Mikhail
“Sergei!” I hit the door with my palm the third time. “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down.”
The alarm buzzes and the lock clicks. I grab the handle, open the door and step inside.
“Don’t you dare shoot at me!” I yell into the empty living room. “And rein in that beast of yours.”
“You can’t break a reinforced door that costs more than a car, dickhead.” I hear Sergei’s voice from the kitchen and head that way, then stop in my tracks at the threshold.
Sergei is sitting at the table in the middle of the kitchen, with a disassembled sniper rifle in front of him, polishing one of its parts and whistling. The whole surface of a six-seat table is piled with weapons of various kinds. Guns, knives, automatic and semiautomatic rifles, and God knows what else is t
