Saturday, 1st January, 2000
Rostov-on-Don, Southern Russia
A silhouette of a man stands against a dimly lit window in the northernmost brick red apartment block. The man looks at his wristwatch, and after two full minutes of looking out of the window, goes to sit at the edge of his worn-out single bed.
Finally, the phone rings.
"Everything has been taken care of."
"Good. Leave the country. They'll come for you, too."
There was a long pause.
"You still there?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm still here."
"Do you understand?"
"Good. Goodbye, my friend."
"Goodbye Misha, and give them hell."
Misha returns to the window, closing the blinds and then he spots a white van and two blue Mercedes 300 SEs enter the car park. More than a dozen men disembark from the vehicles, armed with shotguns and handguns, and wearing black ski masks. Misha returns to the foot of his bed, and reaching under the mattress, retrieves a serrated edged knife. From a loose floorboard under the bathroom sink, he gets out a nickel plated Smith & Wesson 4506 and two magazines. Last but not least, bulletproof vest, which Misha takes from the wardrobe. A squad of hitmen are already on their way up in an elevator, a squad take the stairs and the third waits outside. At last, the first squad of armed thugs arrive at Misha's floor. The four man-team exit the lift with their weapons trained on the corridor infront of them.
"Sooner we get this over and done with, sooner we get paid. Let's get it done, boys."
Misha could hear footsteps getting closer to his room. His mind raced as to where he could set up an ambush, before deciding to prop the bed up as a screen against the door.
"As soon as you blow that door off, everyone in the apartment wakes up and we've got two fucking minutes before the cops show up."
"Yeah, but the pay is worth it. Fifteen million rubles to rub some bum out."
"'Some bum' he says. You gotta lot to learn, my friend. This is Misha fucking Grastov. Baba Yaga. You underestimate this mu'dak, (asshole) and he'll tear your fucking head off, boy."
Muffled voices are heard on the other side of the door. With one hand tightly gripping his knife, he fixes his gun on the door.
"Come on you bastards."
A deafening bang is followed by a chunk of the door being blown off, followed by two more. The first gunman appears behind the debris, shotgun in hand. Without hesitation, Misha squeezes of two rounds and the bullets hit the gunman center of mass, he goes down without so much as a whimper.
"Shit, get to cover!"
Misha comes out from the cover, feigning injury while hiding behind the kitchen wall.
"Hey, I think we hurt him!
"Yeah? Get in there!"
The last three men enter the room, cautiously training their sights for any sign of Grastov.
"Guys? In here."
Misha immediately grabbed the first man to enter the kitchen, slamming him against a wall before plunging his blade deep into the man's throat. Using the man as a human shield, he quickly finishes off the last two men with headshots. He dumps the corpse and checks the bodies for weapons, taking an Astra-100 and a Mossberg 500 Cruiser.
The Home of Imperialism and Cultural Change, Europe is a continent that comprises the westernmost part of Eurasia. Europe is bordered by the Arctic Ocean to the north, the Atlantic Ocean to the west, and the Mediterranean Sea to the south. To the east and southeast, Europe is generally considered as separated from Asia by the watershed divides of the Ural and Caucasus Mountains, the Ural River, the Caspian and Black Seas, and the waterways of the Turkish Straits. Yet the borders of Europe—a concept dating back to classical antiquity—are arbitrary, as the primarily physiographic term "continent" also incorporates cultural and political elements.
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