There are many, many things that one can do to incur the wrath of the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii. Apparently, commandeering - and doing smoky burnouts in - President Putin’s ZiL in the middle of Red Square was one of those things.

Somehow, I’d managed to evade them in the gargantuan limousine, but I knew I’d have to ditch the car as soon as possible. Fortunately, my local mafia connection had been looking for one for years. He was more than happy to take it off my hands, and I was happy to take a few million rubles off his. As I heard the ground-shaking thrum of the ZiL’s 470 ci V8 from outside the nondescript garage, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret for getting rid of it. Hopefully Yevgeniy’s Kremlin connections would allow him to enjoy it with impunity. No time to worry about that, though. I had a bigger issue to deal with: I was now stuck in Moscow without any means of motorized transportation.

As I ran out of the alley and across the street, an establishment ahead of caught my eye. I debated visiting since I really didn’t have time for distractions. I just needed to make it back to my garage outside Domodedovo, and then I could get out of the Motherland and back home to Prague very quickly. However, I had to get there first, and this chop shop I’d just spotted might just do the trick. I made my way through a parking lot, dodging a cheetah-print Cayenne Diesel and an iridescent pink CLS350. It was even worse in St. Petersburg.

The sounds of welding and coughing two-strokes emanated from the open door of the garage. I just needed to get a cheap car and get out - quickly. The sounds of shrill sirens and AMG-engined vehicles slowly became more audible as the Feds closed in. I had to hurry. I exchanged a few words with the owner of the garage, and in a few minutes I was peeling out of the small shop in a quad-turbo two-stroke W8-powered Trabant. Admittedly, it wasn’t my best choice of car. The FSB would have no trouble tracking me thanks to the clouds of blue smoke and the trail of Duraplast fragments I was leaving behind.


What it lacked in subtlety, though, it made up for with athleticism. I sped over the Moskva and towards my garage at quite a brisk clip, weaving between X6s and a Swarovski’d Maybach. I drove on for another twenty miles, a faint blue glow ever present behind me as I pointed the Trabbie towards Domodedovo. I soon pulled up outside the small warehouse and killed the Trabant’s rumbling engine. It pained me to have to choose just one out of all the cars laid out before me. I felt I couldn’t just leave all the eclectically modified GAZs, VAZs, and Volgas, but I would have to choose one to keep.

The roar of AMG M152s and M275s intensified. They were getting closer. I had to to make my choice before I ran out of time.


The T-613 ought to do. I hopped in the old Tatra and fired up the recently fitted 4.0 Mezger engine. As I drifted the big girl out of the driveway, I heard a new roar above all the others. It was a very strange, but familiar, roar. I looked behind me in time to see an time-attack style Volga GAZ-24 rounding the corner onto my street, blue teardrop light flashing and siren wailing. As it grew closer I could discern the source of the strange roar. From underneath the vented hood came the unmistakable sound of a twin-supercharged LS7. Whatever strange fusion of Russian national pride and capitalist American power could only have been conceived by a madman under the influence of mass quantities of vodka. I glanced back once more, and my blood ran cold as I realized the madman in question.

Though I had over 500 horsepower out of the RS engine, there was no way I’d be able to outrun the man behind me: Igor Hammerovski, the winningest Soviet Touring Car Championship driver in history and - as of late - head of the FSB. Behind him were legions of FSB men in their AMG G-Wagens, GLs, M-classes, and all manner of high-powered sedans. As I put the accelerator to the floor on the on-ramp to the E30 motorway, Kalashnikov fire rang out in the cold Russian night. It was going to be a long way to Prague.