- Jul 1, 2018
- 2,367
The morning call to prayer had only just faded into the dusty Grozny skyline when the presidential convoy emerged from the Government Complex gates. The streets had been cleared in advance, though that didn’t stop dozens of silent onlookers from lining alleyways and balconies. They watched with a mixture of fear, and weariness as five black vehicles rolled down the broken avenue like tanks. This was a city still in recovery, burnt from two wars, scarred from shifting allegiances. And at the center of it all rode Akhmad Kadyrov, President of the Chechen Republic, former rebel now turned Moscow backed strongman. The man seen by many as a traitor, by others as a stabilizer, and by all as dangerous.
The blast came without warning. One moment, the hum of engines and murmurs from the crowd. The next, a violent, consuming flash of orange and white, followed by a thunderous roar that swallowed the entire street. The lead SUV, armored and reinforced, was lifted into the air and disintegrated midair, shrapnel slicing through nearby cars, kiosks, and bystanders. The second vehicle, Kadyrov’s, caught the edge of the explosion and was hurled sideways across the road. It landed on its flank with a sickening crunch, metal screeching against pavement, as smoke and fire bloomed from underneath. In an instant, the air was choked with dust and screams, the acrid scent of fuel and blood mingling in the wind.
From the twisted wreckage, there was movement. A hand pushed against the cracked rear door, then a boot kicked it outward with defiant force. Staggering out, one arm slung low and dripping red, came Akhmad Kadyrov who was bloodied, dust-covered, barely upright. His black robe was shredded down one side, revealing the deep crimson of an open wound stretching from collarbone to stomach. His beard, once neatly trimmed, was now soaked and clumped with soot and sweat. But his eyes were sharp, enraged, refusing to dim. He looked around at the fire, the bodies, the shocked faces in the distance, and then raised his voice in a cracked rasp. “So that’s how they greet a father of Chechnya today,” he muttered through bloodied lips, half to himself, half to the smoke.
His bodyguards rushed forward, two visibly wounded themselves, one limping on a torn ankle. They reached him just as he staggered forward again, catching his full weight between them. Another blast of gunfire cracked in the distance, sporadic, panic-induced, not aimed but enough to trigger an immediate response. The guards tightened their circle, rifles raised. Overhead, the familiar scream of approaching sirens cut through the chaos. Ambulances, two of them, swerved around burning debris, bumping over the curb before slamming to a stop just meters from the site of the attack. Medics poured out, ducking behind doors and shouting instructions, some with their hands in the air to show they weren’t armed. The convoy was gone. Security was scattered. And Kadyrov who was wounded, dazed, soaked in his own blood was suddenly the center of a street-wide, volatile war zone.
Under the veil of smoke and confusion, the guards half-dragged him toward the nearest ambulance. He resisted, legs buckling. “No retreat,” he hissed. “Not now. Not while they’re watching.” A bodyguard who's face was smeared with ash replied sharply. “You’ll be dead in five minutes if we don’t move.” Kadyrov winced as he was hoisted again, and this time he didn’t argue. They reached the back of the ambulance, its interior sterile and fluorescent, a strange contrast to the rubble-strewn battlefield outside. As they slid him inside, a medic tried to cut away his robe, but Kadyrov swatted weakly at the scissors. “Not here,” he whispered, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.
As the doors began to close, he reached out suddenly, grabbing a nearby guard by the sleeve. His voice was weak, barely audible over the blare of sirens.
“Ramzan… tell him… to stay low. Not yet. Not until we know who did this.”
And then he slumped back as the oxygen mask was fitted over his face, his eyes fluttering shut just as the ambulance peeled away down the boulevard. The last anyone saw of him was a streak of blood across the glass window as the city swallowed the sirens once again.
Back at the scene of the attack, chaos reigned. Smoke drifted upward, black and thick. Civilians ran with torn clothes and bloodied hands. A camera crew, late to the scene, filmed in wide shots from behind a burned-out van. And high above it all, fluttering in the heat shimmer and ash, the Chechen flag remained half-burned, limp but unfallen, clinging to a fractured pole like a survivor refusing to let go.
