It's not my problem

It's not my problem.

What should I do in the final stages?

It's psychologically difficult to take on historical responsibility.

Moses did the same—in anger—when his people worshiped the golden calf.

Where's my black Bersa Thunder, the semiautomatic rifle?

Ah,—there it is.

Finally useful.

My job—I wouldn't wish it on my enemy—but someone has to clean out the Augean stables of the Earth.

Take Hercules.

He didn't want it—but he had to do his job.

Fate.

Kismet, as they say in the Caucasus.

Predestination.

Nothing can be done.

I emerged from the bunker, disguised as a hut on chicken legs, from which the keeper of the hearth had escaped.

It had gotten dark.

All the better for me. I navigate in the darkness as if it were daylight. I didn't leave empty-handed.

I took with me an Alpha assault rifle with a shortened barrel—an Israeli-made automatic rifle based on the Kalashnikov assault rifle, beloved by special forces for its reliability, rate of fire, range, and accuracy from any position. A lightweight polymer frame, a laser sight—what more could you want? The perfect weapon for law enforcement.

How did it end up in the bunker?

Simple. There's a Kalashnikov-Israel joint venture in Kiryat Gat, with an assembly line and a kiosk right next to it, like at McDonald's. You drive up, place your order, hand over 200 shekels, and the Alpha is yours.

Cheap?

It's plastic, think about it.

I emerged from my concrete shelter and looked around.

The landscape was unremarkable: forest, trees, greenery, bushes. Beyond that, sandy hills with sparse brown vegetation. Cacti here and there. Pampas. Compared to the salt flats of the Salinas Grandes, it's practically subtropical. Sun-drenched vineyards. Far beyond the horizon, ranches with fenced pastures.

And where should I go?

Standing still is suicide.

I'm alone—a perfect target.

They'll crush me like a fly, and no one will notice, no one will cry, no one will lay flowers on my grave.

It's all because of Olivares.

They should have dealt with him from the start.

No man, no problem.

Although the famous phrase attributed to Stalin actually belonged to the general who proposed liquidating Tito. Stalin replied, "We are not adventurers."

I'm not a villain—God forbid—but villains should be drawn and quartered without hesitation. They can't be rehabilitated. In this sense, I sympathize with the heroes of Hollywood Westerns—they didn't stand on ceremony with the local mob, sheriff or no sheriff, prison or jury.

A thought struck me:

A rational, law-abiding citizen like me doesn't carry a gun to work—and therefore is defenceless against street thugs, who always have their guns at the ready. Criminal instincts, criminal intent—all of this is hardwired into my spine.

I have a license to shoot on sight, Macedonian style, like our James Bond—but I rarely use it. Only on major holidays. And if an uninvited guest shows up at night in my house—well, that's his problem.

I'm not an adventurer, as Comrade Stalin used to say, but the law is the law.

Where there are guns, there are criminals. Where there are criminals, there are guns.

It's as simple as two and two. Take America.

Guns over the roof.

Crimes to match.

Over two million behind bars—a world record.

Impressive.

I won't let them take me alive.

Fact.

And why would they want me alive?

Their plan is simple: kill me and disappear.

Hide behind a hill with a sniper rifle, pick up the shell casings, leave no trace. The police won't care about a body in the mountains—especially if you roll it into a hole and cover it with sand.

I'd do the same in their place.

But their misfortune is that I'm on this side—and they're on the side of Evil.

In the dark, it'll be harder for them to hit me.

Especially since I'm wearing the khaki suit I found in the basement. I didn't smear my face with soot like the paratroopers—too much hassle to wash off later.

People in this area? Nobody.

Everyone's home, watching TV, drinking beer.

Who's out at night?

A warm breeze.

The rustling of bushes.

Snakes could be nesting there—they crawl into cool mountainous areas in the heat. They react to body heat.

No problem—I react to heat as well as a rattlesnake.

One blood for you and me.

And I don't need binoculars—I see everything that moves in infrared.

Well, brother, time to move.

Time to play live target.

I closed the door carefully, so the lock wouldn't click—what if it jammed later?

Rule number one:

First look, then judge.

An ambush, no doubt.

But where?

If only I'd known, I'd have laid down some straw.

I rely on instinct and common sense—gifts of nature and God.

Uh-huh...

What's that over the hill?

A hidden car?

An engine just arrived—the engine's still warm. I can smell the oil.

A black Jeep Wrangler Unlimited.

Tinted windows.

There was no one inside.

Strange.

Or maybe not at all strange—the passengers had taken their seats, waiting for me. They're eagerly awaiting my end of the deal and heading to the bar for a beer.

Fools.

I won't give them that satisfaction.

And there's one of them—lying behind a cactus with a rifle, like a child playing hide-and-seek, thinking that closing his eyes will make him invisible.

How many are there?

Hopefully, without night vision goggles—less trouble for me.

If they're experienced, they'll aim from all sides and shoot as soon as they spot me.

But they don't know that in this state, I'm not quite human.

Let them look for a human—they won't notice a cat on a walk. A mass hallucination from a magician.

I feel sorry for them – incredibly naive.

Shoot first?

Not my rule.

But rules are meant to be broken when necessary.

Time to shoot.

And I fired.

The red laser dot settled on the silhouette…

A smooth descent…

One enemy less.

He didn't even flinch.

This is the Alpha in action – with a silencer, of course.

Silence.

Like a pine forest before a storm.

I can wait an hour or two without moving – I am a cat, after all.

A shot?

So what?

Maybe some farmer fired into the air to scare the wolves.

Life is full of surprises.

And then there's the second one.

Moving sideways, like a crab.

Probably wondering why his friend isn't responding.

Fool. He should be crawling, but he stands up straight, like an Olympic sprinter.

Who teaches them tactics?

We'll teach them.

A short splash—from the heart.

He falls.

Without rising.

Now, the third—thirds are a charm.

He must be near the car.

Let's look at the heroes.

Ah...

Ordinary workers from El Paraiso.

Untrained.

Mobilized for odd jobs.

Probably migrants—Mexicans or Peruvians—sending money home.

No one will notice them.

And here's the third.

Alive—trembling behind a bush.

Unarmed.

And how did I not recognize him right away?

Señor Olivares himself.

In exotic attire for his age and status: flowered shorts, a cowboy hat, rubber sneakers—probably afraid of snakes and scorpions. The real David Livingstone—explorer of the Zambezi swamps and discoverer of Victoria Falls, where grateful locals erected a monument with the motto:

“Christianity, Commerce, and Civilization.”

He's the one I need.