Taking Lives

Chapter 2. Baptism by Fire (7)

The battlefield itself, if you can call a tiny hamlet hidden in the forest that, consisted of twelve one-story log cabins and a few dilapidated sheds arranged in a semicircle. A little over forty people lived there, and almost all of them disappeared into the forest. All but two men, who expressed a desire to join Rodionov in the upcoming skirmish.

Although they were father and son, they looked completely different. The father's name was Tolya. He was broad-shouldered, with a truly powerful, rustic build, and looked about forty-five. A week's worth of stubble, a sullen look in his brown eyes, and fists as huge as blacksmith's hammers spoke volumes about his firm and decisive character. Besides his natural gifts, he added a small bonus to the squad's firepower in the form of a double-barreled hunting rifle. His son, Kirill, was completely unlike his father: short, frail, and taciturn, he looked more like a village simpleton, and some of the soldiers even joked that he was probably adopted.

Listening to their jokes, Andrei couldn't help but wonder what Tolya would say if he heard them. Tolya himself had joined the main group, but was absent for now, and Max had tasked Kirill with hiding near the village and keeping an eye out for the arrival of those they had been so eagerly awaiting.

Before the soldiers went off to set up positions, Rodionov addressed them with a short speech.

"So, greenhorns, are you ready for a fight?" he asked, smiling.

A faint, uneven murmur of voices responded. There was a lack of enthusiasm, but that didn't bother Rodionov. It seemed he was generally unfazed by little.

"Ready, then. Well, fine. Here's what I want to say. You're afraid now, don't hide it—I know it. But that only means you realize you can handle it, otherwise you simply wouldn't have picked up a weapon. For those who still have doubts, if any, I'll tell you this: I know what murder is and how it affects a person, I know that combat is madness that will forever remain in the heart. And I know what you're all thinking about. But when it starts..." Max glanced at everyone. "Don't forget for a second that if you don't have the courage to shoot, you'll die, because the enemy will shoot, have no doubt about it. Remember that your enemy is not people, but beasts, scum, scum who robbed you, killed and r***d you, enslaved you, and abused people just like you." And if we don't kill them all, they'll do the same to you, your wives, daughters, friends, and relatives, perhaps even before your very eyes. So we'll kill them all! Get to work!

5

They had barely secured the farmstead when the rain began again, and it hadn't stopped for the second day. The soldiers sat idle and were clearly bored. The tension had eased somewhat, but not enough to allow them to relax. Only Rodionov could be openly bored—for him, the upcoming battle was nothing new. Although more than twelve years had passed since his last battle, the instincts and reflexes honed over years of service were still there—they had simply lain dormant, and now they were awakened again. Max intended to take the most active and direct part in the battle, even though Gronin had asked him not to plunge into the thick of things without a compelling reason and not risk his life, as the organization couldn't afford to lose such a professional.

Requests were requests, but Max couldn’t afford not to give his all, especially when he wasn’t just part of a squad, but was its commander.

Rodionov was dejectedly picking at the wooden tabletop with a knife, carving all sorts of nonsense into it. Next to him, leaning his elbows on the table and holding his head in his hands, sat a pensive Andrey. Rodionov occasionally glanced at the boy sideways, but didn't speak to him. Not at all.

About an hour passed like this. Either Max was tired of torturing the table, or tired of remaining silent, but for some reason he spoke. For the first time since Andrei's memorable meeting with Gronin, the major addressed him.

“Are you worried?” he asked suddenly.

Andrey flinched in surprise.

- What?

- I ask, how are you feeling?

For a few seconds, Romanov looked at the commander with detachment, then lowered his head again and stared at the tabletop.

“I’m worried,” he said shortly.

- Are you afraid of dying?

Andrey thought for a moment before answering.

"No. I've somehow come to terms with it and consciously accept the risk. What scares me is the thought of having to kill myself..."

"You said you've killed before, right? In Prokhorovka."

"Yes, and it haunted me later. But then I stood up for a defenseless girl, and here I have to be in their place myself—become a predator and a murderer."

Rodionov looked at Andrey with bewilderment.

"Do you understand that they'll kill you if you don't kill them?" he asked casually, as if they were talking about digging potatoes.

"Yes. And I hope I'm ready to kill them sooner. But I'm still terrified to think of becoming like them."

Max's expression changed momentarily, becoming friendlier. But only for a second, so Andrey didn't notice.

"You'll never be like them if you care about such things," he said confidently. "Unless you want it, of course. Those bastards kill for pleasure, on a whim, but you'll kill to protect the oppressed... You say they're predators? You're wrong. A predator kills to survive. It won't hunt when it's full. Murderers kill because they enjoy it, they get a thrill from the process itself, from the awareness of what they're doing. And we're a third category—soldiers. We kill to defend what's dear to us: our homeland, our family and friends, our principles or ideals... Everyone has their own reasons."