For the second instance in a decade, time struggled to keep up with itself.

The grand hallway was secure; the entrance to the hotel checked and rechecked. Every inch of the travel route was now secure. The route walked and walked again, looking over each detail; carpet, locked doors, timorous paintings, and elaborate windows; all were as they should be.

It was a grand hall, adorned with glamour and precious paintings on loan from a Russian museum; oils as well as watercolors of dark landscapes, elaborate buildings of Russian heritage and one spectacular view Moscow’s Red Square brilliantly lit at night.

The hundred and fifty eight year old painting stood eight feet tall and brought to life a darkened background illuminated with white, silver, and red lights shining atop a historical monument. The brilliant colors pored into each other in the reflection off the Russia River just in front of Lenin's Mausoleum, in Red Square. The dark background around the painting’s border gave the work a majestic yet ghoulish feeling as it hung amidst little lighting to accentuate its phantom sprit.

The tone set by the hotel for its honorary guest; steeped in the macabre.
Few noticed many of the oils were of scenes from throughout the former Soviet Union. Many guests assumed they were of famous London landscapes. To those who knew either, it was obvious. To those who knew no difference, the eight-foot paintings were just as grandiose as the hotel.

At 9:20 the Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti (Russian Federal Security Service), also know as the FSB, walked the hall with the United States Secret Service. Russian Federal Security Agent Sonia Nevsky pronounced the travel route secure. Anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there was obviously absent. The only people now permitted on the travel route were United States Secret Service, FSB Agents, the Ambassador, direct reporting staff, and immediate family.

FSB Agents flooded the street just outside the hotels entrance. Press horded every inch of concrete across the street, far away from the hotels access. Journalist continuously snapped photo’s as they pushed and shoved their way to the front of the herd to get the best view. Many dreamed of a Time Magazine cover shot; although none knew just how close they’d come.

Few photos existed of a single Soviet Federal Security Service Agent on assignment. Today more than a dozen heavily armed FSB agents were crawling all around three city blocks of New York.

The relationship between the U.S. and Soviet Secret Service drastically changed over the last several years. Once combatants of each other, the U.S. Secret Service and the FSB now worked side by side; if for nothing else, to show the world that the two superpowers could finally play nice together.

For years, the U.S. knew of and tried to identify FSB agents throughout Europe and the greater U.K. Few had ever seen an agent in the field. Unlike the U.S. Secret Service, who made them well known when on assignment, the FSB stayed in the shadows and came out with a vengeance when terminating a suspected threat. Other than reacting to an obvious possible threat, the FSB remained an apparition.

9:26 a.m. Ambassador Stasya Volkov walked down the corridor from her room and met three FSB agents at the elevator door. She looked beaten. Her usual well kept and almost exocentric appearance was dulled down to exhaustion.

9:28 a.m. The elevator doors opened and four United States Secret Service agents met the group. Instructions were given in English and translated to Russian so all understood the exact route and where to stand. The instructions were more then clear that the FSB was to take direction from the Secret Service and not visa versa. It was the first time a Soviet dignitary was transported on U.S. soil under a serious and plausible threat. No one knew just who or what the threat was. All knew it was serious enough to be taken as probable.

9:35 a.m. U.S. Agent Andrew Rice called ahead to agents outside the hotel to announce they were “mobile in three minutes.”

9:38 a.m. Ambassador Stasya Volkov greeted her daughter in the hallway. Stasya brushed back her daughter’s hair, as she always did, in disapproval of the manor of dress and the general way Anna presented herself. For Anastasia Volkov her mother was old fashioned, old Russian and just plain out of touch with the real world. Anna had told her friends many times, that her mother wasn’t really all that powerful, she was more a pain in Anna’s ass then anything.
The two chatted for a few moments as they waited for the “go.”

“Anna, please remember the press is out there. We’ve gone over this many times; when you’re with your friends dress as you will. When you are with me, you will dress as I do.” The Ambassador said.

“Mum, I got it, I got it. Can’t you just let it go.”

“This is nothing, it’s nothing.” Anna replied.

“For me, please. Pull your hair out of your face as we walk out. Please.” Stasya begged.

9:48 a.m. “Ladies, were clear to move.”

“Ambassador, please follow this agent. Anna you will follow this agent only after were clear.”

“Any questions?” Russian Secret Service Agent Petrov said as he nodded to his American counterpart.

9:51 a.m. The Ambassador, seven agents; four American and three Soviets, made their way down the long corridor, out to the main hall, across the foyer, and stopped in front of the tall smoked glass doors of the hotel.
Agent Petrov took Anna by the arm.

“Are you ready? Don’t worry it will be over soon.” He said as he brushed her hair back in front of her face in defiance of his protectee.

“Stop. Hold here for a moment.”

“We’ll let them get ahead just a few feet.” Petrov said as he pulled on Anna’s arm.

“Here you go. Be careful. I’ll see you when it’s over.” Anna looked at Petrov as he spoke. The look on her face was nothing less than pure fear. Petrov had taken Anna down another hallway and out to the street off to the left of her mother.

9:52 a.m. U.S. agent Jack Russell and Ambassador Volkov walked out of the hotel side by side.
Both the Ambassador and Jack knew it was not the Ambassador who drew the attention of the press; it was her troubled teenage daughter.

The press desperately tried to find the young girl who had been in the U.S. and international tabloids nearly each week; the young girl who defied her role in life and her mothers’ role in government. Anna had been ‘detained’ – unofficially – for drunk driving and possession of a controlled substance. Since she possessed the same immunity her mother carefully guarded, she was beyond the touch of any U.S. authority. For Anna it was a dream come true. Her friends, when with her, could get away with just about anything and laugh in the faces of Secret Service, state police, and local law enforcement. Anna was a very trying teenager for any parent to handle. For a Soviet Ambassador, she was simply an embarrassment.

Agent Jack Russell looked behind him and then ahead of him as he walked through the doors into the street. He hoped to see Anna encased in a sea of dark suits walking her along.

However, Anastasia was nowhere behind her mother as she made her way to the curb.
Since Anna was yet to be seen, the tabloids, the major press and the local news cameras all focused on the Ambassador as she made her way in front of the precession.

Her perfected Brandy scented black hair which cupped her face, over priced hand made midnight black suit, and white London Berry scarf may have kept the cool New York rain at bay, but her face portrayed the worry of a different storm; one she, her family, and her staff had been raging over for months. Her walk was labored, as if she hadn’t slept in days.
Jack looked forward and to the right straining to locate the limo. Jack left very specific instructions; the limo was to wait in the center of the street and move in as they stepped out of the hotel. He noticed Agent Petrov waving the car over to the curbside as Jack and the Ambassador stepped out of the hotel. The fact that Petrov was now waving the car on was helpful, but curious.

Before Stasya fully extended her left arm in a ghoulish Russian gustier of hello to the crowd, the first shot ripped through the Ambassador’s burgundy three quarter length raincoat, just under her left arm.

All life in New York sucked into a vacuum; the world now moved in slow motion. The many events and lives touched in the next few moments, now played out with frozen speed.

Stasya’s arm flinched downward and her spine arched backwards as she fell into the sea of dark suits behind her. Ambassador Volkov, for the first time, was unable to stand up for herself.

A total thirteen shots rang out in incredible succession. In less than a second and a half, it was over.

A reverent pause brought everything to a complete stop, and then, one last shot echoed throughout three city blocks of New York.

As per the agreement between the United States and the former Soviet Union, in such a situation, when a Soviet dignitary is deemed to be in a state of threat and for the first time in U.S. history, Russian Federal Security Service personnel were now authorized to fire upon the crowd in the hopes of terminating the threat. Even if it cost a few innocent lives along the way, the FSB could now disregard all instructions from its U.S. counterpart and take matters into their own hands; they were about to handle the situation there own way.

The FSB were trained differently then the Secret service; their training in this situation called for an immediate termination of the crowd surrounding the Ambassador; even if it meant terminating U.S. Secret Service agents.
Armed FSB agents appeared from out of the crowd, closed doorways, and rooftops. They were everywhere; it looked as if the Russians had landed in New York.

In one instant three city blocks of New York looked as if they were transformed into early nineteenth century Poland.

Two rounds hit Senior Federal Security Agent Petrov in the neck and face killing him instantly, as he stood in the street waving on the car.

Three rounds hit Ambassador Volkov; one under the left arm, another tore through her right pant leg just above the knee, and the last struck her left wrist shattering every bone in her hand.

Other than her face, hands, and feet, every inch of her body wore a heavy armored Kevlar under her clothes.
The trouble of carrying such heavy protection; the exhaustion from an overheated body unable to breath, and the bulkiness any woman dreaded, now proved worth its trouble.

Three rounds bounced off the concrete and sped off across the street like New Years fireworks gone astray. One news reporter dropped from the crowd another fell tearing the yellow caution tape as her camera and case struck the ground just before her body crashed against the cement.

Two shots embedded into the thick glass rear window of the limousine that sat at the ready nearer one side of the middle of the street.

With the exception of police on horseback, the normally extraordinarily busy street in front of the Ritz Carlton Hotel was now cordoned off to all traffic, both of two foot and automobile.

One shot struck a New York Police officer named “Tank.” Although he was nearing a half ton in weight, officer Tank was just as much a part of the police force as any officer with two legs was. Tank fell to the ground trapping another officer under the massive weight of the dark brown Appaloosa horse.

One shot hit Secret Service Agent Andrew Rice square in the middle of his back and tore an exit through his chest. The last shot tore through Rice’s left arm splitting his humorous bone down the middle sending shattered pieces of bone fragment through his inexpensive no name suit.

The large black limo broke from the line of police cars, SUV’s and sedans, sped forward and up over the curb. The sound of squalling tires and metal against metal scrapes sounded alarming, the limo took no caution in marking its way to the Ambassador hitting one car after another as if an angry boy sat playing with his Tonka Toys.
Surrounded by a sea of dark suits, Ambassador Stasya Volkov slumped backwards into the wild groping hands protruding from the pack of security surrounding her. Haphazardly three men opened the door and tossed her into the back of the car like a bag of dirty laundry. Agent Jack Russell jumped into the limo and landed on top of the Ambassador, thinking:
Shit…Protocol be dammed.

Senior Agent Rice slipped away from the pack, swaying from side to side as if he was trying his best to pass a sobriety test on New Years Eve. Falling backwards on the rear trunk of the heavy black car, Jack barley drew his weapon. Looking straight ahead, he saw the Ambassadors assailant.

Before the car door slammed shut and the driver bashed the gas pedal, one last shot rang out.
Agent Rice hit his target once again.

Tires squealed and the stench of smoke filled the air. Agent Rice fell to the ground groping his chest, his weapon bounced off the concrete and slid a few feet from his limp body laying on the cement.

No one moved.

Everyone froze with uncertainty within the moment.

It was over.

The life of Ambassador Volkov changed; the panic of the last several months, many human lives, the life of one horse, and a few careers along the way had ended.