Crow and the Dead (I)

Click.

The entire Black Sea Seafood restaurant plunged into darkness.

In an instant, every light in the restaurant extinguished simultaneously, as if someone had used an invisible blade to sever the building's optic nerves at the root.

The second after Lin An was swallowed by the darkness, a soft "click" sounded above his head.

A white plastic box in the corner of the ceiling activated, releasing a dim, yellowish light reminiscent of a setting sun.

Its power was very low, only a few watts, barely covering two-thirds of the corridor. At the edges, the light rapidly faded into a blurry dark orange, beyond which lay absolute darkness.

Lin An was still standing in front of the power distribution box, his calm face illuminated on one side by the yellow glow of the emergency light, while the other half remained submerged in shadow.

Bullet Screen flowed at the edge of his vision.

[Power cut successful.]

[The whole building is pitch black, the four screens in the monitoring room are dead too; the house has no surveillance.]

[Emergency lights are on: two in the corridor, one in the dining area, one in the stairwell, one in the basement.]

[In the first-floor dining area, Sergei and his men aren't panicking. Strange, why are they so quiet?]

[They are highly trained. The moment the lights went out, everyone stopped moving and took up defensive positions on the spot.]

[Streamer, be careful. Sergei is calling people to check the power distribution box.]

[Streamer, you need to pull out. You must leave this corridor before they reach the distribution box.]

[Attention, someone is heading toward the kitchen to check the back door.]

[The back door isn't locked; they'll find it.]

[Streamer, are you leaving or not?]

Lin An did not answer the Bullet Screen; he was busy doing something else.

With a flick of his hand, he produced an M67 grenade, pulled the safety pin with a sharp click, and while keeping his finger pressed against the safety lever, he found a suitable spot inside the distribution box. He positioned the lever to face the box door, placed it inside, and closed the box.

The grenade's safety pin had already been removed; the moment anyone opened the door, the lever would spring free, initiating the explosion countdown.

The Bullet Screen began to notice his actions.

[Streamer, what are you doing?]

[You won't kill anyone like that. This grenade has a four-to-five-second delay. As long as the person opening the box isn't an idiot, they can get out of the blast radius.]

"I know."

He glanced at the Bullet Screen beside the distribution box and replied casually.

"Killing people is just a bonus; the main goal is to blow up the distribution box."

[Alright, Streamer, it's time to retreat.]

A Bullet Screen used green lines to outline an evacuation path in his vision... back up three steps, turn right into the alcove, walk four meters straight down the passage; the sliding door to the storage room is on the left.

Lin An turned around.

The soft rubber soles of his black sneakers pressed against the concrete floor. The yellow light of the emergency lamp shrank behind him before being engulfed by the darkness.

The Bullet Screen continued to refresh.

[A gunman has reached the back corridor.]

[He's stopped in front of the distribution box.]

There was the sound of the distribution box door being pulled open, followed by the crisp metallic clatter of the grenade's safety lever springing away.

"Suka..."

Four seconds.

"BOOM!"

After a classic Russian profanity came the sound of the grenade exploding. Standing before the storage room door, Lin An heard it all, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly.

He pushed the door open and slid inside sideways.

There was no light in the storage room—not a sliver could penetrate it. The air here was thick with the scent of cleaning agents, bleach, old cardboard boxes, and a faint, lingering metallic tang.

[The storage room is about four by five meters. Directly ahead are several rows of metal shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and dry goods. There is an aisle between the shelves. Walk to the end, and on your right is a secret door disguised as a shelf.]

[The secret door is piled with several boxes of canned tomatoes and paper towels. Push to the left; the hinges are on the right.]

[The armory is inside.]

Relying on the dim light and the guidance of the Bullet Screen, Lin An took a bold step forward along the aisle between the shelves.

He rested his fingers lightly on the edge of the shelving, feeling the coldness of the metal.

One step, two steps, three steps; the edge of the shelf ended beneath his fingertips.

When his right hand touched the rough surface of a cardboard box, he stopped, pressed his palm flat against the side of the box, and pushed to the left.

With a faint creak, the secret door swung open, revealing a gap about sixty centimeters wide—just enough for a person to slip through sideways.

He slipped inside.

The air in the armory was colder, lit only by a dim emergency light. The scent of gun oil here was much stronger than outside, mixed with the lingering odors of metal, wood, and solvent.

A gun rack stood here, reaching up to Lin An's chest.

On it rested four long guns: a Saiga-12 semi-automatic shotgun, two AKMs, and one AKS-74U short assault rifle.

Then, guided by the Bullet Screen, Lin An found two Stechkin APS fully automatic pistols and one Makarov PM on the third shelf of the storage cabinet to his right, along with several magazines, a folded tactical vest, a box of about two hundred loose 7.62×39mm rounds, four boxes of 5.45×39mm with fifty rounds each, two and a half boxes of 12-gauge buckshot, and one hundred rounds of 9×18mm Makarov ammunition.

There wasn't much to be gained from the gun bench on the left, just a few bottles of gun oil, some cleaning rods, a few wiping cloths, and a box of loose 9×18mm rounds.

The haul was so good that not only was Lin An happy, but the folks in the Bullet Screen were also shouting about how satisfying it was.

[233, I've never had it this good even when playing extraction shooters.]

[The streamer has really hit the jackpot this time.]

[Streamer, stop celebrating. The gunman at the power distribution box is heading your way.]

[Sergei is in the dining area; he heard the explosion too and is asking about the gunman's status over the radio.]

[Don't be so rude. "That gunman," "this gunman"—listen to how Sergei addresses him. Vladi, you should call people by their names.]

[Vladi is shining his flashlight and heading toward the storage room.]

He's coming?

Right on time.

Having already stowed everything away, Lin An turned and walked toward the back. As he moved, he pulled out a Beretta pistol and racked the slide with a crisp click.

Behind the storage room door, Lin An saw a faint beam of flashlight cutting in from under the door gap, casting a thin, bright line across the floor.

The Bullet Screen scrolled rapidly, with some users using red rectangular boxes to highlight Vladi's position. The latter was leaning sideways, exposing half his body from Lin An's left. Based on this movement, Lin An judged that the man was attempting to open the storage room door.

Lin An raised the muzzle of the Beretta to aim at the upper part of the box. Before pulling the trigger, he glanced at the Bullet Screen and a sudden thought struck him.

"Vladi!"

Lin An whispered in Russian. The slowly moving box stopped instantly.

Good, a perfect opportunity. Lin An immediately pulled the trigger.

Amidst the crisp gunshot, the first bullet pierced the thin steel of the hidden door and struck Vladi square in the chest.

The box shook violently.

Without waiting for the enemy to retreat, Lin An pulled the trigger a second time.

The bullet passed through the hidden door again, and this time, the box collapsed.

[Dead.]

[First shot hit the chest—the bastard had body armor. Second shot hit his face. Dead on the spot.]

[Streamer, you took out a veteran with two shots through a door.]

[Wallhacks plus aimbot, how is anyone supposed to fight that?]

[Wait, I have a question. Streamer, that "Vladi" you said earlier was Russian, right? You speak Russian?]

Lin An returned the Beretta to his inventory and took out a pair of black tactical gloves. He answered casually while pulling them on.

"I know a little."

[How much is "a little"?]

[No, you're a twenty-year-old Chinese guy in New York, your English is all Chinese-accented, and yet you speak Russian?]

[Is that even reasonable?]

Lin An pushed open the hidden door.

The emergency light in the hallway shone on the corpse of a Russian man in a suit. He had fallen backward at the entrance to the shelf aisle, his left hand still gripping a Stechkin APS, his tactical flashlight lying beside him.

"Good stuff."

[It really is good stuff. The Stechkin APS is a fully automatic military pistol produced by the Soviet Union. It has single-shot, three-round burst, and full-auto firing modes with a twenty-round magazine. Aside from being a bit large and bulky, its firepower is definitely solid.]

[Isn't this thing basically a submachine gun?]

[You can use it like a submachine gun; it can even be fitted with a stock for shoulder-fired stability.]

Seeing the Bullet Screen, Lin An squatted down, pried open Vladi's fingers, and took the APS.

He checked the magazine—full. Good, taking it.

Then, he took the two spare twenty-round APS magazines from Vladi's waist, the Makarov PM from his tactical vest, the radio hanging on his chest, and the AKM bayonet issued to Soviet paratroopers from his belt.

Whoo, looting bodies is so satisfying. This is way better than fighting those broke mercenaries in the abandoned factory; all you'd get from them were civilian weapons, and not even enough ammo.

[Streamer, time to go. Sergei is making his move too.]

[Hurry, hurry, boys, let the Crow caw!]

[Caw caw caw!]

A dozen seconds ago, in the dining area of the restaurant.

Sergei stood beside a dining table, his walkie-talkie pressed to his left ear, his right hand gripping a Makarov PM with the muzzle pointed toward the floor.

The yellow light from the emergency lamp shone diagonally from the direction of the bar, carving his face into two distinct halves—one side with sallow skin, the other submerged in the shadows of his eye socket.

Inside the walkie-talkie came the sound of Vladi's breathing and footsteps; Sergei kept his thumb on the talk button, listening to the movement on the other end.

Sergei understood Vladi; the latter was a former Soviet paratrooper with a keen sense for combat. Since he had left the walkie-talkie on but wasn't speaking, it meant he had discovered something and was currently hunting an enemy.

The footsteps stopped.

A very faint sound of rustling fabric came through the walkie-talkie, and then...

"Vladi."

A man was saying the name in a raspy Russian voice with a strange accent. He called Vladi's name intimately and gently, as if he were addressing someone he had known for a long time.

Sergei's pupils contracted.

He pressed the talk button.

"Bang!"

A gunshot.

The walkie-talkie's speaker compressed the gunshot into a short, sharp burst of noise, but Sergei still recognized it as a Beretta, a 9mm Parabellum round.

Following the gunshot came the dull thud of a body being hit, and a very short, pained grunt from Vladi's throat.

Then, immediately after, came a second sharp explosion and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

Sergei was all too familiar with that latter sound, and he realized one thing very clearly... Vladi was dead. This veteran who had survived the Soviet–Afghan War was just gone.

He died without a sound.

Sergei pulled the walkie-talkie away from his ear, gripping it tightly, wanting to throw it away, but his reason forced him to restrain that impulse and instead made him consider one thing.

How did Vladi die?

And how did the person who killed him know Vladi's name, and why was he so confident that he would call out his name before pulling the trigger?

What was the purpose of this?

Sergei tucked the walkie-talkie back into the chest pouch of his vest, his gaze sweeping over every face in the dining area... Marco, the two Ukrainians, the one at the front door, the one at the stairwell.

Everyone present was looking at him; they had all heard the same thing from the gunshot leaking through the walkie-talkie.

"Marco, take two men and go around through the left corridor."

His voice was unnaturally steady.

"Igor, take two men and go around the right side to block the kitchen direction."

Marco nodded and tilted his chin toward the two Ukrainians behind him.

The three men moved along the wall toward the left corridor, the yellow light of the emergency lamp stretching their shadows into three long, thin black ribbons that crawled slowly across the floor.

Igor retreated from the direction of the back alley, the white light of his tactical flashlight flashing at the entrance of the dining area before he took two men and circled around the right side through the kitchen.

The two groups dispersed silently in the dim light, like ink washed away by water.

Sergei stood where he was, holding his pistol, watching them disappear around the corner of the corridor.

"Caw, caw, caw..."

A raspy, coarse sound with a metallic texture suddenly rang out in the dark corners where the emergency light could not reach.

Then, from deep within the stairwell, the kitchen exhaust pipes, the basement vents, outside the front door, the direction of the back corridor, and even directly above Sergei's head, came the calls.

Seven or eight Crows called out simultaneously, the sound surging from all directions, colliding repeatedly between the walls of the corridor and the dining area, echoes layered upon echoes.

For a moment, it felt as if the building itself were screaming.

Marco's footsteps faltered.

The two Ukrainians beside him also slowed by half a beat... the muzzle of the one on the left shifted from straight ahead toward the ceiling, and the one on the right unconsciously hunched his shoulders.

The sound of Crows?

Where did the sound of Crows come from? Wasn't the restaurant sealed? How could Crows get in?

Everyone, whether Russian or Ukrainian, looked up and peered around.

Sergei, who remained in the dining area, nearly had a negligent discharge.

It wasn't because he was afraid of birds—he had seen things far more terrifying than Crows—but because the timing was all wrong.

Vladi had just died, the gunshot was still ringing in his ears, the voice that had called Vladi's name was still replaying in his mind, and then the Crows had started calling at this exact moment.

All over the world, regardless of culture, there were legends about Crows, and such legends were inextricably linked to death and misfortune.

"Suka!"

Sergei was a little afraid, but he couldn't show it in front of his subordinates, so he forced himself to become angry, cursed, raised his weapon, and pulled the trigger toward the ceiling.

"Bang, bang, bang..."

Three gunshots rang out, momentarily drowning out Crow's unpleasant voice.

Then, a greater commotion came from ahead.

"Thump thump thump..."

Sergei froze, immediately recognizing the sound.

"AKM!!!"