"Nobody lives forever, but you know, either way, my task is at least somewhat accomplished…"
"What do you mean?"
I pulled out a vial of medicine: "This should help (actually my doubts about it were 100 percent, but it's better to 'plant optimism in the native land')."
"What the hell is that?" "The Cure."
"There is no cure for Cancer."
"Now there is," — no sooner had I finished my part of the dialog than the "son of Faust" faltered and was about to fall — it was not a fainting from happiness, it was one of the effects of the disease.
For a drink
August 21, 21:47 PM.
My son fainted for over six hours. One day is not enough, but what if it happens every day? And I was constantly "killed" by the fact that in addition to fainting, he had terrible headaches and black eyes.
"How long was I asleep?" — he asked, opening his eyelids. "Six to seven hours."
"Yeah…"
"Well, anyway…"
"I saw a doctor recently… He said I have six months to live at the most…"
"Six months? — The phrase made me even more eager to find out if the cure would work — not much risk to take anyway. — Uh… Anyway, here's the cure." "Bring him in, please."
By this time the syringe was already prepared and I easily injected, "Well, does it feel better?"
"Not a damn thing…"
"Well, that's right… Not all at once…" we laughed heartily at the same time. — I haven't laughed in a long time.
"Likewise… and to be honest, I'm absolutely sick of living like a junkie: I remember here, I don't remember there."
"And for me, looking around at all the morons and sadists with big eyes popping out of their orbits from fear or cruelty."
"By the way, do you know who has the biggest eyes in the world?" "Well… Uh… No, I don't know…"
"At Fear."
"А. I see. Good riddle."
"And what makes you suddenly decide to get out of the organization?" "Tired of it."
"Yeah, come on, you were sick of this life 15 years ago." "What makes you say that?"
"Well, that I haven't seen you: you walk around like a haggard and you don't even know who to look at with what eyes anymore."
"Actually, you're right."
"I honestly don't know how you can run around like an eagle with a job like that and at the age of 47…"
"Here I don't know… Yeah… How do you exercise all sorts of arts around here?" "Well, you know I'm a worse shot than you…"
"Well, how much do you knock out from 50 meters with a pistol in 10 shots?"
"Usually three or four in the bullseye, the rest wherever you have to go… You know I'm more into grenades and a sea of bullets…"
"A sea of bullets, either for intimidation or to show off… Well, okay, how far do you throw your damn grenade?"
"F-1 at 60 meters, RGD-5 at 80."
"Yeah, that's a record. I should be able to throw thirty. I'm getting old…"
"For a job like this, yes, but in general, I've told you before that even 50-plus is still maturity, but 70 is the time limit."
"Had you said those last words in front of my 'coworkers', everyone would be on the floor laughing by now."
"If I saw your coleagues, they'd be lying on the floor from death by now…" "And you're with them."
"Yeah, I don't care."
"Well, okay, what else do you do?"
"Studying survival techniques in extreme environments. Equatorial forests, for example, desert…"
"Good for you… How many languages do you know?" "It's four now."
"Not bad… Which one did you learn last (I already knew the other three: English, German, Italian)?"
"Russian".
"Ohhhh! Well, let's do it in it," I suggested in one of the world's most difficult languages.
"Come on," — replied the son similarly.
"Learn Spanish and you can consider Latin America open to you…" "Why didn't you learn it yourself then?"
"No time left… Are you interested in fiction?" "Almost not."
"Have you read Faust?"
The room erupted into rolling laughter again.
"What's there to read? I've seen him live… By the way, why do you have such a strange nickname?"
"It's long to explain…" "And yet?"
"Yes, I almost forgot… — I took out a small envelope from the inside pocket of my jacket (I wore it this time, too). — This is so important and secret information that in skillful hands it can destroy Koza-Nostra as well…"
"What's in it for me?"
"This is just in case I get killed… Inside the envelope contains instructions on what to do and a disk of information… If I get killed open the envelope and follow the instructions, not before…"
"Okay. I'll do it, but it's still a matter of which one of us dies first." There was laughter in the room, but now not as expressive and sincere.
"Yeah… Also, I've been wondering. How do you manage to cross borders like they don't even exist?"
"That along with some other useful stuff is on the disk… Well, okay I'm off. It's getting late… I'll call you tomorrow."
"Suit yourself."
Welcome to the underworld
11:50 p.m. Aug. 24.
Almost all experienced professional criminals feel something before they are caught or killed, and I was no exception, so I felt… something important before I left my son. And I didn't see him off so abruptly for nothing, for I knew that if he knew I was in danger, he'd be sitting outside my doorway all night with a machine gun. And there would be more than one man after me, and not a novice, and it was unlikely that either of us would be left alive after that.
I set the alarm (my alarm system is connected to the county police department, so after a couple minutes of trespassing, I'll have a SWAT team at my house, so it's unlikely anyone will be able to escape) and went to bed without too many complications (not everyone goes to bed feeling very threatened).
After a couple hours of sleeplessness, I heard a thud from down the hallway, and then footsteps, so many of them that they became a rumble.
I fumbled for an F-1 grenade, specially strapped under my pillow for emergencies, and pulled the pin, holding on to the lever (when it "flies" off the main part of the grenade, it takes 3.2 to 4.2 seconds to detonate, depending on the force of the rebound).
Half a minute later, the door to the room quietly boiled open and footsteps made their way inside, and when they spread throughout the entire room, there was a light whisper: "Now, wait a minute, I'll just find out what his name is…..
I remembered my real name and said aloud, firmly and deadly: "Rimanoa was just expecting a visitor. Welcome," and then, laughing a wicked, devilish laugh, I turned on the little light bulb whose switch was located three centimeters from the sheet that covered the bed.
A dim light covered the room.
Eight people stood in front of the bed, one in front of the other. All armed to the teeth in the literal sense (one "comrade" had a key in his mouth, though it was unknown how he was going to use it).
The reaction was exactly what I expected: they hissed, staggered, trembled, just like all the other 156 people being taken to me for execution, realizing that Rimanoa was the "Executioner". Their eyes completely deepened in panic, and spoke of the rest of their bodies being unable to take any action. The rookie killers realized that in front of them stood not just a very experienced killer capable of shooting them all without much difficulty, not just an iron authority in the underworld, but death itself, just waiting to kiss someone else.
I carefully pulled my hand out from under the pillow and tossed the grenade at the feet of the nearest "Faust hunter" to spare them the agony…