the nightmares.

Ron loved his wife. Twelve years and four kids later, Kim was still the only woman in his heart.

Kim was safely at home watching the kids and working for Global Justice as the Director of Operations and Training. Her expanding girth told the world that Kim and Ron would have another child in a couple months.

Ron always wanted to be there at the hospital when Kim delivered their children. However, the bad guys seem to frustrate this simple desire. They instinctively acted up when he wanted to be home. Ron always ended up missing the birth of his kids.

Ron hated Moscow and the Russian winters.

Despite two generations since the fall of the Soviet Union, the mark of centuries of autocratic rule still lingered in the air and upon the psyches of the masses. There was a hint of fear and self-defeat in the faces of the masses and a multitude of predators looking for a free lunch.

After college, the powers that be at Global Justice selected Ron Stoppable to work as an undercover agent in Central and Eastern Europe. Unlike most other Global Justice Agents, Ron Stoppable never had an official or diplomatic cover. No one outside a few senior Global Justice executives knew what Ron's assignment really was. Everyone else back at HQ just thought that he was some kind of courier.

Ron worked where only an agent in the shadows could be effective.

No one seemed to remember Ron’s face or name. Only two of the villains he fought in his youth ever remembered his name. The world forgot he existed. He had the face-like face and average build that allowed him to disappear into crowds almost anywhere in the world.

The phone rang stirring Ron Stoppable out of his sulking mood.

Vladimir Petrovich Rasputin, Boiarskii Moscow factor was on the line. Rasputin discretely ran Boiarskii’s interests in Eastern Europe.

“Vasilii Alexovich Boiarskii, there is social club at corner of Kuybysheva and Rybnyypereulok. Name is Den of Hungry Wolf. Tell the fat doorman, Misha, you are old friend of Maria Natasha from time she go to school in America. Be on your good ... no your best behavior, Maria does not suffer fools.”

“ Vladimir, stop the native speech routine. You might have been born in St. Petersburg, but the folks at the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti (Russian Foreign Security Bureau, the successor agency to the Soviet KGB) taught you how to speak New York style. I know about your six year field study and your six kids and five wives.”

“Well coz, go give yo’self a flaming enema. It’s seven kids and one wife.”

The accent was one-hundred percent pure Brooklyn.

Ron laughed, “That’s much better, you fat bastard. You ain’t such a disgrace to New York cabbies anymore. Tell Maria that I should be there in two hours. I had to fight three rounds with a she-bear last night and she wouldn’t take no for an answer until she mauled me good.”

“Liar! Your palms wouldn’t be so hairy if you didn’t go wanking off your sorry excuse for a dick all the time you bugger. I will be waiting nearby with two of the boys from Technical Services. They are wonks and really can't back anyone up."

"If things go bad, you know what to do?"

"Get money, get wife and kids, and take first flight out of East Block to New York City... and I personally hand your wife damned letter."

Ron nodded and suddenly remembered that he was on a cell phone.

Christ, I'm slipping. I have been spacing out way too much.

Cellphone traffic was not a secure method of communication. It’s only advantage was that there were so many that snooping in on a call is like finding a diamond in a mountain of shit.

"Sorry buddy, thoughts of the family."

"That's why we are all here. Without family, man is nothing. Just remember to shave your palms before you leave. Maria does not have a taste for uncultured barbarians.”

Vladimir was Ron’s only friend and backup in this God forsaken country. He was Ron’s only link to Global Justice and the only one in Europe who knew that Boiarskii was really Ron Stoppable, Global Justice's Senior Sentinel of the Central and Eastern Europe.

Russia had changed since the glory days of the former Soviet Union. However, things did not change all that much in the Wild, Wild East.

The Russians took to the philosophy if you can’t beat them, join them. The average Muscovite was more capitalistic than any trader on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The good thing for Ron was that most of them were lousy gamblers who believed that they could out bluff anyone. Ron always won enough to cover the bills and stash away some get out of town funds.

Ron knew that Global Justice was stingy with funds. However to be stingy with bribes was as obvious as wearing a cape and your underwear on the outside of your pants. The prize for which is having various parts of your anatomy ripped off during an enthusiastic interrogation session. He learned early on to pad his expense reports and under-report the take from his authorized illicit activities. Ron never trusted the bookkeepers at Global Justice to properly fund and maintain an escape network for his agents, so he took it upon himself. Twice, one of his agents got burned and if he had not break the rules, the agents would be photos on the memorial wall instead of being reassigned to work at Headquarters training the next generation of agents.

Ron staggered into the shower. He hated this assignment. He hated this life of deception and intrigue. He could not call home or even utter a word of what he was doing in this hotel. All the hotels were bugged courtesy of the old KGB and the locals kept up that tradition.

Slowly, the hot water did its job. The chemically induced mental fog was thinned out. Ron was fully conscious and ready for the meeting. It took three months of gamesmanship to arrange this meeting. Not even in the Wild, Wild East, does an arms merchant not go out and sell military grade biological weapons without checking out the buyer.

Vasilii Alexovich Boiarskii was the ideal buyer for such contraband. From AK-47's to attack helicopters and hazardous chemicals, Boiarskii dealt it all. He was the man that every third world dictator called friend. Every western intelligence organization had dealings with Boiarskii. He had bought and sold illegal or hard to get commodities world wide. Arms and trade embargos simply serve to pad his bottom line. His merchandise was used by both sides in most of the world’s civil conflicts in the past seven years. It was a resume that any arms merchant would trade both their nuts for.

Ron’s problem was the Vasilii Boiarskii was really Ron Stoppable.

To keep the legend alive, Ron had to do things that trouble his conscience and fueled his nightmares. He wanted to stop, to stop fueling wars, to stop being Vasilii. However if he stopped, the intelligence would dry up, the bad guys would be another step ahead of justice, and many more innocent folks would suffer.

Vasilii Boiarskii was everything Ron was not. Cool, calculating, cunning, a bottom-line kind of guy with a taste for pretty flesh and gambling. Boiarskii had developed a reputation as someone you don’t want to cross.

The reputation was fertilized by the blood of his enemies and their associates. No one crossed Boiarskii. He was the living incarnation of the legend of Keyser Soze. Boiarskii personally killed anyone associated with whoever crossed Boiarskii. Family, friends, even the family dog was marked for a slow painful death. Boiarskii was the classic psychopathic merchant of death.

Ron checked his Yarygin MP-446 ‘Viking’ 9x19mm pistol. There were seventeen rounds in the magazine and one live one in the chamber. Two spare magazines loaded with 147 grain jacketed hollow points were places in the magazine pouch. Same load as perfected by the US Federal Bureau of Investigation - These bullets were his only link to America, but Boiarskii was rumored to be educated in the West.

However, the three lethal weapons Ron depended on was his mind, Boiarskii reputation for ruthlessness, and a pen injector filled with seven milliliters of a nasty poison that who look like a heart attack to any medical examiner.

Unlike many other businessmen peddling arms in the world, Boiarskii seemingly ran alone.

The contempt for danger added to Vasilii’s mystique ...the mystique that prevented Ron’s internal organs from being imperforated by copper clad lead projectiles. No one in their sane minds would cross Vasilii Boiarskii.

Boiarskii walked out of his suite. Sergei Kantorovich was waiting. Ron hated Sergei Sergei was corrupt, vile, and enjoyed all the vices that the diky-diky vostok or Wild, Wild East can offer. Nevertheless, Sergei was Boiarskii number one arms procurer in Eastern Europe. Sergei was one of the many scroungers that Boiarskii kept on the payroll.

“What is on the menu?”

Sergei rose and bowed to his benefactor.

“Someone lit a fire at army armory near Gdañsk."

"How is that suppose to interest me?" Vasilii replied.

With Sergei, there were no accidents or coincidences. Vasilii knew that Sergei arranged for the fire and would take an extra cut from the seller on top of the commission that Vasilii paid him. However, dealing with Sergei was worth the extra cash. Sergei was a crook, but one smart enough to know that you make more in the long run by playing by the rules of the underground.

Sergei gulped.

"My man, he called me and said that he got 5.56 NATO KBSWZ 04 Beryl assault rifles before fire destroy records. Also he is throwing in some old US Army surplus MK19 40-millimeter grenade launchers.”

Boiarskii make the come-on gesture.

"They were reserve stock for Polish Army. Only test fired, cleaned, and put in storage. New condition. Four per case. Two hundred fifty cases. Each comes with cleaning kit, sling, six magazines per rifle, and American-NATO spec two point five power optical gun sights already mounted. His price is two thousand euros per case if you buy fifty cases - One thousand seven hundred per case if you buy all. However, it is all carry out.”

Boiarskii looked his scrounger in the eye.

“Tell him ... tell your man that I will pay him in high quality diamonds. His total price is four hundred twenty five thousand euros. He gets one million US dollars worth of diamonds if the goods are in Rotterdam, ready for sea shipment, upon inspection. The deal is good for two weeks tops. If he agree, we meet in diamond exchange Friday, two weeks from this Friday. Safe location for all to meet as no one can bring any weapons into the exchange. Tell him that Samuel Bergman from Tel Aviv will hold the crow and personally will value diamonds.”

“Sir, what about...”

Ron cleared his throat as he play the role, “As they say, Columbia, por favor mi amigo. Vladimir will make the calls. Our associates in Bogota will fax over end user certificates in forty eight hours or I will pass the deal onto some old friends of mine in east Africa who want to sell more arms to two opposing tribes of shits. Don’t get drunk yet, my friend. We drink tonight; lift skirts, see if there is any virgin still in Moscow, and live like real men. Damn Americans...we have no real man for leader. How have we fallen so far? Catherine the Great had more balls than our current president, Kerensky the Eunuch. He bows too much to the West instead of being the man of steel we need. Where is Iosef Stalin when we need him.”

Sergei was a rat, but he was Boiarskii rat. Sergei look of fear grew. The last employee who disappointed Boiarskii became a poster child for not mixing bootleg vodka and blowtorches.
Ron walked down to the car.

It took 24 years, but the Russians got smart and finally allowed the Germans to buy the old Lada manufacturing plant albeit via a Czech subsidiary to avoid arousing nationalistic protest. There were no more Fiat clones being made. Instead, the Skoda Motor Works now were making performance cars on par with BMW and Audi.

Boiarskii’s car was a three year-old, white, Skoda 450K. Under its muscovite exterior was a masterpiece of Teutonic engineering. Six speed, four wheel drive, supercharged rally car mated with Japanese electronics and a touch of Bond. No rocket launcher or machine guns, but bullet resistant glass and blast panels, biometric lockout, anti-carjacker flame device, two hidden gun compartments each with the local knock-off of the Heckler & Koch G36K assault carbine and six extra magazines, electrified door handles, smoke generator, hidden police lights, siren, covert ram bumpers, and stun lights. Boiarskii’s car suited his needs just fine.

Ron opened the glove box. Inside were the registration paperwork, local and international driver's licenses and permits, a 9 x 19 mm Parabellum Fort Model 1300 Automaticheskij Pistolet Tataryn (Ukrainian knock-off of the GLOCK 18 fully automatic pistol with a 1300 rpm cyclic rate), three loaded thirty-three round magazines loaded with man-stoppers (Federal 147-grain HydraShok Jacketed Hollow Points), and a bottle of green pills that did not come from any doctor.

Ron hated himself.

He cursed his weakness every time he took another pill.

However, the pills kept Ron sane, kept him awake, kept him from having the nightmares, and allowed him to live with the monster that he created.

Ron swallowed two pills, vowing to himself that this was going to be the last one that entered his body. However, he knew that he would use more tonight, more tomorrow, more until the bottle ran out. That would be his hint to quit popping the little green pills for a while.

Global Justice would run him through a medical examination when he flew back to America in three weeks. Ron purged himself for the week prior, so that no one back home would know of his need to chemically silence the screams inside his head.
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World's Best Assassin