The young man froze for a moment, then quickly reached into his pocket. He emptied a handful of bullets—about eight 7.62×39mm rounds—onto the counter. The bullets rolled across the wooden surface with a metallic clatter. The young man's hands were shaking.
"Please," he said, his throat feeling dry. "This is all I have. I need that ring. I'm going to propose to the girl I love; we've been dreaming of this since we were children."
After these words, there was silence. At that moment, even the buzz of the surrounding crowd seemed to fade. The young man's eyes held both fear and hope. The seller took off his glasses and looked slowly at the young man's face. His eyes were filled with the weariness of the years and the shadows left by war, but they also looked sharp enough to see into a person's soul. He looked carefully into the young man's eyes—really looked, to understand.
Then something happened.
The old vendor took a deep breath. A faint smile appeared at the corners of his lips. It was a smile only those who understood could give—those who knew loss, longing, and still remembered love...
"I've seen many men who forgot the name of the woman they loved in war…" he said slowly, as if lost in his own past. "But I've seen few who would give up a rifle for the one they loved."
He turned slowly, opened the back of the display case. He took the diamond ring out of its velvet box, held it in his hand for a few seconds. Then, he placed it between his hands and set it before the young man.
"Take it. But remember this: Wearing that ring on your finger is easy, but earning its worth takes a lifetime."
The young man took the ring with tear-filled eyes. He gripped it tightly in his hands, unsure of what to say. He swallowed his emotions, then whispered just one word:
"Thank you... Thank you so much."
After taking the diamond ring, the young man ran out quickly, his eyes shining. Perhaps at that moment, amidst all the destruction and darkness, he had taken the first step toward the new life he had dreamed of, the small paradise he would build with the woman he loved. As I watched him, I thought to myself, "I hope he's giving that ring to someone who truly deserves it."
The old seller smiled after the young man, then shook his head slightly and adjusted his glasses. He turned to me with a slight chuckle and said:
"Ah... Youth... How beautiful it is, isn't it? They still have the power to believe in things. We only have memories..."
I couldn't help but laugh, partly to cheer him up: "You may be old, but your spirit still looks young, comrade, hahaha!"
The old man laughed along with me, then narrowed his eyes with a mocking expression: "Don't try to get a discount by flattering me. Even at my age, I don't want to be ripped off, hahaha! Come on, let's see what you've brought."
We both stepped outside the building. In the middle of winter, a light breeze blew under the gray sky. A cold silence rose from the concrete, but our footsteps and laughter broke that silence.
We reached the VAZ-2102. We walked up to the side of the vehicle, and I lifted the trunk with a heavy arm. Then I opened the load covered with a tarp. Inside, a scene reminiscent of a war depot unfolded.
Boxes full of weapons gleamed:
— Exactly 20 fully functional AK-74 rifles, all cleaned and oiled.
— Two SVD sniper rifles with scopes, military standard.
— Approximately 20 TT-33 Tokarev pistols; all shiny but still deadly.
— One AKS-74U; compact and deadly, worn out, but still functional.
— One Mosin-Nagant, equipped with a scope, resembling a long-range hunting rifle.
— One PPSH-43, a mechanical relic from the past, a remnant of World War II.
— And boxes full of F1 and RGD-5 type hand grenades, some still in their original sealed boxes.
I turned to the seller: "I'll take one AK-74, one SVD, one TT-33, and two boxes of hand grenades for myself. The rest are for sale."
The old man fell silent. Through his glasses, his eyes sparkled as he looked at the trunk. As his eyes slowly scanned the boxes, he brought his hand to his beard and then burst into laughter: "Comrade... Please don't ask me for a diamond ring in exchange for this arsenal! Hahaha! Or should I arrange a wedding hall for you too, ahahaha!"
His laughter echoed around the car. But the admiration in his eyes was real. As a merchant, he hadn't seen such a shipment in years. I smiled, crossed my arms over my chest, took a step back, and spoke with a calm expression:
"No, I don't want a wedding. But I'm expecting a good offer. Because everything here was obtained with the blood of many men."
The seller suddenly became serious. He shook his head and closed the hood.
"Let's go inside. Such a heavy shipment will be settled through negotiation. Maybe I'll have a few surprises for you."
We went inside together. We walked toward the old wooden tables, bearing the marks of ranks and past battles, between the concrete walls. The air carried the smell of burnt fuel and dry dust. I slowly placed my hand on the old seller's shoulder, leaned in slightly, and whispered with a mocking smile:
"Don't worry... In exchange for this arsenal, I only want an assault helmet, night vision goggles, a GP-25 grenade launcher, a box of VOG-25, and a UAZ-469. Nothing more."
The seller pushed his glasses up with his fingertip. His eyes narrowed for a moment, and the humor vanished from his face. He spoke in a serious, calculating tone:
"The UAZ and night vision goggles... Those aren't easy to come by. They'll cost you a fortune. But if you trade in that VAZ-2102 too, we can make a deal. You won't need both vehicles anyway, will you?"
I smiled. We shook hands firmly, a handshake as cold as metal but warmed by the heat of the deal.
"Show me the goods first," I said. "Let me see what you're offering so the negotiation doesn't go to waste."
The seller led the way, taking me to a private storage room at the back of the narrow corridor. He unlocked the rusty iron door with a chain, then carefully carried several pieces of equipment from inside and placed them on the store's central table. The equipment, arranged under the dusty lamp, resembled a sacred scene from an old war film.
First, he showed me the helmet. He placed it carefully in the center of the counter: "ZSH-1-2M," he said in a low voice. "The favorite of special forces. There are a few scratches, but it's still sturdy against impacts. Normally, it has a bulletproof polycarbonate visor... but here, I did a little something special for you."
He pulled something out of his pocket—a modified visor taken from the Altyn helmet. He continued, touching the edge of the visor with his fingers:
"This face shield provides full protection against 7.62×25 Tokarev and Nagant bullets. I also welded a special mounting piece for the PNV-57EM on the top. It's perfect for use with night vision."
Then he took out the night vision goggles. They were black, heavy, and had a technical feel to them.
"PNV-57EM. An old model, but I filled it with foam padding. You won't hear that annoying 'buzzing' sound anymore. It won't give you a headache either. The electrical circuit is insulated, it doesn't retain moisture, and the lenses are clear."
Finally, he took out the GP-25 grenade launcher. His hands were still skilled as he mounted it on the AK-74 with its polished, smooth metal body. Then he brought a wooden box from inside and removed the wooden lid. When he opened it, it was filled with 40 VOG-25 grenades.
"A total of 40. All clean, all active. With these, you could level even a small outpost."
The equipment was laid out before us. The new face of war had sat down at the negotiating table with death in a friendly manner.
I nodded, took the helmet in my hand, and checked its weight. I examined the visor closely. Then I put on the goggles, and a green glow from the night vision lenses hit my face. I checked the mechanism of the GP-25; it was working smoothly.
We headed to the back of the building with the seller. This place had left time and wars behind, resembling a graveyard of metal. In the open field covering a vast area, rusted BTR armored personnel carriers lay bowed against the wind. Some had their turrets removed, their hulls riddled with bullet holes. BMPs without tracks had begun to sink into the ground, bare and exhausted. Even at the edge, there were seven T-72 tanks left with only their hulls—no engines, no tracks. It was as if these once-mighty beasts, once spread death, were now abandoned statues left to rot.
We walked silently through the graveyard. With each step, the sound of crushed glass and metal fragments echoed beneath our feet. After a while, we reached the door of a more solid-looking, enclosed garage. When the old seller pulled up the heavy iron shutter, the light flooding in transformed the atmosphere instantly.
The interior was like a museum where time had frozen. Before me were five KRAZ-255 heavy-duty trucks—each spotless, their bodies still smelling of factory oil. Next to them were six URAL-4320 trucks; brand-new down to their mudguards, as if they had just come out of a military exercise. But my eyes were drawn to them: ten UAZ-469s, painted military green, their headlights gleaming, their rims polished to a shine. Each one seemed ready for a new battle, silently watching me.
The old seller turned to the stainless steel cabinet on the wall, pulled out a chain with keys hanging from it, and selected one after feeling each one. He then opened the driver's door of one of the UAZs, sat behind the wheel, and started the engine.
The vehicle started on the first try. The engine ran smoothly—like a well-oiled machine. The man opened the hood, added a bit of engine oil to the reservoir, then carefully inspected the engine. Everything was in order.
Then he turned and handed me the key. There was a proud, satisfied smile on his face.
"I think our offer is complete now, isn't it?" he said.
I took the key in my hand. The cold metal felt heavy in my palm. I slowly approached the UAZ. I touched its body; I felt the coolness of the smooth paint on my fingers. It was so clean that I could clearly see my face reflected in it. I opened the door and sat inside; the leather seats still smelled new. The dashboard was gleaming. Even the gearshift knob was scratch-free.
I started the engine and slowly drove the UAZ out of the garage, parking it next to the old VAZ-2102. I opened the trunk of the VAZ. I carefully placed my personal belongings and ammunition boxes into the spacious trunk of the new UAZ. I took the keys to the VAZ-2102 and placed them in the old seller's palm. His calloused hands, bearing the marks of the past and hard work, gripped the keys.
I started the new UAZ and drove away from the market, accompanied by the deep, resonant sound of the engine. As the tired surface of the asphalt groaned beneath the wheels, I turned toward the "Free Russia" tavern. Along the way, the silence between the dilapidated buildings and crumbling walls was broken only by the rumble of the engine. The sun struggled to peek through the clouds, casting a warm glow on the rusty bodies of the street lamps.
When I arrived at the tavern, I parked the car carefully. I entered unnoticed and headed straight up the stairs to my room. As soon as I entered, I dropped my bag on the floor and pushed the ammunition box I had brought from the UAZ's trunk under the bed. Everything was in its place. It seemed like preparations for the new mission were complete.
But first, a lunch... I went downstairs to the restaurant area. There was a faint hum inside; a few tables were occupied, but my usual corner table at the back, under the dim lights, was empty. I sat down quietly and placed my order without waiting for the waiter, making eye contact: fried chicken, Russian salad with plenty of mayonnaise, and cold beer.
The food arrived quickly. The chicken was crispy on the outside and juicy and spicy on the inside. The creamy texture of the Russian salad balanced the salty taste of the fried chicken. The icy bitterness of the beer washed away all my fatigue. I finished everything in a few bites. With a sense of peace in my stomach, I leaned back slightly and closed my eyes for a few seconds.
Then I quietly got up, walked away from the table, and left the tavern. I got into the UAZ. When I took the wheel, it felt like I was carrying not just a new vehicle but a new identity. My gaze fixed on my reflection in the rearview mirror. I was tougher, more determined, more tired, but also more prepared.
The engine's rumble echoed between the high concrete walls of the military outpost. I carefully parked the new UAZ-469 directly in front of the main entrance. As I stepped out of the vehicle, the wind gently fluttered the collar of my uniform. The sky was gray; the sun's light filtered through the leaden clouds in a faint glow.
The two guards standing in front of the heavy iron gate of the outpost snapped to attention when they saw me. I merely nodded in response. I entered. As the faint gray tiles covering the hallway echoed my footsteps, the soldier Anton Semyonov, sitting at the reception desk on the right, glanced at me and recognized me. He immediately saluted and then lowered his head back to the logbook in front of him.
I walked down the corridor with heavy steps. Finally, I stopped in front of that familiar door, the colonel's office. I took a deep breath and knocked gently but firmly on the door with two fingers. Then a familiar voice echoed from inside, in a hoarse, commanding tone:
"Come in."
I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was windowless and dark; only the light from the lamp on the desk illuminated the center of the room. The sole figure in the light was Colonel Valeriy Sidorov, his face bearing the weariness of the years but still standing tall. As usual, he was writing something in a thick, black-covered notebook. The smell of ink filled the air.
He raised his head, looked at me, and the corners of his lips turned up slightly. His tone was his usual sarcastic one:
"I see you're in good spirits. I hope life at the Free Russia Tavern hasn't spoiled you too much."
His eyes narrowed as he studied me closely. Then he reached out his hand toward the chair.
"Sit down. If you're here for a new assignment, you've come at the right time. But know this—this time, the job is a bit more... dangerous. Riskier, yes. But the pay? Unparalleled."
After speaking, he pushed the map roll on his desk aside and closed his notebook. I felt the seriousness settle into the room. A dark spark flashed in the colonel's eyes.
"Thanks to you, we blew up one of the two bridges leading to Sergey's bandit camp yesterday. Now they only have one passage left. They can't get support, help can't reach them. The siege is complete. Now all that's left is the final blow."
When he finished speaking, I sat down in the chair. Feeling the fatigue in my body, I leaned back. I locked my eyes directly onto the Colonel's. My voice was clear, calm, but resolute:
"That's exactly why I'm here. Come on... lay your cards on the table. Let's see what tasks you have."
The Colonel pulled out a few files from the drawer and laid them on the table. The documents read as follows:
1) Hunting mission — Destroy the wolf den located 4 kilometers from the city.
2) Tank rescue — A T-80U tank stuck in a swamp 7 kilometers from the city has been detected. The mission is to bring the tank back to the city safely with the team.
3) Special mission — Provide support for an attack operation on Segey's bandit camp. The operation will take place tonight at midnight, and a substantial payment will be made.
4) Rescue call — You must escort a convoy carrying medicine and ammunition to a settlement. Mutant herds have been spotted in the area, and you must ensure they reach the settlement safely.
The special assignment caught my attention, and I took the file and began to examine it. As I slowly turned the pages, my eye caught the name of the leader, Sergey. There was an old black-and-white photograph of a man with a short beard and a strange calmness in his eyes despite his age. There was a note in the corner of the photograph:
"Sergey Yegorovich Belyakov — Former Spetsnaz, 1982–1992, Afghanistan Veteran"
I placed the file on the table, took a deep breath, and turned to the Colonel.
"How much do we know about the enemy?" I asked, my tone firm. "How many soldiers, what equipment, do they have armored vehicles? And most importantly… what do we have?"
The Colonel took off his glasses and placed them on the table. His eyes narrowed slightly, he clasped his hands over his chest and leaned back in his chair. The half-mocking, relaxed expression on his face had vanished. He began speaking in a serious, tense tone:
> "Sergey Belyakov... This man is no ordinary person. His name appears in the Soviet Army's black books. He served in Spetsnaz units, specializing in guerrilla warfare in mountainous regions, particularly in Afghanistan. For ten years, he fought both for the Soviets and out of his own instinct for survival. His operational intelligence operates outside classical military protocols. His tactics are based on unpredictability: ambushes, night raids, trapped retreats… He operates like a ghost."
He paused for a moment, opened the drawer of the desk, and took out another envelope. He pulled out a few papers and a worn map, laying the map on the table. The map roughly indicated the location of Sergey's camp. It was surrounded by forested and swampy terrain.
> "The bandit group numbers around 100 people. However, we don't believe the number is exact because the man is constantly replenishing his ranks with new recruits. There is definitely at least one BMP-1 armored vehicle in his camp. Beyond that, we don't know what other heavy weapons or explosive devices he possesses. That's what's truly terrifying—the unknown."
His voice grew even more serious. He slammed his fist on the thick file:
> "We attacked four times. In all four instances, we had the numerical and vehicle superiority. But each time, they held their ground, and we retreated. This man is not a commander; he is a hunter."
The colonel paused briefly to gather his thoughts, then took a deep breath and continued:
"The forces supporting us in this operation will total 150 soldiers, along with two BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles and two BTR-70 armored personnel carriers. This unit will form the main assault force of the operation. From a tactical standpoint, two BM-21 Grad multiple rocket launchers and two D-30 howitzers will be used for preparatory fire. This artillery fire will wear down the enemy's positions and demoralize them."
The colonel continued, pointing to the map on the table:
"The operation plan will proceed as follows: The enemy has only one bridge at their disposal. They are focused on defending that bridge. However, we have a secret ace up our sleeve. We have an MT-55A armored bridge-laying vehicle. Using this vehicle, while their attention is on the bridge, we will build a new bridge at another location. A group of approximately 30 personnel will launch an improvised, high-risk attack to divert the enemy's attention to that area. At the same time, the main force will quietly advance across the newly constructed bridge, bypass the enemy's rear, and deliver the decisive blow."
He paused for a moment, looked me over, and waited to see if I would ask any questions.
I glanced at the map in the file one last time. The plan was logical, risky, but well thought out.
I raised my head and asked in a determined voice:
"I accept the mission. So, what time will we meet tonight?"
The colonel replied immediately:
"We will be here at this outpost at exactly 1:00 a.m. today. We will finalize our preparations and discuss the final details of the operation."