The letter was unfinished; according to the address, it was sent by Evelyn. That was a long time ago, a very long time. All that remained of her were pleasant memories. The unpleasant ones, including those of the breakup, had been swept away by time. Sometimes it wasn't easy with her, but I never regretted meeting her.

I returned to the brief message. She didn't write 'I need help'; she wrote in the plural - 'we need help.' That means they need help. Everyone. Evelyn had plenty of flaws, at least from my perspective, but she was by no means foolish. She didn't provide any details, which meant she was in distress and probably taking a risk. I searched through all the other inboxes, but I didn't find another similar message. I pondered on what all of this meant for me.

Great Britain is a civilized and safe country. And precisely because of that, obtaining weapons there is more complicated than elsewhere. And suddenly, I missed having weapons... if they really needed help. Ivan Kolonov killed bulls with his bare hands. Not for show, but because it was the easiest for him.

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

I read the message again.

She waited for me in the mailbox for more than a month. It didn't make sense to rush into action immediately; I needed to think everything through and also rest. And recover a bit too; that short message threw me into internal chaos. But maybe it was just because I had had a long day behind me. I turned off the computer, the television, placed the kukri knife on my chest, closed my eyes, and fell asleep. A useful ability that I didn't have to learn. It has been with me since childhood.

* * *

I woke up after three hours, the blame for it lying with the moon shining through the uncovered window of the hotel room. Despite being weakened by the city lights, it had the captivating influence as always. Three hours were 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 enough time, but the creaking of the door convicted me of a mistake. It was the creaking of the main hotel door, completely inaudible in the normal daytime bustle. I listened, as only we could. The regular breathing of the receptionist creaking in the entrance hall of the hotel ceased halfway through the exhale. I imagined the steps of those who killed him more 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. On the opposite side of the street, there was a parked car, an eight-cylinder Toyota Landcruiser, the driver was leaning to the front wheel. It took me a moment to understand why. Just two meters further, there was a no-parking sign. I heard the sound of the blowing tire - he was deflating it just to be safe.

The footsteps were approaching; I still wasn't sure how many there were. A police car emerged from the corner. A Vauxhall commonly used for patrols in big cities. The driver muttered something to 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 approaching.

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

The Toyota driver showed the deflated tire to the police; I saw him tapping on the spare secured on the hood.

The lawmen didn't even get out of the car; I only heard a wish for a successful and quick tire change, and shortly after, the patrol car slowly drove away.

He spoke into the microphone when the policemen disappeared around the corner.

At the same moment, I jumped out of the window with a cable in my hand. I was about to hit the pavement from a height of seven meters. Even the best-trained person can't deal with such speed and corresponding kinetic energy. But I could.

I hadn't landed yet, and the driver began to turn towards me. A perfectly executed double roll over the shoulder, in motion, I slashed with the knife; the bone was more resilient than I expected, but eventually, it gave way.

The driver without an ankle lost balance, but that was it. The blade gleamed in his hand. I sprung upward, simultaneously slashing upward with the kukri. Luckily, I hit the neck; I felt the curved blade scrape against the spine, from which it rebounded. However, everything it encountered in its path was reliably cut through.

I found myself in a cloud of blood sprayed by arterial bleeding. The driver looked at me, at the short sword in his hand, and then slowly and unwillingly collapsed. I threw the bag on the passenger seat, sat in the car, started it, and in the same place as in military vehicles, I found the switch for automatic inflation. I hoped the dead guy wasn't lazy and had closed the valve. I shifted gears and drove away; the low tire pressure light flashed for a few dozen meters, then thankfully went off. I closed it.

Where to? I drove slowly so as not to violate traffic rules. Without documents for the car and with a bloody spill, I didn't want to be stopped by a traffic patrol.

They knew about the email from Evelyn. That means they could easily delete it.

Why didn't they? Were they unsure if they had discovered all the messages that we might have sent? Or did they want to get me? Wanted to get each of us?

I had too little information to get to the truth, but in any case, they found me very quickly, or more precisely – attacked very quickly.

I randomly turned right, where the traffic seemed busier, and automatically joined the stream of vehicles. Someone local started following me; no one from our side could get here so quickly. Or could they? I knew so little, practically nothing.

I saw a sign for a gas station at the supermarket; I turned there and stopped aside from the fuel pumps. The entrance to the toilets was fortunately immersed in darkness.

The blood had already dried, the feeling of stickiness disappeared; in a while, I would forget how I looked. I took the risk and went to wash up. Just rinsing my face, hair, changing the shirt, and I looked fine.

Almost.

I returned to the car. I found no documents in any of the compartments. I should have searched the driver; it was my mistake; I messed up. The parking lot looked calm, no noise. I pulled out the notebook; the flashlight promised another four hours of work without charging. That should be enough. I connected to the internet and carefully, company by company, checked the possibilities of air connections to the Czech Republic.

If they didn't have a ready business jet, they couldn't get here so quickly to surprise me at the hotel. They must have gone after me locally. That meant my enemies had excellent contacts. The best, if they could arrange a murder. Actually, whether I moved to the Czech Republic or not, they could find me anywhere.

At the gas station, a police car was slowly approaching. Maybe because of me, maybe because of a late-night snack, maybe because of the toilet, but I didn't intend to meet them anyway. I closed the notebook.

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

I headed to the airport and left the Toyota in the parking lot. I almost felt sorry for it; I had a weakness for big engines since childhood, and I always looked at twelve-cylinder limousines or super sports cars in magazines. Unfortunately, I never owned one. The army doesn't pay that well.

I estimated that no one would be interested in the car for about a week. A direct flight home, that word sounded strange; there was none available, the fastest way was a detour with three transfers, boarding started in two hours.

Every cloud has a silver lining; I intended to use the complicated journey to obtain weapons and camouflage my tracks. The original feeling that I couldn't do without a decent firepower remained. I needed weapons capable of reliably killing creatures that continued to fight even with a severed leg.

I suspected what they were. All the more, I had to obtain the weapons in such a way that I didn't endanger my supplier in any case.

During a layover in Warsaw, I circled half of the airport before I found an ordinary phone booth. Wiretapping isn't as common these days, at least not in Europe, I knew that well.

I recalled an old rhyme serving as a mnemonic device for memorization and dialed a number I hadn't used in years.

"Hardmuth Klenisger Jr. speaking," I announced to the receiver.

The other end fell silent, and I began to feel that something was amiss.

"Erik Drexler Jr. here," finally came the response.

"I've taken over the business from my grandfather," he informed me. "It took me a moment to realize who was calling."

The trade had passed from grandfather to grandson, with whom I had never spoken; the father was out of the picture.

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

My family had collaborated with theirs for several generations, both theirs and ours. But the world hadn't changed as rapidly back then, so I had to be careful.

"No, it just took me a while to figure it out. What can I do for you?"

With his pragmatic approach, the grandson reminded me of his grandfather. And like him, he honored old debts. And they owed us. Perhaps the scales would tip, and I would owe him.

"The usual goods according to standard requirements for the current period. Plus something extra; I'll send the order later."

"Everything requested years ago is ready," he surprisingly replied. "The last, uh," he was searching for the right word, "update of the goods was done five years ago. It should suffice, unless, of course, you've changed the technical specifications," he added after a short pause.

It's nice when you can rely on something.

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

The two qualifiers, "previously" and "agreed," meant that I would provide the address later.

"Of course. Anything else, Mr. Klenisger?"

"No, thanks. I'll be in touch," I hung up.