Rimanoa

It's not clear to everyone

1:48 a.m. July 22.

I stepped away from the door, looked at her (shot up in a flash) and shouted: "Who among us is still alive?" Gento and Garibaldi answered.

I waddled over to Jarno – forehead shot through (obviously shot from a Yugoslavian "monster" "Zastava" (a six-shot revolver, if you can call it that)), Morten – three holes in his torso (he didn't even have time to move), KAMAZ driver – head, neck, shoulders (hands on the wheel), Penzalla – torso, arms, legs, in a word, got the most (hand with a gun pointed towards the garage door).

"So. – I stretched out, turning to Gento – Who's been slaughtering the gatekeepers?" "Penzalla…" – he replied.

"Jos, you saw Penzalla shooting at the guards at the gate."

"I didn't see anything, I hid here in the car… You know… I'm just a chauffeur…" "Nothing, nothing…" I reassured Garibaldi and continued with Gento, "And why should I believe you? Maybe you couldn't stand it yourself and then blamed it on Penzalla." "See for yourself the position he's in… The hand with the gun is pointing toward the gate…"

"Who knows, maybe you were the one who put him in that position while I was walking around inspecting dead bodies."

"Yeah, no, he laid down like that right away…" "We'll figure it out…"

I decided to use the famous check tactic: I turned around, took one step, then did a 180- degree flip with my weapon in my hand (in this case a Russian Kedr). Gento managed to get the gun, but not to point it at me, most likely he wanted to finish me off, after Garibaldi, and tell Cepino that it happened during the firefight (it's not hard to convince Cepino of this, and after all the corpses will be removed and neither our best specialist Francesco Scarabelli, nor our colleague from the Yakuza Ishiro Yamomoto will be able to find out what really happened).

"Drop the gun!" – I yelled.

"Come on, I just wanted to clean it…" "Drop it!!!!"

He didn't though put the firearm down on the sand.

"Turn around. Hands behind your head," my voice came back to normal. "You've got it all wrong."

He obeyed the order, and I sprang up and slapped the handle on his head, just as there was a knock on the gate: Cepino had arrived at last.

"Jos, open up, ah… I'm getting tired of limping."

Garibaldi, holding his shoulder, repeated the dead man's procedure. "Hey…Uh…Guys, what happened here?"

"Don't you see, the price didn't add up."

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed a number: "Richard, this is Faust, send the guys to 3 Jeremenkova Street, we need to clean up the trash."

"Will do."

I looked around and, not seeing someone, I said to Cepino, "Where's the KAMAZ driver?"

"You said to set his mind right…" "What, did you kill him or something?" "Yeah…"

"Idiot!!! I told you to fix his brains, not knock him out!!!" "Didn't they right themselves?"

"Where did you put the bodies?!" "Put it in the KAMAZ, by the crates."

"One more prank like that and you'll be dealing with Rimanoa."

Rimanoa was the "executioner" in the family, he was only seen once (except for the boss and those who sometimes took the condemned to him, but all criminals above the second rank knew his name; he is our symbol of invincibility, and if we had a flag, I have no doubt that with the boss in the middle and his right hand Roberta Tobia on the right, Rimanoa would be on the left (there are 7 ranks in total: 1 – simple bouncers, badasses and security guards (such as Jarno Galanzio); 2 – already experienced thugs (the so-called "bros": Gento, Penzalla); 3 – thug commanders (sort of like officers: Cepino (although this man, generally speaking, should be rank zero, i.e. corpse); 4 – liaisons and excellent chauffeurs (Lionheart and Garibaldi); 5 – - professional killers

(killers), as well as people engaged in private affairs and assignments ("managers"), all this – the highest officers (this is me, and I used to be a killer, now – manager); 6 – "ambassadors", advisors to the boss and "viceroys" (LaSkoltza); 7 – the boss himself) . Cepino fell silent.

Let's start a new one

10: 34 Aug. 15.

In the end I was taken to the doctor, the corpses were cleaned up, Gento was dealt with (what became of him is of absolutely no interest to me) and now I have to deal with the case for which I am to receive an additional five hundred thousand euros.

It turned out to be that a very rich daddy wanted to train his little boy in the skills of murder and all that went with it.

"First of all, – I said, when I arrived the next day in Brno at our big training center and saw this very student (a tall thin twenty-year-old guy with a "dirty" head, dressed in a nice expensive suit and holding an AKM over his shoulder; his eyes were empty, his brain, probably, too; in a word – a mediocrity) – I'm not going to teach you all the skills, you understand that right away. – I yawned – Secondly, the strength of a professional is not in his weapon, but in the ability to think quickly and correctly. – My voice rose sharply – So, put that thing on the floor!"

There was no one else in the room besides us, so even if he was a complete dimwit, could have realized I was saying that to him.

"Are you talking to me?" – he interjected. "Yes."

He threw the Kalashnikov with a tremendous crack about ten meters to his right. "Pick it up."

"You're giving it to me again?"

"Everything I'm about to say will be directed specifically to you, okay?" "Yes."

He raised the machine gun. "Put it down."

This time the AKM flew to the left and much farther away. "Pick it up."

After twenty attempts to understand that guns shouldn't be handled like that, I couldn't take it anymore: "Why don't you finally realize that you can't throw such things left and right!"

"Can only go back and forth or what?"

Now I understand why this job is worth 500,000,000 Euros in monetary terms. "He can't be thrown at all."

"I see."

"It has to be gently, affectionately, carefully placed." "I see."

"Demonstrate to me how it should be done."

He threw the object at his feet with such a dope that it messed up the floor. "And that's called putting it down?"

"He's lying…"

I moved closer, picked up the barrel and put it back down so quietly that I didn't even hear anything myself.

"That's the way it should be done." "I see."

He picked up the gun and tossed it back a little easier than last time, and I thought about the visible progress.

"Okay this exam you passed with a positive grade (I meant greater than zero), now let's see how you shoot… – I pointed to the leftmost target at the other end of the forty meter hall – Shoot."

He didn't get into any kind of stance, he just took the shot, one-handed. I was petrified: he hit the bull's-eye.

"Not bad, not bad. Now try lying down."

The apprentice did the same thing and hit the same spot, again shooting with only one hand – obvious talent was evident.

"Are you going to shoot with two hands after all?" "I'm more comfortable…"

"Try it though."

The sniper leaned his other hand against the barrel, which made the latter shake with such force that the bullet hit the "milk". It was clear that either he had only fired a pistol before, or there was something wrong with his hand.

"What's your name, kid?" "Michael Williams."

"Two, never tell me your name." "I see."

"Third, you must have at least five other names instead of your real name." "I see."

"Come up with some." "Michael Williams." "It has to be different." "I see."

"So that not even the initials match." "Uh…"

"Since you can't come up with one yourself, I'll come up with one." "I see."

"Your name is Amanda Last." "I see."

"Do you agree?" "Completely."

"Fourth, it has to match your gender."

"I see."

"So what?"

"It doesn't fit."

"That's right. You'll be James Last." "Good."

"So, James – I had already braced myself for another wave of misunderstandings, but nothing like this – Fifth, you need to stand out from the crowd as little as possible." "I see."

"So, what does that mean."

"I have to hide behind someone all the time…"

"No. If it's hot, you – walk in light clothes, if it's cold – in warm clothes, your gait is loose, your stride is not too big or small, you don't make eye contact or turn your head often and sharply. Things like that."

"I see."

"Sixth, you shouldn't drive around in a Ferrari either, but you should drive less. Use public transportation more often, and best of all, walk, that's for sure."

I remembered walking twenty kilometers once for safety reasons. "So, show me how to walk."

He strode through the hall as if he had been kicked out of the institute twenty minutes ago and was now facing the army.

"Now you walked too slowly, dragging your feet and hanging your head, and that always attracts some attention. You should walk freely, as if you were going for bread and nothing else interested you."

"I see." "Try again."

This time his gait meant that the chief was not in the mood today. "To hell with the gait," I thought.

"Okay, seventh, you need to be completely healthy, lest another firefight reveal you have a broken leg in four places."

"I see."

"That's why you should have your own personal doctor who can treat almost anything. I say practically, because you won't need a gynecologist."

"I see."

"This very doctor should not know who you are, what your name is, should always be available, he should only know your 'upper shell'."

"I see."

"Do you know what an 'upper shell' is?" "No."

"It's your body and fake first names, last names, IDs, etc.". "I see."

As the little fellow was not thinking clearly, I added: "Keep in mind that the doctor only has to know one name."

"I see."

"So what name are you going to tell him?" "Michael Williams."

"I said only falsity." "I see."

"So tell him James Last." "I see."

"Speaking of which, you can't get hung up on the same phrases." "I see."

"What are you doing?" "What?"

"You say it all the time – understandable, understandable, understandable." "I see."

"Here we go again… Say 'okay', 'clear', 'yes' and your favorite 'understandable' in a variety of ways."

"I see."

"As of this minute." "I see."

The guy had already realized something with his "understandable". "Yeah and, what's wrong with your arm?"

"No big deal…"

"Here, you take care of this nonsense with our 'local' doctor, and then we'll continue training. Call me when you've sorted out your affairs, ask for "Pierce Brosman" (our man, who does various "miracles" and is at that moment in Brno in that very training center, and therefore knows my cell phone number).

No questions followed.

Let's go back to our old ways

What's old is what's not new, and what's not new is this – the assignment to find out from a certain Bill Garrison (code name – "tourist") where Joseph Gutgold is (that was the order, nothing to be done). I'd already received an advance of $500,000 in jewelry at the Hello Bar. "with a shabby reputation."

This case requires seven men (me, two of my family, and four mercenaries): Frank Polazzi (41 years old, worked with me for twelve years and has the nickname Marlboro, and he got it because he keeps a cigarette of this brand in his mouth all the time (except for very important operations), and rarely when he smokes it; knows how to control himself, is an excellent marksman – in some ways we are similar to him), Carlo Salvatore (34 years old, worked with me for seven years, nickname – Shock, for his instant understanding of what is going on and instant (although, unfortunately, not always the best) suggestion of a simple and quick way out of the situation), Emilien Rozh (31 years old, a good doctor and a safecracker, a very rare combination; a very sociable and pleasant-looking man; talks about anything (not counting his work as a

"bear hunter") and with anyone; likes to drink), Danila and Konstantin Bulatov (27 and 24 years old, two former thugs from the GRU special forces, I know many good Russians, but these two for some reason did not come out in public, however, everywhere there are exceptions; the main entertainment for them is to shoot and fight (especially the second); another anti-national trait is excessively low consumption of vodka and alcohol in general), Michael Luttvets (36 years old, former special forces of the Bundeswehr, now "Ghost"; the complete opposite of Rozh – doesn't like to talk almost on the level of principles; a loner; probably, that's why he has the gift of moving quietly and stealthily, which is why he earned himself such a strange nickname, having killed 15 enemy soldiers quietly during one secret mission, thus making the task easier for everyone else, roughly speaking, by half).

Target location information: three-story villa in the thick of taiga forests; 100 kilometers to the nearest town; Washington State, USA.

Notes: (this time there was no photo, only a verbal portrait) fat, broad-shouldered, brown eyes, dented nose, thin lips, a small scar on the forehead.

In 10 kilometers from the cabin we needed there was an abandoned town of miners, where you could come by car (in the same way we expected to leave).

"B" day.

7:06 a.m. Aug. 16.

The "five-minute stopover" was a one-story house with one front door and six windows. It was typical for such a place: two rooms, a kitchen, and a toilet (no furniture, and the only indication of a bathroom and toilet was a small unbroken patch of ceramic against the door). I climbed into the latrine to contact the Syracuse base (two people).

No sooner had I opened my laptop than the jamming sounded. Since only Ghost had a jammer out of the whole group, I had to radio to him: "Mih, what else is there?"

"It's okay two less…" "Two what?"

"By enemies…"

"What enemies, warrior? Are you sure they're not just passersby?" "I'm sure they have machine guns."

"Okay, well, over and out." The battle has begun…

I pushed the door open and saw a machine gunner running fifty meters outside the window. I noticed him, he noticed me, which prompted me to "dive" into the depths of the toilet. After shattering the proof of the existence of the latrine. Having honored the memory of the tile with two seconds of inactivity, I stuck out the muzzle of the automatic rifle (this time it was a Russian NA (Nikonov's Abakan automatic rifle with a magazine for 60 cartridges; the most successful caliber – 5.45, superfast rate of fire – 2000 v/min., almost record initial velocity of 950 m/sec., low recoil due to the unique system of recoil, low recoil due to a unique system of barrel recoil during firing, as well as a special mode of firing two cartridges (the sound merges into one) and high accuracy, in short, not a machine gun, but a fairy tale – a weapon of the twenty-first century) and pulled the trigger, then climbed out of the now worthless room and saw the same "hero", but with five holes in the chest. "I'm getting old," I thought, as I fired six shots and only hit five. There was no one else visible outside the window, and the shots, as if on cue, stopped messing up my hearing.

"Don't move for exactly two minutes," I said into the radio. Two minutes passed, there were no rustles, the ceramics and glass were gone, and there was a pile of corpses outside the windows.

"Alright, we go in groups to the forest at three minute intervals (the groups had long ago been arranged in order and composition: #1 – Me and Polazzi, #2 Salvatore and Rozh, #3 – Bulatovs, and finally #4 – 'Ghost'; actually it would be more appropriate to combine Lüttvec with Rozh, since the commander that I am usually isn't in any pair, but the German is used to working alone).

I won't drag on: everyone made it to the woods, but Michael was a little late: "What took you so long? Did you forget your watch at home?"

"In that situation, there was only one way not to waste time…" "Like what?"

"Lay down your weapons." "Why didn't you fold it?"

"Hehe, you're kidding, commander."

"Well, okay, we don't have a long way to go at 9.5 kilometers, uh, by the way, did anyone bring spray with them?"

"I've got it, Commander," Emilien echoed.

"And I've noticed it works wonderfully," Danila confirmed and clapped the Frenchman on the shoulder, squashing the insect.

"I don't get it…"

"A mosquito. – Bulatov showed the parasite, pulling a vial out of his back pocket, "This one will help much better.

The collapse of a three-story empire

8:46 a.m. Aug. 16.

Surprisingly enough, we made it to the walls and, after climbing over the fence, to the doors of the mansion without adventure (there were two doors, one had #1 and #2, the other had the rest).

The instruments of attack played – I kicked the door off to I don't know what mother, we flew in like butterflies, shrieking and knocking over everyone and everything in our path.

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