Kill the Blind Man: Blind, #10

By Andrei Voronin

Gleb Siverov nicknamed Blind is recruited by the FSB as a hired killer Having introduced him into the special squad "St. George", the FSB is trying to cover up the dirty traces of their crimes with Siverov's hands However, unexpectedly Blind begins to act against the generals who recruited him. He is still true to his principle - vice must be punished, where the law is powerless, the word remains at the gun...

• Language: English
• Publisher: EDGARS-LTD GROUP
• Release date: Jul 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224822140

Book preview

Chapter 1

Snow fell from a sky as black as blackening in large flakes - the kind you can only see at a New Year's party in a kindergarten, and even on a night like this, when a North Atlantic cyclone seems to hang forever over a city blinded by a blizzard, the thermometer is dead wedged somewhere... It’s about zero, and the coming spring, if you believe the calendar, seems like nothing more than someone’s stupid joke.

In such weather, it’s good to sit at home, with your feet up on the ottoman, and, wrapped in a checkered blanket, slowly sip expensive cognac and watch the snow fall thickly outside the window in complete darkness - or, if you are completely devoid of a romantic streak and are not inclined to philosophize behind a bottle, just blink sleepily in front of the flickering TV screen.

In such weather, some people prefer to collapse on the same ottoman with their favorite book, others the book is replaced by a woman - also quite entertaining reading, if you are sufficiently trained in this peculiar literacy - someone listens to music, someone increases their already considerable capital, but all - I repeat, all normal people without exception try in such weather as quickly as possible to find themselves in the dry warmth and comfort of their lived-in nests, be it a five-room apartment in the center of Moscow or a sewer, and only urgent need can drive a person out of the house onto the black-and-white streets, where a sea of ​​slush squishes and moves underfoot, and wet snow falls and falls from above, instantly turning gray as soon as it touches the ground.

The snow was falling like a solid wall, behind which it was impossible to make out anything even two steps away.

Cars rushing along the highway through this veil seemed to be simply clouds of foggy light rapidly flying past - large flakes flickering in the beams of the headlights created the illusion of insane speed, although in fact only a suicide would dare to rush headlong along a slippery road with almost zero visibility. Road signs, even in such weather, emerge from the snow whirlpool suddenly, like a jack-in-the-box, and if, God forbid, some truck driver decides to take a nap for an hour or two and leaves his truck on the side of the road, turning off all the lights, then it’s not far from here before trouble.

However, to be afraid of wolves is not to go into the forest, and those whom necessity drove on the road on this very stormy night moved along the highway, scrupulously observing all conceivable and inconceivable precautions. There were only a few such poor fellows, and they were all in a hurry to quickly find themselves at the final point of their route, so it never occurred to any of them to slow down and ask why there was such a damn snowstorm a good fifty kilometers from the nearest village, not to mention city, there are two cars completely covered in snow with their lights off on the side of the road.

They stood here, it seemed, for at least half an hour - so much snow had stuck to them that it was impossible to say with certainty their make, although one of them - the one standing behind - was undoubtedly a jeep. However, these details were unlikely to arouse anyone's interest.

And even more so, no one would stop and peer into the darkness, trying to figure out where both drivers had gone. Anything can happen on the road at night, and no one wants to stick their nose where it might inadvertently get pinched.

The drivers were nearby - a volunteer tracker, if such a one had suddenly been found, would have found them, even if he was not a genius. To do this, it was enough to simply go down the embankment along which the highway ran in this place - the missing motorists had obviously followed this path not long ago, as evidenced by a deep furrow plowed in the wet snow and looking as if someone had slipped under here. the slope was at the fifth point, or it was simply rolling head over heels. The ragged edges of the furrow, covered with snow, which kept falling and falling from the low sky, had already begun to lose their clear outlines.

Under the embankment, parallel to the highway, stretched a completely muddy dirt road, about two hundred meters from this place, it gradually turned to the right and got lost in the dark fields. It was on this side road that both drivers were now, busy, it must be said, with some strange thing: with their legs slightly bent at the knees and their bent arms spread wide apart, they slowly moved in a circle, keeping wary eyes and time on each other. from time to time making short attacks, which, however, did not end with blows. This slow twirling looked little like an ordinary fight: rather, it was some kind of complex dance, although who would think of dancing in the middle of the night on a dirty country road in the midst of the last snowstorm of the year? Nevertheless, this was precisely a fight, which differed from most fights in that it involved professionals who were well aware of each other’s strength and capabilities.

The opponents' lips were tightly closed, clouds of steam were escaping from their nostrils, quickly melting in the damp air. Clothes, soaked through and heavy with mud, hampered movement and felt unpleasantly cold to the hot bodies, their feet were stuck up to their ankles in clay mixed with snow porridge, and the snow was melting on their hair.

The shorter one had blood running down his chin - his lip was deeply cut and, apparently, caused severe pain, just like his left hand: it was clear that he was a fighter, an elderly man, who, however, had retained beautiful shape, moves it with some effort, from time to time dropping it along the body. Every time this happened, his opponent made a movement forward, but his hand immediately rose again, ready to parry the blow, and he interrupted the attack he had begun - when dealing with such an opponent, it was like death to rush.

They were silent - everything had already been said by them, everything had been decided, and long ago the bullet points had been placed on everything. All that remained was to deliver the last one, and no words were needed for this: what’s the point of shaking the air when everything is clear as it is?

A car sped noisily along the highway, a blurry spot of light flashed and disappeared, and it became dark again.

After a short flash, the darkness seemed to become even thicker, and the taller one, taking advantage of this, made a breakthrough. His opponent tried to dive to the side. He succeeded only partially - the killing blow aimed at the Adam's apple hit the already damaged shoulder, his legs got stuck in the mud, and he, losing his balance, fell on one knee, splashing mud. The tall one kicked, aiming for the head. He was in a hurry, feeling a wave of blind rage approaching, clouding his brain with a bloody fog, and knowing full well that rage is a bad helper in such matters. All his life he despised those who were unable to renounce their emotions during battle, be it fear, hatred, or that blind rage that was now gradually taking possession of him.

The blow, of course, missed – the old sly man, without further ado, dove forward and knocked his opponent down. The tall one always fell like a cat without hurting himself. The reflexes, trained over years of training, did not fail this time either - he managed to regroup and was on his feet again almost before the splashes raised by his fall fell on the road, but the old devil was already right there - beaten, almost defeated, with a wounded hand , he somehow managed to jump up faster and even strike. The tall one raised his hand, block it, and splashes of liquid mud, thickly clinging to his palm and sleeve, flew straight into his face from this movement, blinding him for a moment.

A moment turned out to be quite enough - the second blow, swift and silent, like the lunge of a snake, did not encounter any obstacles in its path and hit the target. The tall man tried to stay on his feet for some time, struggling with the last of his strength against the dull power of gravity, which was uncontrollably pulling him down, then his knees gently buckled, and he slowly sank into the mud.

The earth, as if this were not enough, continued to attract him like a magnet, slowly but surely bending him down, and he had to throw his hand forward so as not to fall face first into the icy mess.

The other hand was pressed to the broken larynx, as if in a belated attempt to defend itself.

For some reason the enemy hesitated, in no hurry to deliver the final blow. The dying man raised his head with difficulty and looked up. The man who had already half killed him stood very close, absurdly skewed to the left, holding his limply hanging left hand with his right hand. There was another noise upstairs, and the headlights of a passing car momentarily illuminated the winner's face, stained with blood and dirt. Moisture glistened on his cheeks, and for a moment the dying man thought that his killer was crying. However, most likely it was just melting snow.

Continuing to hold the injured shoulder, the elderly man leisurely walked in from the side and delivered a short but powerful blow to the temple with a heavy combat boot. He never enjoyed such scenes, but what he started had to be completed, and he did it in the most effective way.

The blow threw the tall one aside. He fell silently, like a rag doll, and froze without moving. An expensive chronometer flashed dimly on his hand, which was limply thrown to the side. The winner stood for some time, slowly swaying from side to side, as if deciding whether to fall next to him, but in the end he nevertheless approached the man lying motionless in the mud and crouched over him. He sighed, whispered something quietly and, grimacing in pain, moved his wounded hand. It really turned out to be painful, but the hand still obeyed.

You’ll have to be patient, he said to his hand, took his opponent by the collar of his leather jacket and dragged him heavily across the road to the embankment.

Under the embankment, he stopped for a minute to rest, and again dragged his body - now up the snow-covered slope, falling and groaning from time to time from pain and excessive exertion.

Blood from the cut lip, invisible in the darkness, fell into the snow, and huge fake flakes continued to fall from above - like parachutes of dandelions, like feathers from a feather bed torn and blown by the wind..., like paratroopers from the cargo hatch of the Antaeus.

Already at the top, the collar, unable to bear it, came off with a crash, but now it was not needed. Carefully lowering his burden onto the muddy side of the road, a man in a dirty camouflage jacket walked up to the front car and opened the door. When he returned, he barely lifted the body and somehow squeezed it into the driver’s seat. Then, leaning over the corpse, he fumbled for the keys in his pocket and inserted them into the ignition. Releasing the handbrake, he started the engine, leaving it to rumble steadily at idle.

After fiddling around for about five minutes, for some reason he removed both license plates and put them on the trunk. Returning to the cabin, I found a piece of oily rag under the seat, opened the gas tank cap and pushed the rag through, leaving the end hanging outside. When the rags were thoroughly saturated with gasoline, he struck a lighter and brought the flame fluttering in the wind to the homemade wick. The gasoline flared up as gasoline should - bright and cheerful.

Now we had to hurry.

The man in camouflage quickly ran forward, crunched into gear and pressed the gas pedal with the dead man's foot, resting it with his knee on the lower edge of the dashboard. The engine roared in protest.

The killer turned the steering wheel to the right and released the clutch, immediately jumping to the side. The car jerked forward and to the right, the victim’s foot came off the pedal, the engine stalled, but it was too late - the long foreign car had already crossed the edge of the embankment and slid down uncontrollably.

The gas tank exploded in the middle of the slope. With orange reflections dancing around, a man in camouflage picked up the license plates that had slipped from the trunk, looked around and picked up a revolver covered in wet snow - a heavy Magnum with a silencer. Then he jumped behind the wheel of a battered marsh-green Land Rover and, turning sharply, drove the car towards Moscow.

On the bridge over the river he stopped and got out of the cab. Below, the fast water, black as tar, glowed oilily. Looking around, the man in camouflage threw the license plates taken from the burnt car into the river. The Magnum with a silencer flew behind. It suddenly occurred to the man on the bridge that under this bridge - or under any other - if you search carefully, you can find a lot of interesting things.

Shrugging his shoulders chillily, he returned to the cabin and engaged first gear. Just as he was about to set off, his cell phone rang.

He picked up the phone and silently raised it to his ear.

- Well, how? – asked a familiar voice. - Everything is fine? Is it actually you or him?

- I.

- So what? As there? Well, why are you silent, speak up!

The man driving the Land Rover closed his eyes tiredly.

Fuck you, he said into the phone, threw it onto the next seat and smoothly released the clutch.

Alexey Petrovich Zhilin, nicknamed Zhlob, looked at the grandfather clock standing in the corner of the bedroom.

The watch was antique - at least, Zhlob considered it such - but, nevertheless, it fit perfectly into the newfangled interior, which cost Alexei Petrovich a considerable penny.

The twisted black hands showed a quarter to eleven, which meant that time was running out. Alexey Petrovich demandingly patted the hired girl, the one who was closer, on the tight bottom.

The second, who was out of reach, figured out the situation herself and straightened up, unconsciously stretching her swollen lips. Watching her grimace, Redneck involuntarily grinned, reliving the pleasant moments. The girls were expensive, but they were real professionals who knew how to make full use of the money spent on them. Apparently, this was not the first time they worked together. It was like in the circus: you pay money, take a place, and then nothing depends on you - relax and enjoy yourself. When it comes to getting high, the girls were great experts, and Alexey Petrovich did not regret for a minute the money spent. In the end, money is just intricately painted pieces of paper, an ingenious symbol, and nothing more, but what are any symbols worth compared to young velvety skin, under which elastic long muscles softly shimmer..., no, no, now is not the time Besides, let them wait a little... and, by the way, this red-haired girl could do with a shave...

Having removed the girls from the room with a movement of his hand, Alexey Petrovich sat down at the desk, giving his face a thoughtful expression. The first time he did it, it didn’t work out so well: whatever one may say, his lips were no less swollen than the blonde’s, and in addition, he always wanted to squint and lick his lips satiatedly. Alexey Petrovich still felt a characteristic taste on his lips, and his nostrils fluttered, drawing in the special, secret and intimate smell of a young female body, so it was difficult to concentrate on business. He vigorously massaged his face with his palm, poured fifty grams of cognac from a decanter and swallowed the contents of the crystal glass like medicine.

The fiery liquid worked flawlessly, instantly bringing the body into working condition. This was very opportune: the snowstorm outside the window suddenly filled with white electric light for a moment, a light curved rectangle crossed out by the cross-shaped shadow of the window frame ran along the dimly lit wall from left to right, and the muffled rumble of a powerful engine reached the ears of Alexei Petrovich: despite the fiery call of the president, - Russian officials continued to prefer foreign cars to domestic Volgas.

Just in case, once again checking whether the fly of his trousers was fastened, Zhilin headed to the door to greet his dear guest with honor. They shook hands and sank into deep leather chairs that flanked a squat table with a transparent top. One of the girls, a red-haired girl who had managed to put on a mini-dress with a huge neckline, black stockings and huge high-heeled shoes, brought coffee and cognac on a sparkling tray.

Putting the tray on the table, she professionally pressed her round butt, barely covered by a dress, from under which black lace and a white soft body bulged out cheerfully, against the guest’s shoulder. The guest absentmindedly patted her slippery nylon thigh and looked at Alexei Petrovich over the translucent cup of Kuznetsov porcelain - apparently, girls were the least of his interests at the moment.

So?.. he said with a questioning intonation.

The redneck scratched the tip of his hooked nose with his bent index finger, coughed into his fist several times and finally said, squinting his eyes into the corner:

– One hundred thousand at a time and twenty percent of the income. This is the most I can promise you. If you ask for more, you and I will simply be buried.

Well, the guest unexpectedly easily agreed, I don’t mind. Really, these are not the pennies that you tried to offer me at the beginning. Now that we have reached an understanding, things will hopefully be more fun for us.

It’s a fact, confirmed Alexey Petrovich, who preferred to speak as briefly as possible during negotiations with high-ranking officials. This manner of speech successfully helped to hide the lack of education and invariably made a good impression on the interlocutors. – The gambling business is real money. You won’t be offended, I swear by my mother.

The guest choked slightly, delicately covering his mouth with a sleek white palm with carefully manicured nails. Alexey Petrovich Zhilin, nicknamed Zhlob, suddenly vividly imagined how these soft white hands for the first time took hold of the rubber handles of the Druzhba chainsaw somewhere in the vicinity of the Arctic Circle, and he grinned wryly, just in case, turning to the window, behind which the wet snow. No, he thought, "the official won’t last long in the zone. He’s a fool, he probably doesn’t fully understand what he’s getting himself into.

This soft-assed guy thinks that the criminal code is not written for him, but for those who cross the street incorrectly and, out of hunger, steal some loaf of bread from a bakery. Come on, come on, Mr. Official, grab a penny while they give it. Not capital, of course, but a little bit of the world..."

He grinned again. Zhlob was not afraid of the zone - if he knew how, it was quite possible to live there, and to live well. It would even be interesting to be in the same barracks with the official - after all, a little life school would not hurt him at all.

Okay, he finally said, deliberately rudely. – When will the decision be ready?

The meeting of the permitting commission will take place in a week, said the man from the mayor’s office. – I think that your question will be resolved positively... if, of course..., um..., well, I hope you understand me.

Well, Zhlob confirmed, relaxing in his chair, what’s incomprehensible here? You will receive half the amount now, half when the casino opens.

That’s great, the official said without a shadow of embarrassment and clicked the locks of the case.

Don’t be in a hurry, Vasily Kuzmich, Zhlob grinned, finally relaxing and switching to you as a sign of special favor. - Rest, relax... We'll have a drink, go to the sauna... The girls will rub our backs. Have you seen what they are like for me?

He nodded towards the door, where his professional girlfriends, clinging to the doorframes, were making languid movements.

I would prefer to finish things first, Vasily Kuzmich said politely but adamantly and pursed his pink lips into a kind of chicken tail.

As you wish, Zhlob shrugged. - And it’s true: time for business, time for fun. Scram, he said to the girls, and they silently disappeared.

In the silence, one could clearly hear the nasally drone of the television downstairs in the guards’ room—Golovan was again watching some action movie on video, not paying any attention to the monitors connected to the external television cameras. Alexey Petrovich sadly shook his head about this, rose heavily from his chair and walked over to the table. Having made some manipulations with the middle drawer, he opened the secret compartment with a key and, one after another, threw out five tight packs in bank packaging onto the shiny surface of the table.

Fifty, he said. – Will you believe it, or will you count it?

Vasily Kuzmich, also approaching the table, took one of the packs at random and deftly ran his thumb over the cut. Brand new hundred dollar bills crackled pleasantly.

I don’t think there’s any need for a recount, he said, putting the money into his case with feigned carelessness. – After all, you and I still have to work and work. As far as I understand, you are unlikely to limit yourself to one casino.

Now it was Alexei Petrovich’s turn to cast piercing glances at his interlocutor, since he had just shown remarkable insight... unless, of course, it was just complete knowledge of matters that this petty bastard from the mayor’s office was not supposed to know about. The redneck needed to launder no less than eight million dollars - the thieves' common fund entrusted him with this honorable mission at the last meeting.

He once again looked at the official with a suspicious look, but he stood as if nothing had happened - apparently, the phrase he said still did not have the deep meaning that the suspicious Goon involuntarily gave it. Moreover, having received the money, respected Vasily Kuzmich noticeably cheered up and began to carefully look around, clearly looking for girls with his eyes.

Alexey Petrovich was just about to call them, but they were already right there - the damn whores seemed to be guarding outside the door. Zhlob's anger, having quickly flared up, immediately went out - after all, these were professionals, virtuosos of their craft, who were paid not only for what they did in bed or on the carpet, but also for the ability to always be at hand, without getting confused. under your feet. In addition, as real professionals, the girls were trained not to hear what they were not supposed to hear, and it was certainly not their habit to convey what they heard to anyone - such things have always been punished and are punished mercilessly, and the girls simply do not might not have known about it.

Well, Zhlob asked his guest, shall we take a steam bath?

- Why not? – he shrugged his shoulders with feigned indifference.

He was all somehow unreal, put on, like a crappy actor in a mediocre play, and he irritated Alexei Petrovich insanely. What can you do, Zhlob sighed mentally, I can’t do without this nit for now. Look how the statesman's eyes have become oily! Vanka-vstanka, I suppose, is about to break free... what a laugh!

He quietly nodded to the girls, and they, approaching from both sides, took the guest into their turn. After a minute and a half, it was already red, mushy and completely ready to eat. Alexey Petrovich, hiding his grin, returned to the desk and sat comfortably in a swivel office chair, ready to observe. He sometimes loved to watch his friends and acquaintances while they had fun for his money. For those who were especially shy, there was a hidden video camera installed in a niche behind a large, full-length mirror that looked very similar to an antique one. The films were then viewed in front of a large crowd of people, and the most successful ones were sometimes played by Zhlob alone, receiving innocent pleasure, and sometimes he sold them quite profitably to the shyest of the characters in his amateur films. Sometimes Alexey Petrovich thought about sending a couple of tapes to television, to the program Your Own Director - looking at how some of the guests were practicing in the middle of his office, it was impossible not to laugh.

While he was having fun in this way, events were unfolding behind the walls of his spacious mansion that in a very short time were to have a fatal impact on his fate. Several dark figures silently jumped over the high concrete fence that reliably fenced off the three-story mansion from the rest of the world, one after another. The television cameras, blinded by the snowstorm, were unable to detect the uninvited guests, and this did not matter at all - Golovan forgot about everything in the world, carried away by the adventures of a cool movie hero.

A forgotten cigarette smoked in his fingers, which he was not destined to finish smoking.

A gloomy fellow named Nazar, dozing with half an eye on a chair by the front door, shuddered and opened his eyes when he heard the sound of broken glass. It seems that he decided that someone was having fun near the greenhouse.

Perhaps it was just the wind, but Nazar highly doubted it - the greenhouse on the Zhloba estate was built to perfection, as was everything else, and no tornado was observed outside.

The ringing was repeated, and a second later another glass burst with a crash. There was no doubt left - some idiot was breaking the glass in the greenhouse, not being too lazy to climb a tall concrete fence in a damn blizzard. Nazar sighed long - he didn’t feel like going outside at all, but he had no doubt that Zhlob, seeing what his greenhouse had become overnight, would be furious. Nazar also knew that at such moments his master could be simply dangerous, and the only thing that could soften his anger were the eggs of the attacker in the original packaging, or, at worst, the attacker himself - with his face bloody, trembling and ready take off the last of your pants to compensate for losses.

Having unlocked the combination lock, Nazar opened the door, letting the snowstorm into the house. Along with the snowstorm, something else entered the opened doorway, much less harmless than snow and wind. The shot popped very quietly and somehow very casually; a large-caliber bullet, fired almost at point-blank range, blew off half the skull of the unlucky guard and lodged firmly in the wall. Nazar was thrown back onto the chair that still retained the warmth of his body, the chair overturned with a roar, and the guard sprawled on the tiled floor, covering it with dark blood, in which some dark clots appeared. His pistol, spinning on the slippery tiles, flew into the opposite corner and froze, hitting the wall.

Jumping over the body of the killed guard, which blocked the passage, people in dark gray overalls, over which light body armor flaunted openly, and black knitted masks hiding their faces, silently and swiftly burst into the house. Holding machine guns with silencers at the ready, they began to spread around the house, looking into every door and running from corner to corner. There were seven of them, but they moved with such smooth swiftness that it could seem as if there were many more of them.

A few seconds later, another shot fired in the depths of the house, and Golovan fell like a bag under the console on which the external monitors were installed. The third guard, unexpectedly emerging from the toilet at the end of the long corridor, made some noise: a short flash flashed in his raised hand, and the full-fledged roar of a shot from the good old TT echoed throughout the house. In response, a machine gun with a silencer began to babble with a lisp; the guard dropped his pistol and flew backwards with a roar into the room he had just left. Landing on the toilet seat, he went limp, resting his forehead against the wall and looking with wide open eyes at the gray-white, marbled stains of the Italian tiles that lined the toilet. The door closed behind him with a soft click of the lock.

In response to the shot, a woman upstairs screamed heart-rendingly, and a broad-shouldered man in a black sleeveless T-shirt and with a thick gold chain around his neck appeared on the second floor landing. A short-barreled Kalashnikov twitched in his hands, spitting fire and scattering hot cartridges along the carpeted steps. The mirrored wall of the hallway exploded into fragments, broken plaster fell down, and the horned coat hanger standing in the corner, killed on the spot, fell with a dry thud. The last man to enter the house, dressed the same as the other seven, but armed, unlike them, only with a long-barreled magnum, casually raised his revolver and pulled the trigger. The Magnum roared loudly, and the machine gunner fell over the railing in a heap and fell with a crash onto a thin-legged table with an inlaid lid that stood under the stairs. Holding his shot stomach with both hands, he moved difficultly among the rubble, trying to crawl away. The man standing in the doorway slowly approached him and extended his hand with a revolver in his direction so that the long, blued barrel almost touched his sweaty forehead. The wounded man screamed, and then the Magnum fired again, cutting off this hoarse, desperate cry.

Dark figures were already swiftly and smoothly, like mercury, flowing up the stairs. The second floor was empty, except for a half-crazed old woman who swung her stick at the machine gunner who burst into her kennel. It was the elderly mother of Alexei Petrovich, but the machine gunner was clearly not interested in the subtleties of redneck genealogy - a long line almost cut the withered old woman’s body in half, throwing it onto the night table, filled with vials and bottles. The table overturned, the glass rattled and there was a strong smell of pharmacy, but the machine gunner had already disappeared behind the slammed door.

The man leading the attackers slowly climbed to the third floor, holding the Magnum barrel down in his lowered hand. The shooting and women's screams had already died down by this time. Two machine gunners, with their barrels raised, stood on the sides of the doorway. The door, torn off its hinges, lay to the side.

Doors were slamming in the house, and someone was already stomping around the attic, no longer hiding - the cleanup, apparently, was close to completion.

The man with the Magnum stepped into the room his men were guarding and stopped at the threshold. Pulling the knitted mask off his head, he glanced quickly at his watch and formed something resembling a smile on his scarred face.

Three and a half minutes, he said. - Almost a record.

Ten minutes to the floor, one of the machine gunners said from behind. - Fine.

The detachment commander looked around indifferently. The redneck remained sitting in the chair, a centimeter short of reaching the top drawer of the table where he kept the pistol. In the corner, tangled in a bloody ball, lay half-naked girls - he didn’t even immediately understand how many of them there were, two or three.

And near the huge floor-to-ceiling window curtained with a heavy curtain, Zhlob’s guest, half dead from pain and fear, stood, clutching the case to his chest with one hand, and with the other holding his bullet-ridden side. His trousers, which were pulled down to the floor along with his underpants, did not at all give him any dignity. Looking at him with a cold gaze, the commander winced in disgust and turned to his soldiers, who were still standing at the door.

- What kind of miracle is this?

He says he’s from the mayor’s office, said one of the machine gunners and for some reason laughed briefly and unpleasantly.

The second machine gunner carefully lifted the lower edge of the mask with two fingers and, politely turning away, spat on the floor.

"I’m