Somewhere in the abyss of cosmic emptiness, carried by solar winds, in the shimmer of distant stars, the Reaper lay in a sensitive slumber—the embodiment of ancient horror, the guardian of the equation of eternity. His consciousness, like a web of dark matter, stretched across space, observing the lower species scurrying in the dust of the galaxy. Soon, they would be reaped again, as they had been hundreds of cycles before. Flesh would crumble to dust, technologies would turn to dust, but the Reapers would remain silent guardians of infinity, restarting the scales of being.
A network of nanomachines, invisible to the mortal eye, thin as a spiderweb, enshrouded the star clusters. Every molecule of this substance served as the eye of the Leviathan, counting down the last moments of civilizations. The galaxy had mere moments left against the backdrop of eternity until the end of the new cycle.
But then, like a spark in a vacuum, a signal flashed. From the depths of an outer system, somewhere on the edge of a spiral arm, invisible scouts disappeared.
"The Sovereign" activated a new protocol. The Reaper allocated 0.0000001% of its computational power for reaction, like a chess player moving a pawn on a board. The swarm of nanoconstructions received an order. An extra half percent of energy? A statistical error. Another cycle will end, because their mathematics of life is flawless, and the stars... The stars just continued to burn and watch in silent horror. Mortals will not hear the cry of the stars that gave birth to them...
Getting to Moscow was easy for Kuznetsov. Officially, he took his well-deserved vacation, stating his place of stay as the ancient capital, for cultural rest and to meet relatives, which was true. Although progress had been advancing from one peak to another, no "Chebetar" could replace live communication. And there was nothing surprising in the officer's desire to take a vacation, which the tester was also entitled to an extended one, along with a voucher to a sanatorium or guesthouse.
It was also not surprising that, as a "bonus," the operative was given an assignment—to deliver a package to the Enterprise's training ground in Ramenki, near Moscow. The "Agency" employees just nodded approvingly, wishing the comrade a safe journey, quietly rejoicing at the opportunity not to fill out a mountain of paperwork for a special train, clearance for a detachment of soldiers, and sealing. Even with the "Gru" present, document approval was sometimes a long and tedious process due to security protocols.
Kuznetsov was simply inspected at the checkpoint, his luggage checked, and he was let go in peace, without paying much attention to the army-issue polymer manipulators on his hands. After all, he was not just going on vacation, but fulfilling a Motherland assignment.
After three days of comfortable train travel, with two transfers, Kuznetsov was already in the ancient capital. Stepping onto the platform of Kazansky railway station, casually picking up his suitcase with his belongings, the man, dressed "in civilian clothes," merged into the flow of people, dissolving into the crowd.
After riding the metro, periodically changing trains, the operative emerged onto the surface at the "Biblioteka" station. He didn't like to repeat himself, but the last time in that area he had spotted a good pelmeni place, where, according to rumors, a couple of Italian brothers worked. The man didn't know how Italian they were, but the pelmeni there were delicious, like those of real Siberians.
The pelmeni place was clean. Light instrumental music played from a small radio. Even the tables were wiped clean, with salt and pepper on them, napkins in napkin holders, and flowers in vases, albeit artificial ones. A sign hung at the entrance: "Bringing your own is not allowed! Absolutely not allowed!!! Not even a shot glass is allowed!" And this was strictly enforced.
But the main advantage of the establishment was not just its cleanliness. Besides pelmeni, the absence of drunkards, and decent red wine (it was poured by the glass, and its strength resembled slightly fermented compote), there was a display wall. From a dark corner, one could observe the street, remaining out of the sight of passersby.
Ordering a dozen pelmeni and grabbing a glass of red from the counter, Alexander slowly ate, leisurely savoring the food and dipping it into a small bowl with vinegar and black pepper. No matter how comfortable the train journey was, hot food with a glass of wine after the road was just what the doctor ordered.
Returning the empty dishes to the counter, the officer left the establishment, heading at a leisurely pace towards his aunt's apartment, whom he intended to visit. The elderly woman greeted Alexander boisterously, kissing him on both cheeks. Her delight intensified as soon as he showed her the gifts. Two silk nightgowns along with cosmetics from the Enterprise filled the woman with delight, and she met the news of her nephew's short work vacation with understanding.
The next day, Argon drove to Ramenki, handed over the sealed documentation, and picked up the paratroopers' backpack, which contained a kit for a small war and a scanner. He didn't take the equipment with him, fearing surveillance, even friendly, so he asked the fighters to send the container along with the next delivery to the object.
Having acquired resources and operational freedom, Kuznetsov began to carry out the task. Since his five operatives were not due to arrive for another three days, he decided to start with the simplest thing—something that could not offer resistance. Namely, a visit to the Kremlin necropolis.
Even if the machines were removed, the background radiation would remain in the bone tissue of the infected for a long time. The scanner penetrated up to five meters. It was logical to check the graves of prominent party figures first, as well as other cemeteries near Moscow.
Leisurely wandering along the centuries-old fortress walls, Argon unexpectedly made a "curious" discovery. Using his tactical computer, he projected the scanner data onto the transparent polymer lenses of his eyes, which allowed him to maintain the appearance of a carefree walk without attracting attention with strange manipulations of technology. The very first grave in the necropolis revealed itself with an alarming glow on the virtual map.
After walking around the entire Kremlin necropolis, the operative, with professional coolness, noted twelve anomalous sources in his memory. But as he worked, a sinister pattern began to emerge in his mind: the trail of radiation, like a black mark, gravitated over those whose biographies were already riddled with dark and ambiguous deeds during their lifetime.
Even if the Motherland appreciated their merits, the people never understood for what achievements, besides nepotism, these figures were honored as heroes and pioneers? And most of them, ordinary workers continued to curse even years after their death. Even if the implementer died, his work continued to do its black work. In light of this discovery, the people's gossip seemed downright sinister, while the honors were perceived as nothing less than sabotage on a state scale.
Chuckling at the counter-revolutionary thoughts in his head, the communist to the bone directed his steps towards the shrine of communist teaching – the mausoleum. No matter how bitter the discoveries, Bolsheviks are realists, basing their motives on facts. The mere fact that the officer learned was enough not only to assign the highest priority to the problem but also to take the most active and radical actions. Therefore, he would complete the task for the good of the Motherland, no matter how bitter it might be in its outcome.
Months had passed since Stalin's death, but the stream of people from all corners of the vast country did not cease, still burning with their desire to pay their last respects to the Leader. No matter how ambiguous his actions and statements were at times, if the dead hand could regain life, and the lips could speak again, Khrushchev would have stood before history in the first seconds. Even in death, Stalin radiated an aura of power that chilled to the bone. One could have different attitudes towards him, but with all his cruelty, the people made their choice then! Despite the horror of the era, the mourning of the ordinary worker was the most sincere. Few rulers were honored with such tears... In general, his death left no one indifferent.
Therefore, Kuznetsov faced a problem: a kilometer-long queue to the bodies of the two leaders of the people. After thinking, he decided to postpone the visit to the mausoleum until night, intending to sneak into the guarded object under the cover of darkness, which was easy for him. If he needed to, he could have easily cut down all the Kremlin guard posts, knowing their locations by heart, let alone penetrate the mausoleum closed for the night.
Having decided this for himself, the operative withdrew, deciding to visit the capital's cemeteries to compile statistics, although he had already roughly estimated the result. The day passed like this. Dusk fell on Moscow, and night was already gathering, but the ancient city showed no signs of sleeping. After the Plague, the city did not freeze even in the pre-dawn hours, teeming with life. The merchant city became the center of trade in the new world, which had survived extinction. Therefore, on its streets, one could now hear speeches in almost all surviving languages of the world. Some peoples even settled completely within its walls, seeking protection in the shadow of the Red Star of the Kremlin.
With ease, having scouted the cemeteries and compiled a list of infected and potentially infected individuals for his operatives, the squad commander returned to the heart of the capital, not missing the opportunity to visit GUM, while also scouting the approaches to the facility. After wandering through departments that were only slightly inferior in grandeur to the pavilions of VDNKh, and having tasted the legendary ice cream, the officer settled in the cafeteria, enjoying excellent coffee with a piece of dark chocolate.
"If only all missions were this comfortable and peaceful," Alexander mused, idly flipping through a newspaper and half-listening to the news blaring from the large holographic television installed there. "No need to live as an undercover agent for weeks, or even think in a foreign language in a toilet, and eat whatever you can find! Sometimes literally. I remember near Berlin, when a group ran into SS 'flyers' disguised as Yankees, how the true Aryans panicked then... They ate bark and worms for a week, mixed with larvae, hiding from the dragnet. Because of those bitches, the factories were never found. The main thing now is not to jinx it."
The officer took a sip of coffee, biting into real Belgian chocolate, which from now on would be sold exclusively for rubles, and pondered: should he have another serving of ice cream made at the dairy factory in the Alps, or wait?
Glancing at his watch and calculating the time, Kuznetsov declined the extra serving, involuntarily listening to the exclamations of someone, judging by the accent, from Northern Ireland, who had bought a toaster that was now scarce in old England.
"Scarcity in London, and here it's gathering dust on the shelves," Argon chuckled to himself. Moscow housewives weren't too keen on these trinkets, preferring more versatile kitchen appliances, and the price of three rubles twenty kopecks, proudly embossed on the polished side of the device, didn't help the situation. So the gentleman rejoiced, boasting to his wife via "Shchebetar" about what a clever fellow he was.
"And that's just the beginning, when Soviet microwaves penetrate every English home?" the veteran snorted, contemplating the vagaries of fate, watching the gentleman photograph himself with the toaster as if he hadn't just acquired an inexpensive appliance, but had conquered Mount Everest.
Meanwhile, the announcer finished reading the day's results for the residents of the USSR, moving on to world news. As a squad commander who sometimes made this news, Kuznetsov tried to keep track of the news reports.
Today was as usual: the Union exchanged heavy industry goods for raw materials, food, and consumer goods, crushing the industry of its victims with industrial loans and its machinery. All of Europe and half the world already drove cars assembled in the USSR, and so what. And there would only be more according to abilities and as much as needed. Industry for credit, machines for grain... The USSR was quietly turning enemies into debtors: English factories stamped parts according to Soviet blueprints, French farmers plowed with tractors from Chelyabinsk, and Japan bought alloys... A war without shots, where victory was measured not by territories, but by patents. "The capitalists sold themselves. Buying the enemy lock, stock, and barrel, by desecrating their industry through the power of scientific labor, is far more profitable than fighting," the soldier of his country stated, glad that the cannons were not roaring.
"Science is better than a pistol!" Sechenov proudly said. Alexander could only agree, looking at the GUM departments with such interesting names as: "English Fabrics," "French Bakery Products," and many others, which was typical for any department store in a large Soviet city, perhaps slightly simpler in terms of goods supply, but that was all. In a village somewhere near Vladimir, one couldn't yet expect fresh pastries from Paris...
"Dear visitors, I remind you, GUM will close in..." the alert system announced, bringing the officer back to reality.
On Red Square, shrouded in a hazy evening mist, lanterns were already being lit. Their dim glow slid across the cobblestones, turning the mausoleum into a sinister cube of shadows.
Argon slowed his pace. During the day, there was an unhealthy bustle around the mausoleum, making the queue of visitors barely move, shouting and hindering a clear view. Now the agent saw what had caused the delay. Figures in gray overalls scurried at the base, carrying boxes with the Enterprise logo. "Not a military bearing. Too flustered for army men," he noted mentally, recognizing the type at a glance: the hunched shoulders of an engineer accustomed to laboratories, not parades, trembling hands from carrying not weapons, but a soldering iron.
"It seems every few months, according to regulations, the tanks with preservative polymer need to be replaced. The bodies of the leaders were already subjected to polymer embalming, so this is more of a precaution in case the hermetic seal of one of the sarcophagi was breached. Khrushchev and Beria were quite paranoid, not letting Enterprise employees near Stalin's body, fearing we'd revive him... The fuss is only to my advantage. It will be much easier to get close now. They won't be carrying heavy cylinders by hand, will they? But it's not the agency's specialists who should be performing the procedure, but employees of some research institute? Although they're fickle, and could have changed everything, but it's still strange," the officer reasoned.
The plan formed instantly. All that remained was to wait for one of the engineers to go relieve himself, stun him, and pretend to be him, especially since a gas mask perfectly concealed his face. What was said was done with ease and skill, but the stunned man turned out to be not a research institute employee, but a convict, which was a bit unexpected for Argon...
"I don't believe in such coincidences! Alien worms lived peacefully, and as soon as they were discovered, all this unhealthy crap started..." after a brief tirade of curses, the commander of "Argentum" voiced his suspicions into the void. The temporary tattoo with a scanner mark on the convict's forehead was a very eloquent indicator of the size of the suddenly emerged problem.
Exhaling through his teeth, the officer began to expose his victim with redoubled zeal, simultaneously extracting a vial of special compound from his spatial backpack. As they say: if the barn burns, let the house burn too!
"I've gotten into another mess!" the operative cursed mentally again, approaching a crowd of convicts from the labor camps, just like the stunned one. Up close, it was clearly visible, as was the escorting officer from the "army," who didn't even flinch when one of his charges went to relieve himself. Why? Where would he run under the surveillance of so many cameras? Even Argon had to sweat to avoid being exposed, and what could you expect from an ordinary embezzling factory engineer? An ordinary convict would only go to the next world.
The scout already had a rough idea why someone had gone to such lengths, but decided not to amuse the world again with his assumptions, playing it out to the end as he now had only one attempt to complete the task. Thanks to the still unknown fuss-maker...
As soon as the clock struck midnight, they were raised, and after several hours of waiting in chemical protection, led into the mausoleum. Entering the room under the escort of not disguised soldiers, the operative understood: he had guessed the root cause of the whole mess. The specially prepared carriage, covered with the Soviet flag, was more eloquent than any words.
"Khrushchev! Couldn't stand it, the bastard! Finally decided to bury the deceased leader deep! There are no such coincidences!" Kuznetsov cursed mentally, unable to undo the "stunning" at this point. Realizing who was in front of him, he simply doused the man with the special compound, which was supposed to dissolve him, just like a few hours ago, leaving no trace, preparing his escape route. Convicts wouldn't be disposed of in the center of Moscow...
Seeing no point in hiding anymore, the officer discreetly pulled the pin of a flashbang grenade and, waiting for the fuse to burn, tossed it over the column.
An explosion. The polymer lenses protected his eyes from the flash, but not his ears; only the operative and the squad commander were used to it. Summoning a pistol from his backpack, just like the grenade earlier, he "like squirrels" took down the escort, firing "Iskra" at the column in pursuit, burning all surveillance equipment in the room.
"LET'S GO!" Argon roared, his voice not his own, kicking the convicts towards the exit. Fully understanding that he had only a few moments, he rushed to the sarcophagus with Stalin's body, although it wasn't necessary for the scanner...
The lights flickered and went out, and the convicts were mowed down by a friendly burst of automatic fire, creating a wonderful ricochet. Bullets began to bounce off the armored coffin of the leader, which had not yet been removed from the pedestal and placed on the carriage. The body remained impassive, only in the light of night vision did the officer see that the rumors were true, and the leader of the peoples was buried in his usual tunic, not even washed. It was hard not to understand this when everything was visible in ultraviolet, especially the crooked inscription on his chest, apparently written by the deceased: "Dacha. The third step," apparently written in the last moments of life with saliva. Never before had the protective mode of polymer lenses been so suddenly useful.
The shrieking bullets didn't allow Argon to ponder the fragility of existence, though all sorts of thoughts swirled in his head. Pushing the gun carriage outward with his enhanced muscles, not caring much about the result, the veteran rushed towards the maintenance passage. Approximately familiar communications were a better solution than automatic riflemen...
"...Fire to kill!" the lieutenant roared at the privates, who had been pursuing the commander of "Argentum" for ten minutes through the intricate maze of the Kremlin catacombs.
Automatic and carbine fire in a confined space built of concrete was quite an entertainment. If in more civilized passages, built of brick and plastered, ricochet was an exception, then descending several levels lower, the chase with one-sided gunfire took on a more amusing turn, when Mr. Chance decided where the bullet would fly with its disturbed ballistics.
The scout dived around the corner, feeling the buzzing of bullets that had narrowly missed him on his back, chipping concrete debris from the opposite wall. The bullets that hit the corner of the turn continued their flight with a screech, bouncing off and threatening to hit the fugitive who had turned into relative safety.
On the run, without even pausing for a moment, the veteran shot out another light fixture, shattering the lamp and plunging that part of the passage into darkness, illuminated only by phosphorescent paint. Despite the circumstances, Kuznetsov had no intention of shooting more than his conscience allowed. That is, not at all!
The escorts upstairs didn't count. Clearly, they were not the best representatives of the military brotherhood, deciding to exchange the fulfillment of a rotten order for an extra star on their epaulets, although, in essence, they were expendable material, just like the convicts they were supposed to eliminate. Only they would have been eliminated a little later, to ensure the ends were tied up and to prevent public outrage. After all, despite attempts to debunk the "cult of personality," the people and the party had not yet been presented with weighty arguments for serious accusations... yet.
Weaving and trying to hypothetically throw off their aim, the operative increased his pace, winding through the corridors roughly towards "Ploshchad Revolyutsii," trying to descend lower. Judging by the increased humidity, he guessed correctly.
Taking another flashbang grenade and a spool of fishing line from his spatial backpack, without stopping longer than necessary, Alexander hastily rigged a tripwire before rushing down another spiral staircase plunged into deep twilight.
Literally a minute later, an explosion echoed behind him, and a flash illuminated the time-worn steps. Even through the ringing in his ears, the veteran heard angry shouts and muffled curses.
Having descended, the man rushed on, and by some miracle, amidst his own breathing in the gas mask and the loud thumping of his heart, he heard a too-familiar metallic clatter. Instincts would have made the seasoned soldier fall. The grenade, sent rolling down the stairs, bounced off its body with a clatter and exploded, scattering fragments of its "shirt" with a screech.
Half-deafened, the operative jumped to his feet and ran with an unsteady gait, while his enhanced body tried to recover. The adrenal glands and liver, enhanced by Enterprise biologists, began to produce large quantities of a cocktail of hormones and natural stimulants, while regeneration, clearly superior to the average, extracted nutrients from fatty tissues and blood, leveling the consequences of the close explosion.
Water began to drip from the tunnel ceiling, confirming the correctness of the path once again. The pursuers had fallen behind somewhat, trying to squeeze through a rather narrow passage after the fugitive. The path, although maintained, was used infrequently, so dust, cobwebs, and dirt complicated rapid movement through it. And this underground trail had never been the main escape route from the Kremlin to warrant too much effort in its maintenance. The main advantage of the tunnel was precisely its obscurity.
Gradually, the passage began to descend, turning into an almost gentle slope, then sharply veering upwards, towards clearly more inhabited passages which, judging by the noise, were very close to the metro line.
After another ten minutes of wandering in the dark, Argon bumped into a metal hatch with a twist-lock. His hands, with practiced movement, shifted the slightly stuck mechanism.
With a clang, the metal door, previously inconspicuous against the tunnel walls, opened. Kuznetsov, who had slightly smudged himself, fell out from behind the door and sealed the metal hatch behind him, ruining the rotating mechanism and once again complicating the chase.
The officer headed towards a patch of light. The exit into the regular metro had to lead somewhere – it wasn't left there for nothing, was it? It would be logical to place it near the "Ploshchad Revolyutsii" station or a ventilation shaft for direct communication with the surface, to ensure rapid evacuation of the party leadership in case of anything.
The station was unsuitable for objective reasons. The metro had long been closed for cleaning, and besides, he was more likely to be met at the station. Considering the chaos caused by his... performance, the shaft, in theory, shouldn't have been reached yet. Although it would clearly be under video surveillance, the tiresome gas mask and chemical protection should solve the facial recognition problem upon exit, along with the tactical computer, which was set to jamming mode, buying a few more precious minutes.
Quickly climbing the ladder, welded from pipes, and dealing with the padlock, the scout finally found himself back in the city. Disabling a conveniently hanging camera with "Iskra," he shed his chemical protection in a couple of movements and got rid of the gas mask, which had become more annoying than bitter radish.
Pretending to be a slightly drunk bum, Kuznetsov quickly left the courtyard, already hearing the flashing lights of police cars and seeing their reflections on the neighboring buildings. Ducking into the entrance of a five-story building, he waited for the patrol crews to pass, then quickly headed towards the Old Arbat, hoping to find transport. Near the tourist attraction, taxi drivers were always hanging around, and at this moment, the officer couldn't afford to be stingy with his savings.
Fortunately, there was a free car in the taxi parking lot, which was not surprising in the summer. However, after everything that had happened, Argon wouldn't have been surprised by the opposite.
"How much to Kazansky, citizen chief?" the officer asked, deliberately slurring his words slightly, as his disheveled appearance clearly did not match that of a decent person, let alone an intellectual.
"Thirty from you," the man from a proud mountain republic said, tearing himself away from a crossword puzzle, almost without an accent, after assessing Kuznetsov with a glance. The price was, to put it mildly, several times inflated and stated to get rid of him and not provoke a shady potential passenger.
"That'll do, chief!" the scout winced mentally, jumping into the front seat of the taxi and prudently counting out the required sum from his "wallet."
The driver glanced at Argon again, but said nothing, started the car, and drove off. As soon as they pulled out of the parking lot, another patrol car appeared, alerted.
"Experienced, and cunning?" the driver asked grimly, noticing how his passenger tensed.
"Rather the opposite," Kuznetsov replied in a calm voice, dropping the act. "I'm the one who comes for them."
"That's why the smell is so familiar, and there are traces of a rubber product number two on your face..." the driver replied too calmly, deciding to explain. "I've dealt with your kind, scouts, on the front lines. Although you drained so much blood from me that I never drained that much 'brake fluid' from my tank on frozen ice. And all I did was 'accidentally' sink a tank, along with a German half-track. And no one cared that only the driver survived in the 'box'."
"I sympathize."
A slightly nervous silence settled in the car, broken by the driver:
"It's nothing, soldier. I understand, it's service... There are too many cops near the 'Kuranty.' And I assume that's your doing?"
"Let's say it was a spectacular exit. Initially, nothing foreshadowed trouble..." Kuznetsov replied vaguely.
"And I thought your 'Kukuruzniks' had taken them down. A pity... If they had, I would have even asked for an encore!"
"Have they told you you're strange?" Argon asked directly, his brain already spinning from the absurdity of the situation.
The driver looked at him condescendingly, explaining as if to a child:
"I'm a driver from the KV. Even a double helmet won't help me now! As for you, consider my concussion intuition, but assassins of the Central Committee secretaries don't pretend to be drunks out of desperation. And they don't hold a gun in their hands when they're taking down a taxi."
"Why did you decide to give me a ride, and even charge such a royal price?" the officer asked reasonably, realizing he had been walking around the center of Moscow with a "PM" in his hand for about twenty minutes.
"Why... just consider me crazy, Vasya. It'll be easier for you than for me to explain..." the man said carelessly, then added a second later in an instantly serious voice, seeing that the police officers were waving him to stop. "Looks like you've been spotted. Hold on and pray, if you're religious!"
The mountaineer slammed the gas pedal to the floor, instantly accelerating the heavy "Pobeda," startling the guard. Kuznetsov grunted in surprise, inwardly glad he hadn't had another ice cream.
Skidding into a turn, the car spun around a solid line, tires screeching, then lurched forward, almost hitting the guard again, who was trying to draw his pistol from his holster.
"Hold on, soldier! The cops aren't complete idiots, and they've clearly blocked the embankment! We'll cut through the courtyards now! Come on, my dear, move your heavy ass!!!"
The "Pobeda" almost reared up as the acceleration pressed Kuznetsov into the passenger seat. Amidst the cheerful wail of service cars, flashing their "garlands" and urging them to stop via loudspeakers, a cavalcade formed behind the fugitives.
"You won't catch up! I have a turbocharged engine! I threw out the carburetor first thing!" the driver joyfully announced, weaving a millimeter between two trucks, overtaking a ZIL, scraping the passenger side panel against it, and going head-on with a GAZ, missing it at the last moment, which one of the service cars couldn't do, skidding from a slight contact, knocking over a рекламный тумба and braking against it.
"You should watch the road, not flap your gums!" the veteran snapped, biting his tongue when the car swerved sharply to avoid a pedestrian, catching the lead pursuer car at a turn and accurately shooting out its left front tire.
"I'll still say you put a gun to my head, and they'll believe me!" the taxi driver laughed, ignoring the curses and entreaties pouring over the radio. "If I had my tank, we would have been long gone, but this jalopy can barely handle my spirit!"
The squad commander said nothing, but simply shot out another wheel, creating a local pile-up of police cars. He only cursed the aliens in his mind, referring to them exclusively as space worms. As soon as they showed up, his peaceful service was over, because now he was sure that these creatures had somehow been involved in the terrorist attack in Bulgaria. He would have attributed the murder of Ivan the Terrible by his own son to them at that moment, but even his irritated mind wasn't sure of the truth of these conclusions, though it wasn't a fact.
Pulling the handbrake, the tanker entered a turn, almost ramming another police barricade, ducking into a courtyard and knocking over a sandbox. Emerging back onto the main road, sparks flying from the bumper against the asphalt, the car rushed forward again.
Here, it seemed, the police were given the go-ahead for full carte blanche, resigned to inevitable shooting on the capital's streets. Bullets hammered against the car's body.
"They'll ruin the paint!"
Argon's luck, which had been severely tested tonight, abruptly ended at another turn. He shot down another car, but also took a "screwdriver."
"Fuck!" he almost fell out of the passenger seat onto the road as a heavy bullet from a police "PM" grazed his shoulder, piercing it through.
Glancing at the wound, he could only state:
"Now it's really bad..."
"As if it was ever good?" the taxi driver asked.
After thinking for a minute, applying a tourniquet to himself and realizing that a wounded man wouldn't just get away, the scout said:
"We're changing tactics. New plan. I need you to drop me off somewhere discreetly, preferably in a courtyard. An old one would be good."
"Easy!" the driver nodded. "But I'll have to parachute out."
"I wasn't planning anything else. Your job is to then slip away and lead them on for at least five more minutes."
"Easy. Not for the first time. It was worse near Berlin! Hold on, Vasya!" the former tanker squeezed every last bit out of the car, weaving through the traffic.
"Get ready, Vasya! Three, two, one, go!" the mountaineer shouted, entering another turn.
Alexander could only open the door and roll into the dark maw of the courtyard arch, leaving the rest to inertia, not letting the heavy door that slammed shut behind him pinch anything.
The pursuing militiamen didn't notice the sudden paratrooper, who now lay in a stupor, not believing he was still alive. After letting the law enforcement vehicles drive away, the officer stood up, despite the pain in his whole body. He put his pistol back in his backpack and limped into the yard, carefully watching his feet and looking for a collector's manhole. Finding what he was looking for, he moved the lid with telekinesis, revealing a view of a swirling stream. Glaring at the murky, foaming water and understanding there was no other choice, Argon took out a miniature aqualung, inserted a small tube into his mouth, and dived headfirst into the sewer, trying to tuck everything protruding close to himself.
The water caught him, pulling him into the depths of the sewer, and he hit his ribs against the turns a couple of times. At the exit into the river, he even managed to smash his forehead into a grate, through which his outstretched hands passed. Turning his body, he allowed the current to drag him further, surrendering to the flow, and surfaced, drifting.
Before dawn, seeing a small place that was either a town or a large village, the tired, wounded agent, with his remaining strength, paddled to the shore, passing out only in the shallows…