Dania Kashin/Kamaz trucks

The industrial zone is quiet. That's a bad sign. Usually, dogs bark or drunken welders yell, but today the wind blows only dust and old wanted posters. A bass note breaks the silence. At first, it's distant, then it gets closer.

A black SUV comes flying around the corner of the auto repair shop. The windows are completely tinted, the sides are dirty, the powerful engine roars like a beast. Inside, the speaker is blaring loudly—the track "Black Gun" is playing. That's the moment when the guitar starts to rattle like a machine gun.

Danila Kashin is behind the wheel. His hair is as red as an autumn maple, but his gaze is icy, the color of his blue eyes. He doesn't smile. He peers into the rearview mirrors. Today, he crossed the wrong people. The Sevres at the Southern Markets decided that Danila was playing too loudly on their turf. But playing loudly is Kashin's style.

"Ilya, are you ready?" Kashin's voice rasps through the cigarette smoke.

Ilya Koryakov sits in the passenger seat, relaxed as if in a lounge chair. His black hair is long, his green eyes cold and piercing, like those of a predator in ambush. A gun rests on his lap. Ilya loves this game—when the window rolls down a couple of centimeters, and the headlights of an oncoming car burst, accompanied by a "pa-pam-pam-pam!" chant in time to the chorus.

"Let's go," Ilya replies, clicking the shutter. "Just at the exit at the traffic light, there's a white Toyota. Three of them. The windows are tinted, but I saw the lens flash. They're tracking us."

Kashin hits the gas. The jeep explodes through puddles. The track fades to its opening: "Pow-wow—these aren't toys..."