All of them have one thing in common: a Bandit arm patch with a white skull on black backround. Tarasov observes a Stalker cutting the Duty patch off his black armor and replacing the stylized red shield with golden reticule with the Bandit’s skull patch.
“Pete, you were wrong about us being overqualified for the Bandit job,” Tarasov remarks. “Desertion seems to be an entry-level crime here.”
The Bandits who are respected enough to settle in the containers ignore their lesser brethren as they tend to usual camp tasks—cleaning their Kalashnikovs, drum-barreled Protecta shotguns and a few Dragunov SVDs, all apparently prized possessions. The long trench coats and Russian army surplus body armor betray them as more experienced Bandits and Mercenaries. The big shots under the roof have their expensive NATO rifles standing against the container walls, probably feeling safe at the core of the camp and sure that no lesser mortal would make them reach for their G-36 and LR-300 rifles. Heavy armored suits dominate here, among them a few exoskeletons with helmets off to facilitate any Stalker’s favorite pastime—drinking vodka and munching on canned meat, exactly what most of them are doing. A few veterans are standing atop the containers, keeping watch over the perimeter. One of them, wearing an army-issue exoskeleton with a Bandit’s arm patch, gives Tarasov a long and inquisitive look. A Vintorez rifle is slung across his shoulder.
“See that exo guy?” he asks the Top without looking in the Bandit’s direction. He touches the balaclava to reassure himself that it covers his face, leaving only eyes and mouth visible. “I don’t like his face.”
“His face?” Hartman asks back. ”I don’t follow. He’s wearing a gas mask and tactical helmet.”
“Manner of speaking… what I said comes closet to what I feel about him.”
“Why?” Nooria asks, boldly returning the Bandit’s gaze.
“Don’t know. Maybe because he’s the only one paying any attention to us… Never mind. Just a gut feeling.”
“I’m telling you, it’s him who’s gonna feel something in his guts if he keeps staring at us like that.”
“Calm down, Top. Let’s not appear nervous.”
“Yeah, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” Pete says giving the Bandit camp a distrustful look.
When the companions are about to enter the garage, two heavily armed men in the Mercenaries’ urban camo suits block their way.
“Shto vam, patsani?”
“She’s here to see Jack,” Tarasov replies to the guard’s question. “Her name is Margarita. We are her, uhm, bodyguards.”
“You may enter,” the guard says. “No funny movements inside, huh?”
“Understood.”
“Jack’s in his office behind the garage.”
The smell of engine oil lingers inside. Rusted and lacking wheels, a derelict truck stands over a maintenance shaft. Another Mercenary guard watches over the gloomy interior from a catwalk. Among crates, piles of decrepit car parts and fuel drums, a door leads into a shabby room that might have once been an office.
The Bandit commander is sitting with his feet on the table, cleaning his Armsel Protecta shotgun with an oilcloth and wearing the obligatory leather trench coat. A pair of shrewd eyes measure them up through his balaclava’s eye holes. The rest of his features remain hidden. On another chair close by, a short but brawny Bandit with a thick black beard appears to doze off the effects of the vodka bottle lying on the floor next to him.
“Ahh! Fresh meat,” Jack says for a greeting.
“I am Margarita,” Nooria says.
“Margarita!” the Bandit leader says barely looking at her. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Did he just ask, ‘to what do I owe dishonor?’” the Top says under his breath.
“Glad to see you keep your word,” Jack says, apparently oblivious to Hartman’s whisper.
“And I am glad to hear you speak English.”
“Of course I do. ‘Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!’ ‘Make a wish, it’ll be your last!’ I love fucking cheese at my feet!’ You see, I know a lot of English!”
Pete can barely suppress a chuckle.
“Did you find any tracks of the troublemaker, Margarita?” Jack asks.
“No. I must go to New Zone.”
“We all will soon enough. However, Sultan didn’t say anything about you bringing people with you,” Jack says darting an eye at Nooria’s companions. “We’ve no need for a basketball team anyway. Who are they?”
“My bodyguards.”
“That may be so, but they need to confess their sins to Friar.”
“What are you talking about?” Tarasov angrily asks.
“Back with the fangs, big boy, or I’ll throw you to the next blind dog pack to eat,” Jack snarls back. “We don’t need any goody-two-shoes but people who can keep from being shot or robbed. That means, anyone wanting to join the new hordes must be good at shooting and robbing others. I know from the boss that she’s cool, but the others need to convince Friar why we should take them aboard. I’ll have a chat with you until then.”
“When she said ‘bodyguards’ she meant it, patsan. We’re not going anywhere without her.”
“Shut up and move your asses to Friar in the warehouse building. Now!”
Hearing the agitation in Jack’s voice, two Bandits appear from the repair hall and point their rifles at the three men. Jack repeats his demand. “Go!”
Reluctant and grinding their teeth, Tarasov, Hartman and Pete let themselves be led away.
“I am Sultan’s friend,” Nooria says.
“Of course you are. I respect that. Think I’d want to hurt you?” Jack asks and gives a bellowing laugh. “Until you do what you were told to, that is!”
No matter how she feels about the kingpin, Nooria mentally admits that compared to Sultan, Jack is barely more than hot air. He appears to lack Sultan’s subtle way of appearing menacing without threatening, and inspiring respect without demanding it.
“How will we get to New Zone?” she asks.
“Don’t be so impatient. Tell me first about your buddies. There’s something I like about the small one but where did you find the two big guys? In a basketball team?”
“One is from America. Other is Chechen.”
“He’s rather tall for a darkie,” Jack observes. “Did he teach you how to use your knife? I hear you’re very good at it.”
“No.”
“Keep it to yourself, fine,” Jack shrugs. “ You know the New Zone well?”
“Parts of it.”
“How do you want to find your target?”
“I will decide once there.”
“Fair enough. You have kept your word up so far, and you better do so once off our radar. You don’t want to disappoint Sultan—and me.” Jack gives her a long look. “I actually don’t mind if you’ve your buddies watching your back. See, my guys are good fellas but they haven’t seen a woman in a while — if you get my meaning.”
“I understand.”
“There’s also a few Chechens among us. Why do you look surprised? Darkies love trouble like flies love shit, and we’re up to make a lot of trouble in the south. They will probably approach your buddy to team up, like those damned savages do wherever they are. But I won’t tolerate any of their obshina bullshit. If we want to trouble Stalkers there’s no need to quarrel amongst us.”