Rimanoa

Seven hundred and seventy-seventh heaven

11:58 p.m. Aug. 16.

The tourist ended up in the presidential suite (what a crook, he took the whole 22nd floor). And now we still have to walk to him, but the rewound witnesses are lying peacefully in the toilet on the first floor.

I stopped everybody on 21 and I said: "Okay, we're going according to plan… Let's go." Bulatovs rushed from this side, and "Shock" with Marlboro, respectively, from the other (if you wonder where "Ghost" is, he is downstairs, waiting in the Ford Transit). A minute later a call on the radio: "The way is cleared".

"Wait for me at the door," I instructed, then climbed the stairs, walked past the corpses of the bodyguards to room 777 (the boor's lodgings), knocked and shouted: "Your dinner has arrived!"

"What the hell is dinner at twelve o'clock at night!" — came from there as the door opened. It was opened, oddly enough, not by the guard, but by the owner himself, but my fist still smacked his nose. "Tourist" flew back into the room, me and the two Italians rushed inside and closed the door, "You're coming with us."

"What do you want? But… uh… mmmmmmmmmmmm…" — The duct tape sat firmly on his mouth, his hands, also a too dusty bag sat on his head, and muffled gasps were heard from behind the door.

I jumped out of the room, saw Konstantin sliding down the wall, Danila shooting at the guard in the opposite room 778, and a man shooting at me from the other end of the hallway. The result was three dead men: two guards and Konstantin.