LITMIR.BIZ

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a burst. She jumped aside, then down.

      Ruthra didn't stop firing until he ran out of ammunition. Then, quickly reloading his clip, he tried to stand up. It wasn't easy. It had hit him. Now his arm was wounded as well, blood pouring from the wounds. In all the other places where the bullets had hit (head, feet, chest) there was unbearable pain. The defense was solid, but the pain was also terrible. The unprotected places on his body were all stitched with shrapnel. Ruthra fumbled around in his suit, looked in his gas mask bag for bandages, plasters, or tourniquets. There were no medications, but he did find ARX-160 under-barrel grenades. In his haste, Ruthra hadn't noticed them.

      The fact that there were no medications was a big oversight on Rutra's part. He had neglected their importance. However, in the current situation, it didn't seem that important anymore. It was more important to concentrate and figure out where the attacker had gone.

      The wounds weren't too serious for a fighter of his level, and he could shoot, especially in the heat of the moment, in the face of death, the adrenaline of the wounds no longer felt much. Ruthra stood up, leaning back against the wall. He couldn't walk (much less run), and his right arm was wounded. He jammed the rifle between his legs, loaded the underbarrel, set it to fire from his left hand, turned on the laser rangefinder and the ballistic computer for the grenade launcher. All the time he kept his eyes on the stairwell, waiting for an attack, which had not yet come. To be sure, he checked how much more ammunition he had, though he remembered exactly how much. There were three grenades for the grenade launcher, one of them in the barrel; ammunition magazines – one for the rifle and two for the Glock.

      Fear, anger, and a terrible desire to survive pervaded Ruthra. As he realized the real threat, he began to realize that it was impossible to imagine it in everyday life, but here it could literally be felt! His family – his children, his wife, his mother – flashed before his eyes like a vision. His father had died early, and Ruthra did not want to share his fate. He had given his life saving the Soviet Union, which it still didn't save. Rutra wasn't going to die for a mythical idea, he didn't "sign up" for it; if someone suddenly wanted to put his life on the line, he was determined to find out and get revenge.

      He was still thinking rationally, but the question remained, why the gas mask? Ruthra stood up, looked out of the window, but there was no one there, so he limped toward the stairs. There was no one on the stairs either. There was no point in waiting. Ruthra went to the landing, looked down, and, pressing himself against the wall, began to descend. Once down one flight, he readied his pistol and fired a grenade launcher into the floor of the landing in front of the exit. Without waiting for the noise to die down, he began to make his way to the exit. There he turned on the thermal imager and stuck out his rifle to analyze the situation. The thermal imager showed nothing. Ruthra looked out, looking around. He thought, "Logically, she could only be where she first fired from, where she had the best cover. But he still decided to check the place he had attacked from in the beginning.

      Rutra adjusted the grenade launcher's laser rangefinder and ballistic computer to the house where he thought the enemy was hiding. When the computer made the calculation, he fired a shot so that the grenade would explode, hitting the inside wall of the house. At the same time, Ruthra waddled over to where the first two dead men lay. He crept along the wall of the building from which he had come, so that he could see all the objects at once, though Ruthra himself was also in view. Just as he reached the edge where he could see the dead, shots rang out from the house that had been hit by the grenade. Ruthra lay down instantly, rolling behind the wall where the dead lay. Without getting up, he stretched out his arm at random, orienting himself by the noise. Looking around, he noticed that the dead had no weapons. It was clear she'd taken them. So she had enough ammunition.

      Ruthra loaded the last grenade, pressed himself against the outer wall of the hall so he could see a little of the terrorist's hiding place, made a ballistics calculation with the computer, and fired so that the grenade exploded after falling to the floor where the woman had fired from. There was a rumble and a squeal. "Got you, bitch!" – he rejoiced and pulled his leg up, fighting through the pain, and headed toward the house.

      Ruthra walked over to where she was hiding, leaned against the wall of the house, and tried to look inside. The house was two stories high, with a balcony at the bottom and a balcony at the top. No trim, it was moulages. He peered behind the lower balcony. No one. Then stepped forward and decided to go behind the perimeter. At that minute, the "creature" popped through the first floor window opening. Her whole face was covered in blood. She pointed her AK-9 assault rifle at him and fired. Rutra, seeing her, fell down on purpose, as it would have taken a long time to run away or bounce aside in his position – a split second could cost a life.

      He lay, rolled over on his back, and waited, keeping the exit from the house and the upper windows with the balcony in his sights. The attacker appeared to be in shock and wounded, confused; she was firing her assault rifle in different directions. Lying on his back, Ruthra turned his attention to the ceiling of the main room. It showed the hoods where the night vision cameras had been placed. "So they're watching the battle. Someone's watching and waiting for the outcome. Wait for me to get to you," Ruthra said to himself, and then he realized he couldn't really do anything. "The main thing is to survive," he decided.

      The bastard stopped firing, probably out of magazines. Ruthra crawled, sideways, and began to move around the corner of the house. It was safe there; there were no windows or doors. He stood, waiting. His pants and sleeve were wet with blood, something was pouring down his face. Ruthra felt his left cheek, it was congealed blood with a chunk of flesh and skin. He'd been hit, and in the heat of the moment he hadn't noticed. A shrapnel or tangential shot had torn his cheek, oozing blood. Ruthra was worried that he might die from blood loss, so he decided to go for the assault. He had to cover the mask of his helmet, even though it lost his view, but the wound on his face was enough of an argument.

      He walked along the outer wall of the hall to the balconies, no one was there, went further, looked through the window opening into the room, also no one. Sneaking up to the door, he shot inside, turned on the thermal imager, probed the situation inside with his usual technique, saw a red spot on the screen with his side vision. While he was looking at the image on the thermal imager, a line of bullets started coming in his direction. The bullets hit the rifle, knocking it out of his hands. Ruthra, too, dropped down to hide, and grabbed the pistol in pain.

      He could feel Death approaching, and it was already drawing its scythe over him. He wanted to live. To live, if not for himself, then for his children. It gave him strength and dulled the pain. He fired a couple shots back and grabbed the rifle's belt, pulling it toward him. The electronics were messed up. Clutching the rifle tightly in his left hand, he angled it and fired a burst where the thermal imager showed a spot. Ruthra realized from the noise that the bullets had hit not only concrete and brick, but something soft.

      It became quiet. Ruthra waited for groans, but there were none. "I must have killed him," he thought. After waiting a few minutes, Ruthra stood up. At that moment, shots rang out in his direction. The bullets whizzed by with a noise. They were fired from a TKB-059, its sound could not be mistaken – it was not mass-produced and was only given to top-ranking special agents on special operations. "Where is he from, why are the bandits armed so well? The doppelganger is a bastard," Ruthra thought.

      Holding his weapon at the ready, he waited for the attack. His head ached terribly, and he couldn't see very well, whether he'd been hit or hit in the helmet. Ruthra felt himself weakening. He had to go for the assault. He spotted a piece of concrete nearby, picked it up with his right hand and threw it, with maximum force, on the floor of the entrance, imitating the noise of an attack. Shots rang out in response. The woman fired indiscriminately. Finally she ran out of ammunition, but Rutra was running low on ammunition, too. He crawled to the entrance and prepared to make his move again. Lying down, he reached forward with his rifle and fired in the direction from which she had fired. This time she yelled and groaned. "So much for you!" – Ruthra thought.

      She kept moaning, then she said something in a language she didn't understand; it sounded like a swear word, and she hissed like a snake. Ruthra waited. Suddenly the shots rang out again. Bullets flew into the walls and ceiling, splinters and pieces of concrete raining down on him. He pressed himself against the far wall. Theoretically-she could shoot through the wall; it was

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