Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

I jump up and take Mishka’s laptop out of the cupboard. It’s time I took a look at it. The computer in front of me is, as I expected, pretty sophisticated. Dronov had not put a password on it, whether as a result of his self-confidence or for some other reason. The screen lit up as soon as I pushed the power button. In fact, remembering the intrusive supervision that those tunnel-dwellers had kept up, I’m really not surprised there’s no password. I remember reading in some clever book that an assiduous guard can easily turn into a jailer, and I think that applies pretty well to this situation.

One of the gadgets attached by a cable to the laptop turns out to be a reader for the codes from those very memory sticks. The ones that had a code on them, obviously. The second was for writing the code once read onto a new storage device. As it is, I don’t have any other storage devices, but still…

According to Mishka’s notes, they had fully mastered the process of reading the codes, and there were already several key files saved in the corresponding directory. All that remained was to put a new memory stick in the port of the writing device. Of course, there was one more little problem – I still had no idea what locks those keys would fit into. Never mind, there’ll be time to think about that later.

Flicking through Mishka’s files, I found another interesting folder. From what I could see, it contained information copied from the different keys. Dronov’s pedantry – a quality he could exercise when the job at hand demanded – had prompted him to label each file with a descriptive title that contained the number of the key if it had one, the date the file had been copied, and the name and surname of the owner. True, in most cases that field was left blank. After all that information came the text of the file itself.

I got caught up in the texts, and it was only the warning beep telling me that the battery was critically low and the computer would shut down automatically in a few minutes that brought me back to myself. There was nothing I could do – there was still no electricity in my basement – so I regretfully switched off the laptop.

I stay seated for a while, trying to put together a full picture from the pieces of the puzzle I’ve obtained from reading part of the files. What I can make out so far is this: The management of the transnational corporations headquartered in our city not only knew of the possibility there would be an evacuation, they were actively preparing for it. At the very least, they had no intention of preventing or delaying it. Moreover, they were planning to use the circumstances for their own purposes. From what I could understand, they also intended to evacuate a significant part of the ordinary staff from Tarkov, exploiting the measures taken by the municipal government. With this in mind, they had halted and mothballed production. It was mentioned that there had been some unexpected difficulties with this, the cause of which nobody understood. There was one thing that made me freeze in front of the screen for several minutes: “They’re already here.” These words were repeated in the text several times, and from the context it was clear that the writer was describing something he was thoroughly familiar with. He might well have been, but I’ve no idea what he means. I’d only ever heard that phrase once, and that was from the lips of the tunnel-dwelling interrogator. So you can guess who picked up the phrase from whom. The owner of the memory stick presumably knew something about that mysterious group, but hadn’t got round to putting whatever it was he knew in writing. So now I’m sitting here in front of the screen, scratching my head. Anyway, the computer’s switched off, and my appetite for work has abated. Now I can get some sleep.

The next day, I made my way to the shopkeeper’s again, having decided to get one of the bandits at the checkpoint to help me carry my goods. I’ve no doubt Vova will be happy to assign someone the task – by entrusting him with the role of middleman between the gang and the shopkeeper, their boss has already de facto raised him in the ranks. I imagine he no longer has to do sentry duty, and that’s a significant promotion in its way. Of course, it could all be a very temporary benefit. All it takes is a stronger gang with greater numbers to come along, and Vova will be back to hiding in basements, cowering from his enemies’ bullets. And in all honesty, I’m not much better off than him in that respect. At least he’s got a gang behind him, and what have I got? A mythical figure that nobody’s actually ever seen. A great deal of good he’s going to do me!

All these thoughts flew from my head, however, when I saw on a very familiar doorway a diagonal line drawn in chalk. The bandits’ boss wants a meeting. So, what are the risks in that? I doubt very much he’s inviting me for tea and crumpets. Finding a burnt piece of wood nearby – that’s quite a feat of memory, recalling that there was a bonfire here – I strike through the line with it, and then continue on my way to the bandits’ checkpoint.

It turned out Vova was on duty there, and he had no objection to arranging a couple of porters for me. After his parting words to them, they looked at me with unconcealed respect and even a little fear. With their help, I was able to get most of the load of goods home in one go. Pointing the bandits to a hidey-hole in the basement of the neighbouring building, I watch as they stash the tins and boxes in there. Then I ask them to step aside, and spend some time working my magic around my stores, demonstratively stretching thread and wire here and there. Let them think I’m booby-trapping the place. At the very least, their desire to come back and check out my stash by themselves will be gone before it’s even formed in their brains. And I’ll move everything over to my basement during the night.

I’m back in the same now very familiar entryway. I sit on the first-floor landing, examining the handiwork of the shopkeeper’s craftsmen. You have to give them their due. In skilled hands – not mine, obviously – Shorty has been completely transformed. In place of the wooden forestock, there’s now a latticed metal construction with a comfortable handle attached to the bottom. Affixed to the side of it is a powerful torch. Alright, so I don’t think I really need the torch much, but it does have another very useful gadget – a laser target finder. For a marksman like me, that’s an indispensable bonus. A mount has been attached to the top of the gun, on which has been placed a new sight. Not the sort that I’ve seen in movies on sniper rifles – this one’s completely different. In the middle of the lens there’s a shining red dot. Pavel showed me how to adjust and turn on the sight. The transformation was completed by a strangely-shaped fat metal tube attached directly to the barrel. As Sledgehammer explained, this is a silencer. Somehow, I don’t remember anything like it from my army days, and the silencer on my pistol looks completely different. True, I doubt very much that an assault rifle is ever going to fire as quietly as my pistol. The bullets are a lot bigger, after all, and the kick it gives is considerably more powerful. When he handed Shorty back to me, Pavel explained that it’s sighted at a hundred metres. In all honesty, I doubt I could hit a parked car at that distance, but I didn’t let on. I thanked him and slung the gun on my back. Chances are it will just sit in my basement waiting for its moment, and that moment will never come. My trusty shotgun, on the other hand, I did my very best to clean the day before. It took a whole lot of time, but I did manage to get the dirt off it somehow.

A door slams downstairs, and I hear footsteps. Glancing round the corner, I see the back of the bandit’s boss as he heads for the door.