Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

“You weren’t expecting me back, were you?”

He slowly raises his head.

“You?”

“No, the ghost of Hamlet’s fucking father.”

“How? Did they let you go?”

“You know, I somehow forgot to ask their permission.”

I shift slightly to the side, to make sure I can’t be seen from the front door. As I move, my waistcoat swings open, and I notice how Mishka’s eyes widen. What’s that about? Ah, it’s because he’s seen the knife hanging on my belt!

“You recognize that? I had a chat with its former owner.”

“He… What’s happened to him?”

“He died suddenly. You know, when you get the butt of a gun in your face it doesn’t do much good for your health, not to mention your longevity.”

Mishka’s face twists up suddenly. I can’t even work out what’s making him grimace like that – pain, confusion, or something else.

“Did you kill him?”

“What do you think? Did you think you could rat me out to those guys and everything would be super-duper? I hate to disappoint you, but you were sorely mistaken. You can’t afford to sell out all your friends. Move over there.”

I use the barrel of my gun to point clearly to the corner of the room. My former friend stands up and retreats until his back comes up against the wall. I go over to his desk and, keeping the gun on him, I shut the laptop with my left hand. I place the peculiar attachments that are connected to it on top.

“How did you call those bastards?”

“You just have to twitch the curtains in the flat next door. They’re close by and they come immediately.”

“Well then, you can try to betray me again. But I warn you now it’ll be your last chance, and I recommend you take my warning seriously. It’s not as easy as all that to scare the Predator.”

“The Predator? Who’s that?”

“What did you think? That I just came to see you for the fun of it, because I had nothing better to do? And that I was the one who killed the bastard in the tunnel? It’s fishing with live bait, old boy. You were made, and it happened a long time ago. Turn to the window and count to a hundred. Out loud. And if you miss a single number, then god help you!”

I grab the laptop from the table and make my way backwards out of the flat. I slip quickly next door and shove the computer into my half empty backpack. I’m going to look a bit strange carrying the backpack and the new bag of loot at the same time, but I don’t have time now to sort them out. The new bag also has straps, and I fasten it roughly to the backpack. No longer trying to sneak around, I run down the stairs. As I turn from the first-floor landing, I hear a burst of gunfire below. Then another, and another.

So, Mishka didn’t bother counting to a hundred.

Holding my gun at the ready, I glance out onto the street. I see Ivan sitting on the ground and expertly searching a dead boy. See, that’s what police training does for you. A little distance from him, I see two more dead. From the look of it, all three of them jumped out at the distress signal, and all three of them went down.

“Need any help?”

“No, they’re all cold,” answers Ivan calmly. “Take a look at the one further over there. He might still be twitching.”

I move closer. No, there’s nothing to deal with here. The amount of blood beneath this guy’s body is enough to know he won’t be taking any meaningful action ever again.

“Looks like he’s done.”

“Then go through his pockets.”

That’s a sensible suggestion. We need to get out of here as quickly as possible. That’s exactly why I’m not heading back upstairs to seek out my former friend. For some reason, I suspect that his new friends will find him soon enough, and they’ll have some very awkward questions for him. I’d give a great deal to see how he manages to worm himself out of that one.

Having rapidly searched the pockets of these unwelcome “rescuers”, we take a good look around, cross the street, and take cover between buildings. We then climb to the first floor of some two-storey building that, by the look of it, used to be a kindergarten. Here we can finally relax a little and get ourselves together. From the recently departed trio, we have inherited two shotguns – one pump-action and one double-barrel – and an assault rifle. There were about thirty rounds of all kinds of ammo for the shotguns – birdshot, buckshot, and slugs. For the assault rifle there was only one magazine, and unfortunately the ammo wasn’t the same as for the gun we’d taken from the guard in the tunnel. The tunnel-dweller’s rifle was 7.62 mm calibre, while his overground colleague had a 5.45 mm gun. After some consideration, Ivan chooses to keep the gun he has.

“It’s older, but it’s a lot more powerful. Plus, when necessary I can give someone a good smack with the butt. This one’s got a fold-up stock, and it’s not fixed on properly. Look, it won’t even fold up properly. Not to mention that it’s only got one magazine.”

After a moment’s thought, I give him the looted pistol. The one I took off the interrogator’s guard in the tunnel. True, it doesn’t have a full magazine, but it’s still better than nothing. We share out the rest of the stuff we took from the “rescuers” in a similarly friendly manner. Taking a look at my companions, I suggest that we eat something. I still have some food in my backpack.

“Good idea,” he nods, “but first I need a nap. I don’t feel too good.”

He goes to the end of the room, where there’s a pile of rags next to the wall. He stretches himself out on them, then slides back the bolt of his pistol and tucks it under his arm. See, that’s what a pro does – thinks about protecting himself first and foremost. I’ll take note of that useful demonstration.

I drag my backpack and my kit bag in front of me, and begin by pulling out a tin of meat and two packs of hardtack. That should be enough for a quick snack. Rummaging in my backpack, I add a bottle of mineral water. You can’t go wrong with that. That reminds me, I need to go through the interrogator’s bag. It’s fairly heavy, so there could be some useful stuff in there.

I move over to the windowsill and begin laying out the contents on it. While I’m at it, I take a look outside, just in case. Although Ivan did explain that any pursuers will start by trying to block all escape routes, which means that they’ll be headed quite a long way from the site of our recent fight. Nobody’s going to look right under their own nose, as it defies all logic. I won’t argue, as I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. Long years of police service must mean something. I’ve found myself a resourceful and competent companion, and I’ve no complaints.

So, there’s my syringe of morphine, my cigarettes, my matches, and my lighters – everything I was planning to trade with the shopkeeper’s rival. All that goes back in my backpack. It’s mine, and I don’t intend to share it.

A box of pistol ammo. My initial excitement gives way to disappointment when I open it, and I push the box to one side. The shells in my gun don’t look anything like that. They seem to be about the same calibre, but I doubt very much they’ll fit. I pull a bullet out of my pistol for comparison. Sadly, this box won’t be any use to me as ammo. Still, it’s a good thing to trade. Regretfully, I put it to one side.

The next box cheers me up, however. The bullets in it look very much the same as mine, although the tips are painted a blue colour for some reason. That must mean something. Anyway, they fit my pistol, and so I put them straight in my backpack.

Next to see daylight is a whole smoked sausage, which is very much what I’m looking for. There’s also a tin of fish and a pack of bread snacks. Nothing to write home about, but that’s another little meal right there.