Oleg Volkov

The sand crunched between his teeth. Oleg walked along the dry riverbed, blending into the shadows of rusty barrels and abandoned vehicles. The mission was clear: the enemy was alone, in the desert. Elimination without interrogation.

His keen gaze, having seen much over the years, instantly caught movement near the iron barn. Someone darted inside.

Volkov stepped silently. The barn doors were wide open—an invitation to a trap.

The inside smelled of burning and ozone. It was empty. Only streaks of sunlight filtered through the leaky roof. A chill ran through his heart: the game hadn't started on his terms.

At that very moment, there was a whistle of air past his ear. Fingers grabbed his shoulders, and a jerk knocked him off his feet. Oleg tumbled over the other man's shoulder like a rag doll and landed on his back, his opponent already bearing down on him, trying to secure a choke on his neck.

Years of reflexes kicked in faster than fear. Volkov jerked his hips up, shifted his center of gravity, and crashed down on his enemy with all his weight, turning the tables. His left knee landed on his opponent's chest, his right hand ripping open his black mask.

The fabric crackled. A face emerged into the light—sharp, with eyes almost wolfish, as hungry and wild as his own.

A girl. The enemy turned out to be a girl. But the tattoo on her neck—a crossed-out scorpion—marked her as a professional assassin from a rival clan. The same mannerisms. And the hatred in their pupils—absolutely mutual. They stared at each other like two cornered animals, ready to tear each other's throats out.

Oleg exhaled hoarsely:

• You…

The girl suddenly smiled at the corner of her lips. And her hand slid to his thigh, where his own magazine, dropped from his holster, gleamed dully.

— Long time no see, Volkov...