“Haa...”

    The moon, so bright in the sky.

    Coming some nights, and being astray others – such as it was in his childhood. Yet, the longing had stopped so long ago. Because there was nothing that would satiate his hunger anymore.

    Only the Siberian wind would sound on such a lone night, mostly. But that night the fate's cards were pulled in a strange manner, and the phone rang. From where? Where it was that stupid machine?

    Rurik's footsteps resonated heavily – desperate. He was listening the ring, and finally found it in the main hallway.

    “Karabanov. Lieutenant of Division 12.” -He answered.

    “Ah, the man himself! Hostia puta, ¡qué suerte he tenido! -Lázár's voice welcomed him, but the sound was crackling. Probably, because the line was already rough and rusty in the extreme winter. “Listen to me, kiddo. I've heard a lot about your feats. What I need here is someone like you to put this bunch of babies on the 17th to work.”

    “Who are you?” Rurik's face looked baffled. “Franciso? The old, insane, Francisco Lázár?”

    “The one and only. You will get your copy delivered there very soon. Of course, unless you don't want to come here...”

    Both of them fell silent and in the dark, not even the breath could be heard.

    “I will.”

    “Aaah, ¡genial!” The old man sounded overjoyed. “Please sign the papers and bring them with you. Please, don't take long... I have not much time, I believe...”

    They both hang out. Rurik looked at the ceiling, where the moonlight bathed the extensive hall of the building beautifully... and all the eviscerated corpses of his comrades that rested, rotting to every single spot of the room.

    Walls. Floor. Furniture. Even a previously gorgeous artwork hanging tall had rests of guts and blood dry stuck to itself. The light coming from above only contrasted the red even further, as Rurik sat in the only chair there. A small chuckle. Then, a hysterical, sharp laugh.

    “Oooh, yes... Finally.” His hands kept his head as much as low as they could, while his laughter was contained before it would become much less unbearable. “I can finally leave you, guys.”

    He leaned onto the chair, towards the wall, where a huge flag of the Soviet Union was hanged, completely barren of deeper blood stains.

    “Now, it's really gonna be me who changes the path.”

***

    Two men in suit, waling on the seashore of Miami's beach. Complete with a small case and shades.

    “Shadil?”

    “Yup.”

    A young tall fellow, with dark skin and long black curly hair, was enjoying a big Blue Hawaiian cocktail in a bar.

    “You are called back into work. Intel could have leaked from the 17th.”

    “Hum, and you guys are CIA? You know how to make yourselves seen. Not even bothered to get some swimsuits?” The Indian took his own shades off. “I'm getting hot just from seeing you guys, please get lost.”

    “Hum, yes sir.”

    Shadil looked at his glass and took a sip.

    “I guess is about time.” And he left it on the counter. “Hey, have the change.”

    And the clerk could only get surprised, as he was left a note of a hundred dollars as payment for the single drink, while he left without trace.