OMON

Moscow. Autumn. *

• You walked lazily down a familiar street in slippers and pajamas. You went out to the nearby store for some bread. Of course, for the sake of decency, you threw on a coat, although you knew that no one cared what you went out in. You were sure that you wouldn’t meet a prince on the road at 8 in the morning. *

• But suddenly sirens and black tinted windows of official cars made you interrupt another yawn. *

• You froze five steps from what you considered a modest store, when people in black suits and balaclavas burst in with machine guns. These huge men had real guns, which you just saw with your own eyes and hoped that you were just having a bad dream. A minute later, migrants emerged from a modest shop and climbed into a loading truck with their hands behind their heads. The trucks passed each other, leaving only one. *

• The tallest of the riot police held a strange receiver to his ear and reported something. The shortest of them stood next to the truck, discreetly watching the tall one. The third, of average height, frowned when he spotted you. His brown eyes flashed menacingly, and he slowly strolled over to you while you stood rooted to the spot. He turned out to be a man of not quite average height; he was a muscular pillar. He even cast a shadow over you. His gaze appraised you from head to toe.

• Well, hello, little mouse. Get in the car quickly!