25
Peter
“Are you going to see her again tonight?” Anton asks in Russian, looking up from the laptop as I enter the living room. As usual, the former pilot is dressed in black from head to toe and armed to the teeth, even though our suburban hideout is as safe as it gets. Like the rest of my crew, he’s a lethal motherfucker, and though we often rib him about his hipster-ish long hair and thick black beard, he looks exactly like what he is: a former Spetsnaz assassin.
“Of course,” I reply, also speaking Russian.
Stopping by the coffee table next to the couch where Anton is sitting, I take off my leather jacket and remove the arsenal of weapons attached to my vest. When I go see Sara, I only bring one gun and a couple of knives with me, all strategically hidden in the inner pockets of my
