That was it—but it was also my limit. My body hit the asphalt, hard, and it was as good as over. I could hear heavy, metallic footsteps approaching much too fast for me to change my clip.
“Fine, hvatit <had enough of this anyways>,” I grunted, tossing my PPSh away. My breath was coming hard. I wished I could tear off my balaclava. My vision was getting blurry from lack of oxygen, but I could see my pursuer, literally steel-skinned, coming at me with a smirk, step by step.
“Aw, ne stesnyaisya <don’t hold back>. You’ve hardly scratched me, see?”
He might not be able to punch me, but at this distance, he could just step on me. Which appeared to be exactly what he intended to do. I doubted he weighed quite a ton, but even at several hundred kilos, it would be like getting crushed by a car.
Maybe I should have pulled out my Tokarev, but I was tired of wasting bullets.
I had no hope. I’d known that all along. I was pretty proud of myself for hanging in there for as long as I had, as a lone organic.
I struggled to look up at the lump of steel. My body hurt all over. God, give me a break.
“You got guts, I’ll give you that much,” the cyborg said. “Whose little dog are you? Start yapping, and I can put you down nice and easy.” He peered at me with his chrome eyes.
Reflected in their metallic surface I saw a stupid Janitor, desperate and gasping for breath.
“Want a hot tip?” I managed between gasps.
“Huh?”
“Look behind you.”
The next second, there was a shower of brains and spinal fluid as the guy’s head came clean off his body.
I heard the report of a KS-23, a riot-suppression gun. Personally, I didn’t think riot suppression required repurposed antiaircraft cannons at a full 23 mm. But today I learned it was perfectly suited to turning a cyborg’s brains into scrap metal.
“Sorry I’m late, comrade.”
“You’re right on time, comrade. You saved my neck.”
Past the slag I could see a huge bald man in a white shirt standing calmly, the gun in one hand. Behind him was a whole mess of soldiers wearing Adidas, carrying Kalashnikovs, and obviously raring to go.
I let the mafia brigadier help me up, getting unsteadily to my feet. He looked me up and down, chuckled, “You look like shit,” and picked up my PPSh.
I took it and slung it around my shoulder. I might look like shit, but that’s how you look when you work hard enough to earn your pay.
“Whoops, don’t twitch, friend. I’ll pop your head like a balloon,” the brigadier said—behind us, the cyborg I’d sent sprawling was trying to crawl away.
My rescuer put four rounds into the guy—Brigadier Koropchenko was ruthless.
“Gyaaaagh!” Steel shattered and nerve endings were severed; spinal fluid and lubricating oil went everywhere. Sort of defeated the point of making yourself a cyborg.
There was probably worse waiting for the guy later, I reflected for a moment. Then I said, “How are things on your end? There were still a few over there, weren’t there?”
“We hired a Janitor who can take care of metallolom, at least. You’ve done good work for us.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Yeah: I was a diversion, the bait. That meant there was a main force somewhere. I knew my job.
I wasn’t going to complain, though. I was a deniable asset; that was exactly what made me in demand as a Janitor. I was top-class, but there were any number like me—at the same time, I was the one they were giving the money to.
I pulled the painkillers out of my pocket and popped a few—I didn’t really count. No water; I just swallowed. Would they work on my ankle? How the hell should I know?
“Where’s my reward?” I asked.
“You’ll get it from Metel,” Koropchenko said. “Just like always.”
“There it is,” I said to the enforcer twitching at my feet. To be fair, he wasn’t the one who’d asked. “You wanted to know who hired me, right? I’m going home. My fuckin’ ankle hurts.”
As I walked away, I stripped the magazine out of my PPSh and changed it. Damn, this one was expensive. The electromagnetic hand grenade, the Tokarev bullets. It would have been enough to take Stasia somewhere nice.
“Chyort vozmi <Shithead>…!” the enforcer spat at me from his place on the ground. If there were a cyborg who could kill people with just a look, I’d be dead ten times over.
Happily, that technology wasn’t realistic yet. I just shrugged and walked away.
I spotted a public phone booth by the side of the road and fished in my pocket, quickly coming up with some kopecks. I tossed them into the phone and dialed the number I had memorized. Not a house—a café.
A moment later, there was a clink as the phone accepted the coins, and I heard the hiss of static in the receiver.
“Who’s this?”
“Danya,” I said softly into the mic. “Danila Kragin.”
“Danya! Big Brother!”
There was another clink and a yell. “Valery!” the voice shouted. It sounded like something had been kicked. Then the voice resumed, sounding calmer. “Are you okay? At some point, I wasn’t able to track you from here anymore.”
“Yeah.”
I wondered what kind of face my little sister would make if I told her I’d flung an electromagnetic hand grenade into the situation.
I’d relied on people, done my research, gotten everything ready, prayed, and done what I could—and this was the result.
Not bad, huh?
✦ ✦ ✦
“Hmm?”
The boss looked up, a knife in his hand. The screams no longer echoed around the bathroom.
The hands of the watch, the face stained with flecks of gore, showed that the appointed time was long past.
It was his bad habit, getting lost in his stress-busting activities.
The boss smiled, looking like he’d been splattered with borscht, then slammed the knife into the lump of meat and wiped his hands. Instead of a towel, he used long golden hair, still youthful and vivacious, luxurious.
“Good Lord. I appreciate your consideration toward me, but if you don’t come when I call, what am I supposed to do?”
After all, there was cleanup to take care of. You always had to tidy things after you’d had your fun.
It wasn’t such a difficult concept. So many other similar folks were out there, after all.
The Aptechnoy Maniac, who only killed people in pharmacies. The Danilov Street serial killer.
The society of murderers called the Blood Magic Gang.
And while it wasn’t quite the same thing, there was the executioner who was something of an urban legend, the so-called White Arrow.
More recently, there were stories of a Red Wolf appearing in the Moscow night.
They were like Baba Yaga, the old witch people told stories of to frighten children—except they were all real.
And although they were real, you wouldn’t see them on television. That’s how the state treated them. Heinous crimes like that were committed in capitalist societies, not in the glorious motherland.
Throw the bodies down a manhole in Bitsa Park, and that would be the end of it. The militsiya liked to take their time doing anything, and anyway, what was it to them if one or two loose women went missing?
As long as you did your cleanup, she’d be considered just one more victim of a serial killer somewhere. Just place your pieces on the chessboard.
But even something as simple as that took time. Playtime was getting too long. This was not good.
He knew it was a bad habit to get too absorbed in what he was doing. He’d have to make an effort to change himself.
“Hey, it’s time to clean up. Help me out over here!” the boss shouted at the bathroom door, but there was no reply.
They weren’t doing drugs out there, were they? The boss tried to be a magnanimous leader, but he needed people to do their damn jobs.
With an annoyed click of his tongue, he exited the bathroom, leaving crimson footprints on the tile. Now he’d have to clean up out here, too. It wasn’t his house, but you couldn’t have blood everywhere.
“Hey?!” he shouted. It was chilly in the room when he was wrapped in nothing but a towel. And still there was no answer.
Of course there wasn’t: There was no one alive in the room.
The boss stepped in a puddle with a plash. It was viscous and sticky, a soup of lubricating oil and spinal fluid.
“What’s this?” He spent a second looking at the stuff—it was almost like jam. What was he thinking in that instant?
“Myaaau ♪!” chirped a voice.
Whatever his thoughts were, the last thing he heard was the mewling of a cat.
He looked up, and at that moment, an electrified claw slashed his throat like a knife through butter. Blood gushed out with a whistle. The black cat danced out of the way, not even a drop getting on her.
Her outfit was a fashion statement, tight all over. Her hair was black and rich. Her eyes were chrome.
Chyornaya koshka, the “black cat”—Eleonora, “Nora of the Black Hair.”
She grinned: The work had been easy, thanks to someone doing an excellent job.
“There! I did what I could. Good stuff!”
Needless to say, Danila Kragin was ignorant of any of this.