Alex tried to move as quietly as possible whenever she passed through the living room on her way to breakfast. No matter how softly she stepped, Volodja always woke at the slightest sound. He lay still, listening to the discreet noises she made in the kitchen. Since the ice between them had broken, they were more at ease in each other's presence. He knew she wouldn't mind him joining her, but he couldn't — not that day. He had to avoid every distraction. The moment he heard the front door close behind her, he rose, dressed quickly, and prepared to leave.
Alex kept a garage that was almost empty except for a bicycle and a few of her father's metal tool racks. It was the perfect place to conceal the car Volodja had rented under a false name and address. Their people in the Marshes had supplied extra number plates so the same registration wouldn't be noticed too often in one area.
Volodja's bag of tools lay on the back seat: crowbar, ropes, knives, spare magazines, and everything else he might need. He carried two pistols — one in the glove box, the other in a holster beneath his jacket. As he waited for the electric garage door to open, he slipped a hand under his coat and checked that the weapon was still there. It was an old, automatic habit of his.
The car rolled silently onto the asphalt. Volodja pressed the remote to close the door and drove away. His destination was the Marshes. At first, he had relied on Alex's satnav, but he had soon memorised the route. The journey from her house to the capital took an hour and a half if he used the country roads to avoid police stations.
The West was in uproar over a string of unexplained deaths among politicians, businessmen, and other public figures who had betrayed the Scythe Empire and sought refuge abroad. Vladimir the Lucent is eliminating his opponents! the Western media shrieked. As usual, they offered no evidence. Police investigations led nowhere. Most deaths were blamed on "fatal burglaries," which were common enough. Others were dismissed as natural causes. A few cases raised suspicions, but only because of the general hysteria against Scythes. This time, however, the accusations were correct. The guilty were right to be afraid. They knew the hour of retribution had arrived.
Volodja was mildly annoyed that none of the reports came from the north of Gaul, the region assigned to him. That part of the country had always been dull and sad, the Marshes excepted. More experienced agents were sent to Almain, central Gaul, Latium, and the smaller neighbouring states. The reckless went to Albion. The truly insane chose Gomora. Only one man was mad enough for that: Emin. Even in Albion, agents worked in pairs, yet Emin had gone to North-Gomora alone. The Scythian Secret Services had heard nothing from him for two weeks. The silence caused considerable anxiety among his colleagues, but Volodja instinctively knew Emin was fine — he simply hadn't yet found a safe moment to make contact. Whatever the reason, his brand of insanity made him untouchable.
Volodja couldn't boast of similar success. He had carried out a few jobs, but always with assistance. He knew there was no shame in following protocol — agents worked in pairs. Still, he sometimes felt he wasn't trusted enough to operate alone, which was why he had been given the north of Gaul. It wasn't as savage as Albion, so his superiors believed he could manage. The realisation stung. He wanted to prove them wrong, to show he was as competent and brave as the rest. So far, his efforts had come to nothing.
Volodja had identified and located his target. He knew her daily routine. He had followed her for weeks. Yet nothing had happened because he was still waiting for final orders from his superiors. He couldn't afford to wait any longer. He couldn't let Nina Skunz slip away again.
It was bad enough that she had escaped after assassinating the young journalist, Dana Darina.
Dana's car had exploded one night on her way home from a cultural event. She had been a war correspondent in the Coal Mining Region. The investigation revealed explosives fixed beneath the chassis. The intended target had probably been Dana's father; the famous Scythian philosopher whose influence displeased the West. On that particular night Dana had driven his car.
The assassin was a woman who had brought her teenage daughter with her. Her name was Nina Skunz, and she worked for the Borderland Secret Services. That same night she had fled to her ex-husband in Baltica, taking the girl with her. Gas-station security cameras had identified her. Demanding extradition from the Balts was pointless — they never cooperated with the Scythe Empire. Agents were dispatched, but Nina was herself an experienced operative and sensed danger. She left her daughter with her ex-husband and disappeared into the West. Her distinctive features made her easy to spot, yet she slipped away each time pursuers closed in. Eventually the Secret Services pretended to lose her trail, giving her a false sense of security. The Marshes were the perfect place for her to die. Volodja would make sure of it.
For months he had reported every small step to his colleagues. They knew he commuted daily to the Marshes. He received regular praise, but he understood they were simply keeping him occupied. They were waiting to send a more experienced operative to finish the job he had started. That was why he hadn't informed them of his plans for that day. It was dangerous, but he believed he could handle it alone.
Nina had a weakness for luxury. That was how he had traced her. He knew she would eventually appear in New Street, the most expensive shopping district in the Marshes. And she had. He followed her home and was unsurprised to discover she had chosen the wealthiest neighbourhood as her place of exile. Lawyers, doctors, and foreign ambassadors lived there. It was no place for scum like Nina, but if Western officials were paying her for Dana's murder, it made sense they would hide her in an exorbitant mansion to keep her quiet. She left the house mainly to shop in New Street or visit her plastic surgeon.
The manor was under constant camera surveillance. Volodja had once tried to enter while she was out. He had scaled the high fence and stayed out of camera view, only for a motion sensor to trigger. Police had arrived quickly. He had escaped unseen; the officers blamed the alarm on stray cats.
Volodja had infiltrated the cleaning team as a Lechian guest worker covering for a sick colleague. The role had limited his movements. He would need to change tactics for greater freedom. After memorising the cleaners' schedule and the alternative entrances, he had resigned.
The next time the cleaning van waited at the electric gate, Volodja had slipped beneath it and clung to the chassis. From then on, his only concern was slipping out again with the crew once their work was finished.
Nina lived alone. She had no guards and no visitors. Once a week someone checked the alarm and cameras, but the control room was otherwise unattended. That gave Volodja a clear view of every hall and passage. The previous day he had programmed the cameras and sensors to shut down for one hour at a precise moment — long enough to do the job and clean up. Tuesday was Nina's day off. She slept until noon, watched television, and surfed the internet.
Volodja parked in a side street with a clear view of the house. He caught sight of her as she carried out the rubbish.
He had several hours to wait until dark. In the meantime, he tried to rest. He set the alarm on his old foldable phone at intervals, though he knew he wouldn't sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he pictured Alex's kitchen — the furniture, the chair he always sat on, the bubbling kettle, and the faint scent of her perfume. Jasmine. He couldn't recall their last conversation, but the fragrance felt so vivid it seemed to cling to his clothes.
Suddenly Volodja opened his eyes. A smell from a daydream couldn't be this strong. He turned and looked at the back seat. There was his tool bag and, on the floor, the black tarpaulin he had thrown into the boot days earlier. He reached out and lifted a corner of the cloth. A small foot in a tall suede heel was exposed, then quickly withdrawn.
"You have got to be kidding me. Alex? What the hell are you doing here?"
"Quiet! Don't shout — we're on a stakeout, remember?" came a tiny, disgruntled voice from beneath the tarpaulin.
Alex threw off the cover and scrambled onto the back seat. Her hair was dishevelled, her clothes crumpled. Volodja stared at her in disbelief, fighting to keep a straight face.
"How old are you? Sneaking into a car like a mischievous child! I'm taking you home," he said, starting the engine.
"Wait! You can't drive all the way back — you'll lose precious time. I can help! I can be useful!"
"How, Alex? Do you have any idea what trouble you've caused?"
"You're overreacting. Nothing bad has happened. It's not as if someone has died!"
"Someone is supposed to die tonight, Alex…"
Volodja's eyes darkened as he looked at her. She fell silent, suddenly understanding the nature of his mission and how inconvenient her presence had become. She climbed into the passenger seat and pressed her lips together, waiting. Volodja was in no mood to talk.
After a while he grew calmer and seemed to accept the situation. He told her who his target was. Alex was shocked to learn he had been watching none other than Nina Skunz. She followed Scythian news through reliable channels and knew exactly who the woman was and what she had done. Killing her was a matter of honour, but from what Volodja described it was far from easy. Clearly such details never reached the public. Alex listened intently. She could scarcely believe she was only metres from the door behind which a notorious murderer was hiding.
Volodja noticed her growing unease. Still, she was right. They couldn't drive back now, and he couldn't let her travel home alone by train after the incident with the Nazi. She would have to stay with him in the Marshes until the job was done. He couldn't deny that part of him was glad she was there.
Eighteen minutes remained. It was already dark. Volodja slipped a hand beneath his jacket. The gun was still there.
"It's time," he whispered.
Alex knew the moment would come, yet it still surprised her.
"Okay. What do we do first?"
"There is no we, Alex. You stay in the car and wait for me."
"But what if you need help? Or if someone finds me here?"
"Don't be ridiculous. No one ever comes down this street — that's why I parked here."
Without giving her time to argue, Volodja stepped out and walked toward Nina's house. Alex watched him cross the road and disappear behind the tall hedges. He had told her when the alarm would be disabled. He waited a few extra minutes before entering the grounds. She stared into the darkness, trying to follow his slender figure, but he had already melted into the night.
***
The hour hand on his watch showed nine o'clock. The street was perfectly quiet. The walls of the mansions were thick; no sound escaped. Still, Volodja used his suppressor.
The hedging concealed the tall wrought-iron fence and hid a useful gap between two pickets — wide enough for a man to slip through. He had discovered it while working undercover as a cleaner. He eased through the gap and waited in case the motion sensor hadn't been disabled. To his relief, nothing happened.
Volodja crossed the yard low to the ground. The storeroom at the back was always locked, but the staff knew a spare key was hidden behind a loose brick. A cleaner had shared the secret with him during a cigarette break. Volodja removed the brick, found the key, and slipped inside. The door made no sound.
The storeroom opened onto the spacious entrance hall. As he moved silently along the corridor he heard voices upstairs. He climbed the carpeted marble steps, gun ready, following the sounds.
The second floor was dark. All the doors were closed except one further down the corridor — Nina's bedroom. It stood ajar, blue light spilling out. Volodja approached cautiously. A Gaul talk show was playing; the audience applauded just as he stepped inside. The room was empty. He checked the wardrobe, the curtains, even under the bed. Nothing. Something was wrong.
Volodja heard a thud in the corridor and left the bedroom. Pressing his back to the wall, gun raised, he moved slowly. Nina knew someone was inside. He felt uneasy; the situation was no longer going according to plan.
He looked over the balustrade, expecting to see her downstairs. Nina was too dangerous to be caught so easily. Suddenly he heard heavy footsteps behind him. Before he could turn, he was shoved hard over the railing. His gun flew from his hand as his body lurched forward. He managed to grab the iron baluster just in time.
"Bitch! Who sent you?" Nina screamed, kicking at him through the bars.
Volodja looked up. She was aiming a pistol at him. He let go an instant before she fired. The shot missed. His fall was broken by the coffee table in the centre of the entrance hall. Wood splintered beneath him. Pain exploded in his shoulder, but he had no time to recover. He had to find his gun.
Nina fired twice more from upstairs and missed. When Volodja's fingers finally closed around the cold metal, he rolled under the stairs where she couldn't see him.
"Let's talk, Nina. Maybe things don't have to end this way. Maybe there's still a chance for you to keep your life."
"Oh, fuck you! You're a Scythe, aren't you? Vladimir sent you to kill me. Like a faithful dog, you'll do anything to please your master. You're all soulless slaves!"
"Just like you, Nina. Only you're a thousand times worse, because you murdered an innocent, unarmed woman."
"What about me? I'm a woman, too! Didn't Vladimir teach you to protect women and children?"
"Children? Since when do you care about children? You stopped being a woman the moment you sold yourself to the Nazis and planted explosives under Dana's car."
"Well, in that case, are you man enough to fight me?"
"Nina?"
Volodja peered out from his hiding place. Nina had left her position. She was searching for another way downstairs to finish him. He knew there were multiple connecting passages on the first floor. Most rooms were linked, except the living room, which could only be entered through the sliding doors in the entrance hall. Waiting there would be walking into a trap. The dining room, however, offered a better chance. It was the most remote room and unlikely to be her first choice. It was a simple rectangular space with a long table for twelve. At first glance there was nowhere to hide, but the room had a secret: a double wall behind which stood a serving trolley. Since Nina lived alone and never entertained, the room was never used. He wasn't sure she knew about the hidden space, but it was worth the risk.
There was just enough room between the wall and the trolley for him to stand. He had a clear view of both doors. He held his breath and waited. Minutes passed with agonising slowness. Finally, he saw her silhouette in the doorway. His eyes had adjusted to the dark; he assumed hers had, too. She advanced slowly, gun sweeping from side to side, ready to fire at anything that moved. Volodja remained perfectly still, waiting for her to turn her back so he could strike.
She never did. He heard the trigger click. A shot rang out. A fresh hole appeared in the wall inches from his face. Pain, sharp and blinding, tore through his left shoulder. He couldn't suppress a gasp as he clutched the wound. Blood soaked his shirt.
"Did I hit you?" Nina's mocking voice echoed. "You thought I didn't know about the double wall?"
Volodja ducked as a second shot followed. He crawled out of the recess and pulled himself under the long table. He felt her grab his ankles and drag him out. She kicked the gun from his hand and struck his wounded shoulder, making him grunt in agony and roll onto his back.
"I must say, you almost had me. If I hadn't gone into the control room tonight and noticed the cameras were off, your little plan might have worked. I wonder how you did that. Not that it matters now. It's a shame, though — you're cute. And young."
Nina rubbed her foot against his crotch while keeping the gun trained on him. Volodja's shoulder was going numb. His shirt was wet and sticky. The metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils. He felt nauseous — whether from the blood or the sight of Nina licking her over-plumped lips in mock seduction, he couldn't tell.
"Cut the bullshit, skank. You couldn't get him hard even if you were the last woman on earth."
"That's no way to talk to a lady!"
She kicked him hard in the groin. Volodja groaned and curled into a ball.
"They'll get you sooner or later, Nina. You kill me, they'll send someone else."
"I don't think so, baby boy," she said, aiming the gun at his head.
Volodja closed his eyes. He had failed everyone — his parents, Vladimir, his colleagues, Emin, and Alex, who was waiting for him in the car outside. What had made him think he could handle this alone? He wasn't suited for it. There had been so many other ways to serve the Scythe Empire. Now he was about to die, and his death would be pointless.
He heard the shot — the final sound that would announce his death. But he wasn't dead. He was still aware of the pain in his shoulder, the cold marble tiles, the bloody shirt clinging to his skin. Then came the metallic clatter of a gun hitting the floor. He opened his eyes. Nina was staring down at her chest. A red stain was spreading across her white T-shirt. Her hands twitched toward the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. She looked up at him with a look of shocked defeat.
"And who's this bitch?"
Staggering backwards, she grabbed a chair, but it couldn't hold her. She collapsed with a heavy thud.
"Oh my God, Volodja! She shot you! Can you walk? We have to get out of here!"
Alex knelt beside him, helping him up.
"Alex?! What are you doing here? I told you to wait in the car! Where did you get that gun?"
"Yeah, right. If I had stayed in the car we would both be dead or arrested. It's your gun. I found it in the glove box." She ignored his protests and urged him to his feet.
"Glove box. I forgot the glove box. Wait — my other gun. She kicked it under the table."
Alex retrieved the weapon and quickly led him out of the mansion.
She pushed him into the passenger seat and took the wheel. She had no licence, but they were in danger and Volodja needed medical help. Her father had once shown her how a gear shift worked. She hoped she could manage.
Alex started the engine, released the handbrake, and made a clumsy U-turn, using the side streets to slip out of the district unnoticed.
"How are you? Where did she hit you?" she asked without taking her eyes off the road.
"The bullet is still in my shoulder," he whispered.
"We need to get you to a hospital."
"No hospital. They'll ask questions. When we get home, I'll tell you what to do."
Volodja's steady, soothing voice soon eased her worries. She didn't even notice how she managed the road alone when he finally passed out. Thankfully, the night was quiet and the traffic light. They reached home safely.
Alex helped Volodja out of the car and supported him into the living room. He collapsed onto the couch, grimacing as she removed his jacket and holster. His shirt was soaked with blood and sweat. The heating was on, yet she pulled a warm blanket over his bare shoulders. In the first-aid kit she found tweezers, disinfectant, and dressings.
"Okay, tell me what I need to do to get the bullet out of your shoulder," she said, showing him the tweezers.
Despite the exhaustion and pain, Volodja chuckled at her worried expression.
"You don't need to remove the bullet. Sometimes it's better to leave it in if it isn't threatening any organs. It hasn't shattered bone and is lodged in soft tissue. Just clean and disinfect the wound, then bandage it. That's all."
As Alex cleaned the wound, she caught him staring at her.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"You killed a woman today."
"If I hadn't, she would have killed you."
"It will affect you. If you want to talk about it…"
"If you're worried about my mental health, don't be. I don't even remember pulling the trigger. Everything that happened tonight was automatic. It won't affect me. Trust me. The only thing we should worry about is whether the Gauls or Gomorians catch us for killing one of their own."
"Oh my God. You keep saying we as if you're an assassin or an agent. Alex, you're not. And I don't want you involved."
"Well, I think I'm already in over my head. If you really didn't want me involved, you shouldn't have married me."
"How can you be so calm about this?"
"Because I can. It would have been worse if I had let her kill you."
"Why do you care so much about what happens to me?"
Alex didn't answer. She finished bandaging his shoulder and helped him undress. She brought extra pillows and blankets and waited until Volodja fell asleep.