Chapter Forty-Six: Russian Roulette

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“The headquarters of the Black Hand Hunters is likely in Russia. We can access the Russian Foundation branch’s database through the Foundation’s authority and narrow down our search,” Katherine said as she typed swiftly on the keyboard.

The process didn’t take long. Soon, Katherine stopped and announced, “Among the Black Hand Hunters recorded by the Foundation, one member has a record of traveling abroad. Although the destination wasn’t Massachusetts, USA, it was Connecticut, just south of Massachusetts.”

“At least they know how to cover their tracks. What kind of counter-surveillance skills do you expect from a bunch of gangsters?” Ji Ning scoffed inwardly. Did the Black Hand Hunters really think their smuggled goods would go unnoticed? Connecticut was nothing but a feeble attempt at deception to the keen-eyed. Unless they trekked across the Bering Strait on foot to return to Russia, any journey using transportation would leave traces—private jets included, which would also generate entry records.

Zhao Tianxing asked quietly, “Where is that Black Hand Hunters member now?” He calmly wiped the blade in his hand, a flash of steel glinting in his clear eyes.

Katherine stared at the computer screen and answered slowly, “Moscow.”

Aphra yawned adorably, her slightly chubby cheeks inviting a gentle pinch. “So, when do we leave?”

“I just checked—the next flight from Three Portlands to Moscow is tomorrow at six in the evening,” Katherine quickly replied, pushing her glasses up and double-checking their schedule.

“Why aren’t we using the academy’s private jet?” Ji Ning looked puzzled. Who wouldn’t like a private plane? At least there, you wouldn’t have some brat kicking your seatback.

Qin Mo shot him a glance. “Only students from the second year onward can apply for the academy jet for missions.” After a pause, she added, “But the academy will reimburse us for all mission travel expenses.”

“Let’s meet at the airport at five tomorrow afternoon, then.” Zhao Tianxing sheathed his blade, as sharp and decisive as the weapon itself.

“Moscow’s average temperature ranges from 1°C to 8°C throughout the year, so remember to bring warm clothes.” Outwardly, Qin Mo sounded like she was addressing the whole group, but everyone knew whom she was really speaking to.

No one was surprised by the words of this generous yet bashful young woman. She was the type who, to deliver chocolate to someone in broad daylight, would rather make extra just for the sake of propriety.

Having survived Siberia, Ji Ning smiled at Qin Mo, silently deciding that he would pursue a proper romance with this gentle girl.

Leonid Sidorov was not fond of snow, though he lived in a place where it covered the ground more than half the year. He loved vodka—that burning chill down his throat made him quicken his step. In Russia, there was only one place where the heavier the snow fell, the more people ventured out.

A flurry drifted through the open door of the Poison Bar, and before the snowflakes could settle, the newcomer had already shut the door behind him. Leonid Sidorov found his usual seat with practiced ease. “Vodka, please.”

The bartender said nothing. He knew that, aside from a glass of 42-proof Belenkaya vodka, any greeting would be superfluous.

The bar wasn’t crowded—just a few balding middle-aged men scattered about, and a noisy group of youths. Leonid Sidorov glanced more than once at three middle-aged men chatting quietly over their drinks. As he observed them, the group of young people nearby suddenly grew restless. “Suka blyat!”

Leonid Sidorov turned around. A young man, acne still marking his face, was shouting at another man wearing a hat.

“Igor, you coward, you think you’re fit to drink vodka?”

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“Andrei, you've had too much.”

“No, no, alcohol keeps me sharp. I’m a real man, right?” Andrei raised his glass, sloshing it as he spoke, then downed it in one gulp, surrounded by a throng of boisterous young men and women.

Whether it was the heat of the moment or the magic of the alcohol, Andrei pulled a gleaming silver revolver from his pocket. Some gasped, but others, guessing what was about to happen, started to whistle.

Andrei removed the cylinder, popping out the golden bullets one by one. Holding up six rounds, he boasted to the crowd like a child with a new toy, “Colt Python revolver, discontinued since ’99. This was my old man’s pride and joy—now it’s mine.”

He put five bullets back into his pocket, loaded a single round into the cylinder, cocked the hammer, spun the chamber, placed the gun on the table, and produced a thick stack of rubles from his pocket. “Ten thousand rubles a shot. Anyone brave enough to play?”

Leonid Sidorov coolly averted his eyes from the pile of five-thousand-ruble notes. Until yesterday, he too had owned a Colt Python—a reward for a mission three years prior. He could still recall the thrill of gripping the revolver for the first time that night. The Colt Python came in two finishes: brushed stainless steel and a perfectly polished, mirror-like version. His, like Andrei’s, was the stainless model.

The underlug extended the full length beneath the barrel, protecting the ejector rod all the way to the muzzle. The blade front sight was set with an orange plastic insert, easy to use even in dim light. The rear notch sight was removable and adjustable for windage and elevation with a screwdriver. Its 9mm caliber could shatter any life in the steel jungle. The whole gun measured 241mm, weighed 0.935kg, and held six rounds. He loved that revolver more than any lover, sometimes thinking he could even hear it whisper to him.

But yesterday, he’d lost it. After returning from Connecticut, the reward for escorting a sculpture had been enough to squander rubles for three months. People never cherish windfalls; they see them as gifts from heaven. Sudden wealth had convinced him of his own luck, and those who trust too much in luck always test its limits.

He’d gone to a casino independent of the Black Hand Hunters. If he had enough for three months, why not try to turn it into a year’s worth—or more? But as always, luck given by fortune is quickly spent. He lost everything. On the last bet, desperate to recover, he even wagered his prized Colt Python—but he’d forgotten the Bible verses his grandmother used to recite, especially the one from Matthew: “For whoever has will be given more, and they will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what they have will be taken from them.”

By the time that verse returned to him, he had nothing left. Perhaps it was because his gang worshipped not the omnipotent God, but some other, capricious deity—that this was the price he paid. As he left the casino, he cursed under his breath, “To hell with it, old bastard. This is exactly why I don’t believe in you.”

Compared to that lofty Creator, his gang seemed to share a different faith. When he joined, they’d tattooed a strange emblem on his back. He’d asked the boss about it, but the boss had only told him to mind his own business.

“Twenty thousand rubles a shot!” As Andrei’s gaze met those of the middle-aged men, they immediately looked away. The bartender lowered his head, polishing a glass, seemingly savoring the moment of supreme bravado. Cheered on by the crowd, Andrei surveyed the bar—in here, he was the only real man.

He was supposed to finish his drink and stumble home to continue his party, but then he saw the man in the corner.

Leonid Sidorov didn’t turn away, meeting Andrei’s gaze without fear. Andrei didn’t get angry—he just burst out laughing. “Not everyone who drinks vodka is brave, but cowards certainly don’t drink vodka.”

Andrei grabbed the revolver with his right hand and strode to Leonid Sidorov, placing the stack of cash next to the gun.

“You or me first?” Andrei didn’t even bother to ask the man’s name. He was all eagerness, everyone could see he craved the thrill of the muzzle pressed to his own forehead.

Leonid Sidorov didn’t answer directly. He slowly caressed the revolver, feeling the unmistakable texture of the Colt. “I don’t have enough rubles to match your bet.”

Andrei took a vodka from a nearby blonde, drained it, his red tongue licking his lips, his eyes wild. “Your life is the best stake.”

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Leonid Sidorov smiled faintly. “Youth before age.”

He sneered inwardly. After three years with the Colt Python, he could tell roughly where the bullet sat just by the weight. This young man was relying purely on luck. Perhaps, when the trigger was pulled, he’d panic and call off the rest of the duel. The fear of the unknown and of death was never a toy for rich boys.

Andrei bared his teeth—a dazzling grin in the neon light. He lifted the revolver like a gladiator in the Roman Colosseum, displaying his weapon to the audience, kissed it, raised it high, then pressed it to his own forehead. “Boom!” He stared at Leonid Sidorov and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked, but there was no explosion. The young crowd erupted, and Andrei downed another large glass of vodka.

Leonid Sidorov was a little disappointed. How much easier it would have been if the game ended with the first shot. He rubbed his nose, his eyes sharp as he reached for the revolver.

But Andrei stopped him. “My Lady Luck isn’t done with me. Let me pull a few more times.”

Andrei didn’t care that the room went silent at his words. He flashed Leonid Sidorov a smile, then raised the revolver again.

Leonid Sidorov was shaken to his core—certain this young man was utterly insane. Yet he didn’t intervene. Why stop a man from reporting to Death?

Andrei took a bottle of vodka and poured it over the barrel, then pressed the muzzle to his own throat. He flashed that chilling grin again. “God, witness my glory,” he declared, and pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation.

Sidorov’s throat bobbed in sync with the young man’s finger on the trigger. Another crisp click, another empty chamber. Sidorov felt like a drowning man on the verge of suffocation, but he managed a twisted smile and readied himself to take the gun. With a one-in-four chance, he wasn’t ready to give up yet, but he resolved to forfeit at the slightest sign of trouble.

Andrei grabbed an ecstatic, screaming girl, silencing her with a deep, lingering kiss. Pushing her away, he once again refused to hand over the revolver to Sidorov. Like a god pronouncing his oracle to his believers, his lips moved.

“Again.”

The crowd descended into madness. Even the bartender, still polishing glasses, failed to notice he’d knocked over a bottle. Brown liquor pooled on the floor, the world reflected upside down in the shattered glass.

Sidorov forgot himself, forgot the bar, forgot the crowd. In his world, there was only the finger on the trigger. As Andrei pulled it a third time, Sidorov’s world was destroyed and rebuilt, over and over.

“Your turn.” Those three simple words dragged Sidorov from a world of black and white into another—a world where Death stood behind him, grinning and waving a scythe.

When a man draws a revolver for Russian Roulette, he should know that before the night is over, someone will be lying here, bathed in blood and brains.

And when the other has loaded a single bullet and fired five times at himself, if all five chambers have clicked empty, he should know—if anyone is to die, it will surely be him.