When cynical addict Rodion Popov makes a deal with the Devil and wagers his soul, his life takes a turn for the demonically surreal. Thrust into a city of shapeshifting sinners and chaos spirits, he must complete five tasks at the Devil's behest in...
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☨ THE DEVIL COMES TO ANGELOVSK 06: Blood on the Asphalt ——————————————————
As Rodion discovered, Oktyabrskaya street was a particularly bustling place to pass time on a Wednesday night.
He'd been hunkered on a bench in the greenery strip for the past hour, watching the concrete apartment tower known as Zhe Block and scanning the faces of those who entered and exited through its teal doors. Around him, the Bloki pulsed with activity and movement. The street trams screamed by on their rails every quarter hour. The militsiya patrol cars lapped his stakeout spot every half. Pedestrians passed by in clusters, eyeing him, the sitting stereotype of a suspicious person. He'd been unmoving and stiff, bundled in a coat far too thick for the night's agreeable weather, with no newspaper or journal to pass the time because rehashing his plan for completing the Devil's task over and over again was stimulating enough.
The second he spotted Angelov exiting Zhe Block, Rodion was going to tail him. Then, when the moment was most opportune, he would pull the Makarov's trigger and put two bullets into the back of Angelov's skull, execution style.
The violence of such a crude plan didn't worry him; he'd shot plenty of human beings while in the army. It was the fact the murder was going to be up close, personal, and premeditated that perturbed him. Angelov differed from the faceless enemy insurgents in a foreign state. He didn't want to chase Rodion out of a region or shoot him dead, rather he wanted to keep him alive to further exploit and destroy, like the hundreds, if not thousands, of citizens in Angelovsk impacted by his crimes. By killing him, Rodion would be doing a favor for Angelovsk, for the militsiya, for the Devil–or so he told himself.
"It's simple arithmetic. Plain enough for a child to count," Rodion muttered nervously, and dragged his cigarette's rousing burn into his tight chest.
He finished the cigarette with his head bowed and his chest looming over his knees. When he looked up again, he found the wiry boy who'd defied his middle in the alley, rosy-cheeked and out of breath before him, as if he'd just run up.
"What are you doing here, patsan? Didn't I say to stay off Oktobraskaya?"
Rodion pushed to his feet, and the boy backed up sheepishly. His gaze wandered, settling on everything except Rodion's face; the bust statue behind the bushes, the linden trees towering over the bench, his shoes. When the kid couldn't bring himself to do anything but stutter, Rodion patted his shoulder and conducted another sweep of the street.
"Hold that thought."
He flung his cigarette butt into the gutter and moved for the crosswalk, squinting through the night and between the fog lamps of the cars whizzing past Zhe block. Standing beneath the metal awning was the Kynaz in his crown sable coat. Alone. He was pacing back and forth, seemingly trying to decide whether to turn left or right.
