Balázs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Northern Passage

When her long hair falls over her shoulders, the Chechen gasps with surprise. Tarasov steps closer to him.

“What did you just say?”

“Is she your wife?”

“Yes she is,” Tarasov shouts at him, ”and I will teach you manners!”

He lands a kick in the abdomen of the Chechen mobster who bends forward with a gasp of pain. Tarasov grabs his arm, turns him around and pulls him backwards over to himself. He takes the head of the Bandit between his hands and twists it violently. Vertebrae break with a faint crack. Tarasov lets off the dead mobster collapse at his feet.

The three other Chechens have barely realized what was happening in the past few seconds. By the time they reach for their weapons, Hartman already has his M1911 pointed at them.

“Back off, whatever crazy lingo you speak!”

Tarasov gives them a cold look.

“He was looking at her in a bad way,” he says, then points to the Chechen’s body where the head is jolted over the shoulder in a disturbingly unnatural way. “Now he is looking at her in a good way.”

The three Chechens exchange looks of shock. Then the tallest gives Tarasov a killer’s gaze.

“You will die for that.”

“No. I will kill you if you approach her ever again,” Tarasov says. “I don’t want to do anything with scum like you who call me a brother but don’t give a woman under my protection the respect she deserves. Now take your vasha and get out off my sight!”

Eventually, the three Chechens back off and leave without a word, carrying the body with them. Their silence appears more menacing than if they were cursing and threatening.

“Phew,” Hartman sighs. “Next time you tell me in advance, will you?”

“Was that really necessary?” Nooria asks.

“First, I made sure that no one will ever set an eye on you. Second, they would have blown my cover in a moment. Third, these obshina guys are the most dangerous in all the Russian underworld. Don’t shed any tears over him.”

“Now you’ve made an enemy out of the obshina or whatever they are called,” Pete says with a headshake. “Bravo.”

“An enemy?” Tarasov snorts. “Why, do we have any friends here? All I see is enemies.”

“You’re wrong, brother,” someone says nearby. The voice is English but obviously spoken by a Russian. “Those cocksuckers were bullying us long enough. Guess I’m not the only friend you’ve just made!”

It is the man in Duty’s light black armor speaking.

“Yes, I’m meaning it. You’ll have all the rookies’ gratitude for teaching them a lesson!”

“Bandits skinning Bandits?” Pete says. “This place is more screwed up than I had thought.”

“Every man for himself, might makes right—pick your meaning,” the Dutyer shrugs.

“Ain’t that Jack character supposed to keep order here?” the Top asks.

“He does. Shit flows down, loot goes up. That’s the local law. Anyway—”

The Dutyer cuts his sentence when Jack himself appears and approaches the campfire with two Mercenaries in tow. The Bandit who they saw sleeping in his headquarters is also with him, still yawning but looking very martial with a grenade belt over his assault vest and an RG-6 grenade launcher in his hands.

“You bloody newcomers just don’t know how to behave,” the Bandit leader snaps. “If you weren’t with Margarita I’d just kick your fucking butt into an anomaly. Whaddafuck were you thinking, huh?”

Tarasov gives him a bold grin. “What did you expect? Solving our differences with peaceful dialogue or what? That prick was looking at Margarita with eyes bulging, goddammit!”

“And then you break his fucking neck? Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking savages… Luckily for you, I need a badass like you. See, you’re my ’ace in the hole’, as they say in America. I have a stone in my shoe. You can remove it.”

The Top quietly coughs.

“I’m all ears,” Tarasov says trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Sultan needs us to secure three positions in the area. This Warehouse and the Jupiter Plant are already ours. Now I need you to take a few hardy fellas and clean the helipads. Some crazy Loners have nestled in there. We need to press alt-control-delete on their activities.”

“What’s the big fuss?” Tarasov asks suspecting a snatch. “You have many men here, some of them armed much better than we are. Why don’t you just wipe those Stalkers out?”

“I give you a dozen badass brothers but someone needs to lead them. Friar told me you are pretty good leader. Is that right?”

“Fuck that cretin,” Tarasov grumbles.

“I take that as a yes. You must make sure that this fellow gets in one piece to the wrecked chopper blocking the landing pads.”

“I don’t follow.”

That’s Abdul, our man from Dagestan,” Jack gives the sleepy Bandit a patronizing pat on the back. “You love blowin’ things up, right?”

“Bombs are great!” the Bandit called Abdul replies with an eager nod.

“He’ll take care of that wreck. He’s also the only one in your team who speaks English.”

“A Dagestani who speaks English?”

“Grew up in Northern London, mate,” Abdul says with a genuine Estuary accent. “Finsbury Park. Suppose you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“If you want to help us, get moving,” Jack impatiently says. “If you don’t — there’s no such option.”

“What about her?” Tarasov asks pointing at Nooria.

“She’ll stay.”

“Then you were wrong about refusing to help you not being an option.”

“You nuts? She is Sultan’s own assassin. No one dares to hurt her, especially after you broke that darkie’s neck!”

Tarasov looks at Nooria who just looks at her feet and chews on her lips. However, this is not a time to ask her questions.

In ten minutes, Tarasov, Pete and Hartman are on their way to the helipads with a group of Bandits. The Dutyer is among them and, breaching every sound discipline, exchanges loud insults with the Bandit wearing a Freedom suit.

“Hey, anarchist. You’re wearing your armor the wrong way. The Kevlar shouldn’t cover your chest but your butt. That’s where most of you get shot at, you know?”

“You can’t talk about armor. Even the meat inside my can of tourist’s breakfast is better protected than you in that black ninja suit.”

“You two!” Tarasov says. “Keep your voices down! Where do you think you are, on a stroll in a park or what?”

“Sorry, boss,” the Freedomer replies in a low voice.

“Tell me something,” Tarasov continues, keeping his voice down too. “You know that veteran Bandit with the Vintorez and army-issue Mark-II exoskeleton?”

“You must be meaning Dimitry Molotov,” responds the Dutyer. “Strange guy. Mostly keeps to himself, though. Why?”

“I didn’t like the stare he gave me when I arrived.”

“Why, did you expect a kiss on your mouth or what?”

“Well, never mind. Fuhgeddaboutit.”

“Hope dis guna be like me last raid,” a Bandit remarks behind them. “Went to da Garbage with a few fellas. See a free Stalker comin’ from da north. I says, now whatta strange guy that one is, strollin’ down da road as if it were his own. So, I ask him, yo tipa , ya gotta pay a road toll. He says fuck you and draws his AK. Then all the fellas come chargin’ from them bushes. Stalker tries to run away and then, bang! steps into a Vortex and all we see is him flyin’ up with a whoosh and then boom, we just stand there, body parts rainin’ out on us. His liver there, his arm here, and his rucksack right at me feet. All I had to do was to pick it up, hahaha!”

The Bandits laugh with him.