The letter was not finished, according to the address it was sent by Evelyn. That was a long time ago, a very long time ago. All I have left are pleasant memories. The annoying ones, including the break up, were swept away by time. Sometimes it wasn't easy with her, but I never regretted meeting her.

I went back to the brief message. She didn't write she needs help, she wrote it in the plural. That means they need help. All. Evelyn had a lot of mistakes, at least from my point of view, but she wasn't stupid in the slightest. She didn't write any details, which meant she was in distress and apparently taking a risk. I searched all the other mailboxes, but I didn't find another similar message. I wondered what all this meant to me.

Great Britain is a civilized and secure country. And that is why obtaining weapons is more difficult in it than elsewhere. And I suddenly lacked weapons… if they really needed help. Ivan Kolonov killed bulls with his bare hands. Not because of the effect, but because it was the easiest way for him.

If I were to help him, I needed a lot of damn effective weapons.

I read the message again.

It's been waiting for me in the inbox for over a month. There was no point in rushing to the action right away, I needed to think about everything and also relax. And to recover a little, that short message threw me into inner confusion. But maybe it was just because I had a long day. I turned off the computer, the television, put the zubri knife on my chest, closed my eyes, and fell asleep. A useful skill I didn't have to learn. It has been my own since childhood.

* * *

I woke up after three hours, because of the moon shining through the open window into the hotel room. Although weakened by the light of the big city, it had that bewitching effect as always. But three hours was enough for me, I felt rested and full of strength. Something was happening, something new. It was an electrifying sensation.

I assumed I still had plenty of time, but the creaking of the door made me reconsider. It was the creaking of the main door of the hotel, completely inaudible in the normal bustle of the day. I listened the way known only to my kind. The regular breathing of the receptionist in the hotel lobby fell silent in the middle of the exhalation, and I imagined the footsteps of those who had killed him, rather than actually hearing them. Except for the kukri, I had no weapons, and I didn't like that.

Damn.

I moved to the window and opened it with a light touch of my fingers. Across the street parked a car, an eight-cylinder Toyota Landcruiser, the driver bent at the front wheel. It took me a moment to understand why. Just two meters away was a no stop sign. I heard the sound of a tire blowing out - looks like he wanted to make sure.

Steps approached, I still wasn't sure how many there were; a police car emerged from the bend. Vauxhal brand commonly used by patrols in large cities. The driver hissed at the lapel of his jacket, he must have had a microphone there. The steps stopped, or rather, I stopped registering their sound. That worried me more than when I heard them approach.

They stopped, because he called them, I convinced myself. It was incredibly hard to stay calm, not run. I managed it with a sweaty forehead.

The Toyota driver showed the officers the deflated wheel, and I saw him tap the reserve mounted on the hood.

The men of the law didn't even get out of the car, I only heard their wish to change the tire successfully and quickly, and then the patrol car slowly drove away.

He spoke into the microphone as the police disappeared around the bend. At the same time, I jumped out of the window with the bag in hand. What awaited was the impact on the pavement from a height of seven meters. Even the best trained person cannot deal with such speed and adequate kinetic energy. I can. I hadn't even landed, and the driver began to turn in my direction. A perfectly executed roll over my shoulder, I cut with the knife in motion, and although the bone was more durable than I expected, it finally loosened up. Now without an ankle the driver lost his balance, but that was all. A blade gleamed in his hand. I jumped up, chopping with the kukri from the bottom up. Luckily, I hit the neck, feeling the curved blade cut against his spine, from which it bounced. However, not before reliably cutting through everything in its path. I found myself in a cloud of blood splattered by arterial bleeding. The driver looked at me, at the short sword in his hand, and then slowly and reluctantly his body went limp. I threw the bag on the passenger seat, sat in the car, started it, and found the automatic inflation switch in the same place as in the military cars. I hoped the dead man wasn't a slacker and he closed the valve. I shifted into gear and drove off, the low tire pressure light on the control panel was blinking for a few tens of meters, but then fortunately it went out. He closed it.

Where? I drove slowly so as not to break traffic regulations. Without documents for the car and with a blood spilled all over me, being stopped by the traffic patrol was not the most desirable outcome.

They knew about the email from Evelyn. This means that they could easily remove it. Why didn't they do it? Were they not sure if they found all the messages that our people could send out? Or did they want to get me? Did they want to get each of us? I had too little information to get to the truth, but they found me very quickly anyway, or more accurately - they attacked very quickly.

At random, I turned right, where the traffic seemed busier, and automatically joined the flow of vehicles. It must have been some locals who attacked me, there is no way they could get all the way from our place to here so quickly. Or could they? I knew so little, practically nothing. I saw a sign to the gas station at the supermarket, took a turn there, and stopped the car away from the gas tanks. Fortunately, the entrance to the toilets was dark. The blood had dried, the feeling of stickiness had disappeared, a little longer and I would forget what I looked like. I risked it and went to wash myself. All I had to do was rinse my face and hair, change the shirt, and I looked fine.

Almost fine.

I got back in the car. I did not find any documents in any of the compartments. I should have searched the driver, my fault, I was confused. The parking lot looked quiet, no traffic. I pulled out my laptop, the battery promised another four hours of work without charging. That should be enough. I connected to the Internet and carefully, company after company, checked the possibilities of air connections with Ukraine. If they didn't have a ready business to go, they couldn't get here fast enough to surprise me at the hotel. The locals had to follow me. This meant that my enemies had great contacts. The best, since they can arrange murder for them. In fact, it didn't matter if I moved to Ukraine or not, they could find me everywhere.

A police car drove slowly to the gas station. Maybe because of me, maybe because of a night snack, maybe because of the toilet, I didn't want to meet them either way. I closed the laptop.

It was also possible that they would follow me through the police.

I headed for the airport and left the Toyota in the parking lot. I was almost sorry, I have had a penchant for big engines since I was a child, and in magazines I've always read about twelve-cylinder limousines or supercars. Unfortunately, I never owned any. The military doesn't pay that well.

I estimated that no one would be interested in the car for a week. The direct flight home, the word alone sounded strange, was not available, the fastest way was a detour with three transfers, boarding started in two hours. Everything bad is good for something, I was going to use the difficult path to get weapons and disguise the tracks. The original feeling that I could not do without proper firepower remained. I needed weapons capable of reliably killing creatures that continued to fight even with severed legs. I knew what they were. All the more so, I had to get the weapons the way to not endanger my supplier.

During a stopover in Warsaw, I walked around half the airport before discovering a regular telephone booth. Wires are not being listened to much today, at least not in Europe, I knew that.

I remembered an old rhyme that served as a mnemonic for memorization and typed in a number that had not been used for years.

"This is Gardmoth Fleninger junior," I said into the phone.

The other side paused until I began to feel that something was wrong.

"This is Eric Brexler Jr.," he said at last.

"I took over the business from my grandfather," he continued. "It took me a while to realize who was calling."

The craft passed from the grandfather to his grandson, whom I've never talked to, the father was out.

"Is there a problem with who's calling?" I asked cautiously.

My family has worked with this family for several generations, theirs and ours. But the world hadn't changed so fast before, I had to be careful.

"No, it just took me a while to get my bearings. How can I help you?"

The grandson reminded me of his grandfather with his pragmatic approach. And like him, he honored old debts. And they owed us. Maybe the tables will turn and I'll owe him.

“Usual goods according to standard requirements for a fee. Plus something extra, I'll send the order later."

"Everything that was asked years ago is ready," he replied surprisingly. "Last time, um," he was probably looking for the right word, "I updated the goods was five years ago. It should suit. Unless, of course, you have changed the technical specifications," he added after a short pause.

It's nice to be able to rely on something.

"And can you send everything to the previously agreed address?"

"Sure. Anything else, Mr. Fleninger?”

"No, thanks. I'll get back to you," I hung up.