Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

“A mini-AK, a shotgun, and a pistol with silencer.”

“The mini-AK’s nothing special. But that’s no ordinary shotgun, it’s a Mossberg 590 with special modifications. That’s a pretty rare gun round these parts. His pistol’s no standard police Yarygin, either. It’s a SIG Sauer P220. That’s not a common gun even in Europe, and certainly not in that edition. Even the bullets are special subsonic rounds for use with a silencer. Pyotr helped me make an accurate assessment of the guy. He’s a man used to working at close range, point-blank even. He’s not just some average Scav, he’s a killer. A killer capable of getting right up close to his target. Moreover, he’s not trying to hide his profession. He mentioned Driller. What do you know about that guy?”

“Just a regular customer like all the others.”

“There can’t be many others like him! Dronov is a very high-class programmer and a talented hacker. Among his clients have been the sort of people who hack bank accounts professionally. Getting through other people’s defenses is a question of not if but when for him. And our guest was the one sent to deal with him. Who did he manage to piss off that badly?”

“Well, chief, if it’s like that…”

“Do you have any other explanation?”

“No, not yet.”

“He mentioned a name – the Predator. Find out everything about him. Who is this mysterious guy who sends out professional killers as his representatives? I have to know!

So here I am again, going all around the houses. Looking back, I’m genuinely surprised that I actually managed to get here. I’ve certainly become a little more careful now. I’ve gained some experience, probably. I don’t look at doors and windows the same way anymore. I perceive sounds completely differently. And when I see a flash of sunlight reflecting off anything metal, I immediately try to duck out of the way of potential sniper fire. True, I doubt those snipers are actually sitting at every corner, but better safe than sorry.

For the night, as usual, I break into an abandoned flat. Ivan came up with a great idea, and now when I close the door I always stick a piece of plastic between the top of the door and the frame. On top of it, I place the same mixture of spoons, forks and so forth. The slightest shove on the door thus produces a thundering cascade of cutlery that’s enough to wake the dead. It’s also on Ivan’s advice that I always break open two flats, setting up my noise trap in one, and actually sleeping in the other. If somebody comes up the stairs, they’ll always pop into the closest flat first. When they hear all the noise and commotion, they’ll search every square inch in there, but find nothing. I, meanwhile, will be woken up by the clatter and have time to get ready to meet them.

In fact, the former policeman turned out to be a very savvy expert on a number of matters. I was very lucky to spend a few days in his company. It’s no exaggeration to say that he was an excellent teacher. And I hope it’s fair to say that I’m not the worst student, either.

The next day dawned prosaically gray like all the ones before it. Sticking close to buildings as usual as I made my way, it occurred to me all of sudden just how difficult it would be to get about once the first snow had fallen. The leaves will fall, and the rich shrubbery that formed the main decoration of the city will no longer provide cover for people to move around in. What’s going to happen then? My footprints will inevitably lead straight to my hideout, and it’s not likely there’ll be any street sweepers out clearing the snow any time soon.

A gun fires somewhere around, and I immediately I’m all ears. I dash for the cover of the nearest wall and freeze. A few seconds pass, and there’s another rattle of gunfire. The shootout gets hotter and hotter, with neither side sparing their ammo. To be frank, I couldn’t give a shit about their bickering. Whatever it is they’re fighting over, it’s got nothing to do with me. I just want to get past them, and there’s no need to involve me in the argument. I’ve got enough problems of my own. Sadly, getting round the spot they’ve chosen for their showdown isn’t going to be easy. To the left is a public park, wide open and easy to fire on, and to the right is the long, high fence of some factory or other. At the best of times, you’d think long and hard before trying to get over it. Besides, I have absolutely no idea what’s on the other side. Very well, I’ll try to keep shuffling along in the shadow of the buildings.

For the first three hundred metres, I literally crawl on my hands and knees, expecting to be shot at any moment. But it seems like the fighters don’t have time to look around them. I guess they can see their opponents clearly enough as it is.

Through a gap in the bushes, I see a car keeled over on its side. Working out what exactly happened to it and why it can’t go any further is a long way down my list of priorities right now. All that matters is that right next to it are lying a couple of unfamiliar guys, obdurately spraying everything in the vicinity with lead. From somewhere to one side, their opponents pummel them in return. There’s no way to tell who’s attacking and who’s defending. Frankly, who gives a shit?

I lie down on my belly and ever so slowly crawl past them. Your squabbles have nothing to do with me. I’m already past the car that’s spitting fire. Behind me to the right, an assault rifle is hammering away methodically. Here’s a courtyard that I can turn into at last, and get as far away from here as possible. I’m already unimaginably tired of all this. I’m sweating like I’ve been carrying the beam, and my backpack keeps climbing up the back of my head. Wait a bit, it’s got a waist strap! Why the hell haven’t I been using it? I get round the corner and slither down the steps to a door leading into the basement. Here I can crouch for a while and get myself together. I’ve got past the main gunfight, so there’s a chance I’ll be able to get away unnoticed. I get my breath back a little. Once I’ve got a little further away, I’ll be able to sit down and have a proper rest. I’ll be able to dry my shirt out at last.

Holding my shotgun at the ready, I climb up the steps and bump into a great big guy in camouflage. The man is sitting a metre from the steps and aiming his assault rifle at something in the distance. It seems that while I was having a breather by the basement entrance, he was quietly making his way over here. Clearly, he’s not after me.

But how do I explain that to him? Hearing movement behind him, the guy turns straight round to face me and aims his rifle barrel. One of us is about to get shot. But I pull the trigger first. The shotgun gives a deafening report as usual, and the guy is thrown over on his back. I jump out from the stairwell and see a few more men about twenty metres away. By the look of it, they were what the guy I’ve just shot was aiming at. They’re at a disadvantage, as they’re standing either side on or with their backs to me. If I start firing now, then I’ll hit practically all of them. Of course, at this distance, the buckshot is considerably less deadly, but it can still cause some nasty wounds. And none of them know what my shotgun’s loaded with. On the other hand, I’m not planning to shoot them. All I want to do is get out of here.

We’re at an impasse. They’re afraid to move, in case it prompts me to start shooting, and I don’t know how best to walk away. The greater the distance between us, the greater their advantage. Finally, I make up my mind. I slowly raise my left hand and make a gesture that means something like: “Go on, lads, get out of here.” Apparently, they understand it, and begin to move backwards towards the nearest corner. I step away in the other direction – one step, two steps, and I jump round the corner. Time for me to get out of here as quickly as possible.