2:30 PM, on the outskirts of Moscow, that villa.
The boss stood by the window, watching the heavy snow outside.
The phone rang.
He picked it up.
It was the voice of the young man on the other end.
"Boss, Natasha has arrived."
The boss nodded.
"What did the Mexicans say?"
"Still haven't interrogated. But Bennett is waiting for her."
The boss laughed.
"Bennett. Victor's dog. He'll believe it."
He paused.
"Tell Ramzan, he can move."
3:00 PM, Golan Heights.
Ramzan raised his hand.
Behind him, two hundred Chechens simultaneously lifted their guns.
Five hundred meters ahead was the Israeli defense line.
Trenches, barbed wire, machine gun positions, and those soldiers in gray-green uniforms.
"Charge."
At the sound of the first gunshot, Ramzan had already run fifty meters out.
Bullets whizzed past his ears, like summer mosquitoes. People around him started falling, one, two, three—he didn't look back, just kept running forward.
Three hundred meters.
Two hundred meters.
