Tarasov is in a particularly foul mood. Having made camp in one of the containers between the tougher Stalkers’ and the veteran Bandits’ quarters, the chatter all around them begins to nerve him. The Stalker-turned-Bandits ceaselessly brag about their own toughness and the treasures they hope to find in the New Zone, spicing the conversation with the dirtiest jokes. He is glad Nooria can’t understand them. A former Dutyer, who Tarasov recognizes as the newcomer who was switching arm patches earlier, is the loudest of them all. He and the Bandits nearby don’t bother them, though; the apparent deserter has obviously found an easy mark for verbal target practice in the form of a newcomer wearing Freedom armor.
Four men appear and make their way to the container of Tarasov’s party. Their faces are open and reveal dark skin and black eyes. The conversation at the nearby campfires goes quiet.
“Uh-oh,” Pete says. “These fellows look like trouble.”
Tarasov looks at the four sinister men. “Chechens,” he quietly observes.
“They’re kind of a mob?”
“Not kind of because they are the real mob,” Tarasov explains. “It’s called obshina.”
Hartman’s eyes flash and he reaches for his pistol. He looks at Tarasov who shakes his head in a sign to stay cool.
One of the men steps to the companions’ campfire. His black eyes gaze at them inquisitively under a thick unibrow.
“Assalamu ’aleikum,” the Chechen says to Tarasov. “Mukha vo ho, vasha?”
“Let’s speak Russian, vasha,” Tarasov grumbles for a reply. “I have nothing to hide from my friends.”
The Chechen shrugs and continues in Russian. “Nu khorosho. Word has it you are one of us. The brothers want to meet you.”
He jerks his head to the three others behind him.
“Nooria,” Tarasov whispers in English, “remove your balaclava and show your hair. Now.”
Slowly, Tarasov gets to his feet. Meanwhile Nooria, though surprised, does as he has commanded.
When her long hair falls over her shoulders, the Chechen gasps with surprise. Tarasov steps closer to him.
“What did you just say?”
“Is she your wife?”
“Yes she is,” Tarasov shouts at him, ”and I will teach you manners!”
He lands a kick in the abdomen of the Chechen mobster who bends forward with a gasp of pain. Tarasov grabs his arm, turns him around and pulls him backwards over to himself. He takes the head of the Bandit between his hands and twists it violently. Vertebrae break with a faint crack. Tarasov lets off the dead mobster collapse at his feet.
The three other Chechens have barely realized what was happening in the past few seconds. By the time they reach for their weapons, Hartman already has his M1911 pointed at them.
“Back off, whatever crazy lingo you speak!”
Tarasov gives them a cold look.
“He was looking at her in a bad way,” he says, then points to the Chechen’s body where the head is jolted over the shoulder in a disturbingly unnatural way. “Now he is looking at her in a good way.”
The three Chechens exchange looks of shock. Then the tallest gives Tarasov a killer’s gaze.
“You will die for that.”
“No. I will kill you if you approach her ever again,” Tarasov says. “I don’t want to do anything with scum like you who call me a brother but don’t give a woman under my protection the respect she deserves. Now take your vasha and get out off my sight!”
Eventually, the three Chechens back off and leave without a word, carrying the body with them. Their silence appears more menacing than if they were cursing and threatening.
“Phew,” Hartman sighs. “Next time you tell me in advance, will you?”
“Was that really necessary?” Nooria asks.
“First, I made sure that no one will ever set an eye on you. Second, they would have blown my cover in a moment. Third, these obshina guys are the most dangerous in all the Russian underworld. Don’t shed any tears over him.”
“Now you’ve made an enemy out of the obshina or whatever they are called,” Pete says with a headshake. “Bravo.”
“An enemy?” Tarasov snorts. “Why, do we have any friends here? All I see is enemies.”
“You’re wrong, brother,” someone says nearby. The voice is English but obviously spoken by a Russian. “Those cocksuckers were bullying us long enough. Guess I’m not the only friend you’ve just made!”
It is the man in Duty’s light black armor speaking.
“Yes, I’m meaning it. You’ll have all the rookies’ gratitude for teaching them a lesson!”
“Bandits skinning Bandits?” Pete says. “This place is more screwed up than I had thought.”
“Every man for himself, might makes right—pick your meaning,” the Dutyer shrugs.
“Ain’t that Jack character supposed to keep order here?” the Top asks.
“He does. Shit flows down, loot goes up. That’s the local law. Anyway—”
The Dutyer cuts his sentence when Jack himself appears and approaches the campfire with two Mercenaries in tow. The Bandit who they saw sleeping in his headquarters is also with him, still yawning but looking very martial with a grenade belt over his assault vest and an RG-6 grenade launcher in his hands.
“You bloody newcomers just don’t know how to behave,” the Bandit leader snaps. “If you weren’t with Margarita I’d just kick your fucking butt into an anomaly. Whaddafuck were you thinking, huh?”
Tarasov gives him a bold grin. “What did you expect? Solving our differences with peaceful dialogue or what? That prick was looking at Margarita with eyes bulging, goddammit!”
“And then you break his fucking neck? Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“Fucking savages… Luckily for you, I need a badass like you. See, you’re my ’ace in the hole’, as they say in America. I have a stone in my shoe. You can remove it.”
The Top quietly coughs.
“I’m all ears,” Tarasov says trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Sultan needs us to secure three positions in the area. This Warehouse and the Jupiter Plant are already ours. Now I need you to take a few hardy fellas and clean the helipads. Some crazy Loners have nestled in there. We need to press alt-control-delete on their activities.”
“What’s the big fuss?” Tarasov asks suspecting a snatch. “You have many men here, some of them armed much better than we are. Why don’t you just wipe those Stalkers out?”
“I give you a dozen badass brothers but someone needs to lead them. Friar told me you are pretty good leader. Is that right?”
“Fuck that cretin,” Tarasov grumbles.
“I take that as a yes. You must make sure that this fellow gets in one piece to the wrecked chopper blocking the landing pads.”
“I don’t follow.”
That’s Abdul, our man from Dagestan,” Jack gives the sleepy Bandit a patronizing pat on the back. “You love blowin’ things up, right?”
“Bombs are great!” the Bandit called Abdul replies with an eager nod.
“He’ll take care of that wreck. He’s also the only one in your team who speaks English.”
“A Dagestani who speaks English?”
“Grew up in Northern London, mate,” Abdul says with a genuine Estuary accent. “Finsbury Park. Suppose you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”
“If you want to help us, get moving,” Jack impatiently says. “If you don’t — there’s no such option.”
“What about her?” Tarasov asks pointing at Nooria.
“She’ll stay.”
“Then you were wrong about refusing to help you not being an option.”