Rimanoa

Underground screaming

Aug. 19, 7:54 p.m.

"So what happened?" — Brosman stopped the SUV in an empty parking lot (also an obscure fact — how did we manage to "dig" a vacant parking lot out of the ground) by a hefty column and "started looking at me perplexed."

"Do you know what they just told me? — I literally lashed out at the driver, and without letting him make a sound, I continued. — They told me that the whole fucking city with two tens of thousands of cops is already looking for me in every nook and cranny… Oh, you know what for?"

"For what?" — His opponent's bewilderment grew even greater.

"Yes for the fact that someone had a particularly bad time at the Paladin, tortured two heroes there, and then killed them… That's why they're looking for me…"

"Well…" — the bewilderment was replaced by puzzlement. "That someone is you! Is it clear now?"

"Ahhhh… Well, what can you do… I should have spoken more confidently in front of the real flicks…"

"I should have known that gay men, like normal men, can't breathe underwater!" "Well, what can you do " he repeated a second time. — But, actually, I was giving

him plenty of air. "

"Okay, either way now we need to get rid of the Zippy quicker."

"Are you implying you can't kill him yourself?" — Brosman's hand reached under his jacket.

"No, I'm implying that we should interrogate him and get him the hell out of here as soon as possible," I snapped at my interlocutor and kicked the poor guy as hard as I could.

He woke up and mumbled something like, "What? Who?"

"Tell me where the rest of the papers are!" — I growled at Leatherman and kicked his shin again, but not as hard.

One could understand from his incomprehensible cries that he was in great pain because of his shot legs and at the same time unpleasant because of the dust bag on his head, because all the dust of this "nightmare" was in his mouth. Speaking of wounds. They turned out to be so serious that the whole bottom of the car under this "piece of leather and lightning" turned dark red.

The "victim" groaned, appropriately enough.

"Where's the rest of the paper, fuck, I don't have time for you Talk!" — my voice

became completely rough.

"Ahhhh… He's at CIA headquarters in Langley… Don't hit "

The last words put me (and not only me) in a completely different state of mind. If the documents are there, nothing can be done. This is the base of one of the strongest intelligence agencies in the world (we have very few people there, half of whom are old people who don't need anything and can't do anything anymore, and half of whom are newcomers who have no access to really serious documents), where there are advanced technical means, thanks to the "tsar's" financing.

"You didn't misspoke?" — I questioned the buttoned-up man. "No, they're there. " — The man replied, continuing to whimper.

"I see. Oh, well I repeated Brosman's phrase. — Thanks for your help."

"Don't hit "

"No one's going to hit you again — I assure you of that," — my bass reassured the victim. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

I took the Glock out of the holster and, leaning the silencer close to the head of the doomed man, pulled the trigger, then threw the firearm next to it (the same thing was done by the Lightning at home, that's what all professionals do; "If a gun is lit once, the second time it will burn with its owner", that's how my brain thinks every time I throw away a gun, this time it was a Glock 26. It was a shame to throw away such a thing, because instead of the usual 40 thousand effective shots that characterize a good gun, it gives 160 thousand; now in our brutal team only Brosman and his Kurtz had guns, although I had a secret weapon under my armpit, and Lonje had already thrown out his Israeli monster at home at the "Zasped") and turned to Amoramente: "You know, we'll have to burn your jeep after all…".

"Yeah I just…"

"It's okay, it's okay. I'll buy you a new one. There was a lot of blood here anyway because of the wounds in my knees."

"It's not about the money. It's just that it was given to me as a gift…"

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing you can do… There's too much blood… In the meantime, by the way, get behind the wheel… We may have to get the hell out of here… I know you're good at ramming…"

"Well, anyway, yeah," — the guy was clearly being modest — if he hadn't become a hitman, he would have become a racer, and what a racer, too….