[b]Batumi, Georgia[/b]

The sky was stained a deep purple, with a bright moon illuminating the streets below. Clouds dotted the horizon but the worst of the rain had ended. All that was left was the biting cold wind and air, that forced temperatures to dip around freezing. On the isolated outskirts of the city, where the warlords forces had a weaker grip, small gangs of teenagers and young men darted across the streets with boxes in their arms, all bundled up in standard Guard Youth uniforms. Brown parkas, scarves covering their faces, heavy boots and stolen khaki trousers. Not a light shined in this suburban part of the city, apart from the occasional battery powered torch of patrolling militia men. On one seemingly abandoned street, the only light came from the dull glow of a cigarette and cracks of lights from one of the doors.

The old woman squinted at the lad who stood at her doorstep, a box in his arms. A smile cracked the wrinkles of her old face. 'Have you brought some food for old me?' she smiled sweetly, showing her cracked and blackened teeth. 'I have, Miss' said Anatoli. 'You've got some bread, a bit of ham, a jar of milk and dozen bottles of water. It should do you for a few days until the next shipment'. The young Russian grinned as the old lady took the small box of foodstuffs and shuffled to put it behind her. 'I'm bleedin' glad that you men are doing this' she said, slightly huffing from the effort. 'I would probably be starving if it weren't for Guards. Thank you.' She shuffled back to the door. Even at full height, she barely stood to Anatoli's shoulders but age had withered her back, her strength and her height. 'Goodbye, young lad. I appreciate it' she shut the door of her ancient home. Anatoli nodded and turned back. Giorgi sat on her wall, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a several boxes at his feet. 

'You're doing the next one' growled the Russian to his casual companion. Giorgi shrugged in agreement and hopped off the wall. 'Have we done this street then?' he asked, a cigarette clenched between his teeth. 'Yeah. Not many still live around this area. We turn right up this road and we've got two families' replied Anatoli, picking up his share of care packages. It was a common job amongst the youth wing to deliver care packages to the isolated people and starving families around the city. It was a part of their job. As well as protecting the people and delivering food, they made sure that all were somewhat comfortable. It was becoming harder and harder seeing as Demir's men had begun increased patrols and began rooting out the team of smugglers Davit had worked had to place in the city. They had to do this during the dusk and dawn to avoid patrols by the heavily armed militia's and Turks that roamed the streets during the day. However, there were still the night patrols to worry about. 

'And for fucks sakes, put that cigarette out. I heard Kart's patrol got caught smoking by the Turks and had to give up their packages' hissed Anatoli. 'Jesus, who took a piss in your morning tea?' sighed Giorgi, flicking the lit cigarette to the cracked pavement and stamping it out. It died immediately. As they approached the corner, they stuck to the shadows of a high wall, keeping silent. Anatoli stuck his head around the corner and scanned the street. He saw something he hoped he wouldn't. A powerful beam of light cut through the darkness and the sound of rapid shouting in a language he didn't recognise. The sound of a door being slammed shut and a screaming woman echoed down the street. [i]Shit. They're inspecting homes[/i] thought the Russian. He hugged the wall and returned to his partner quickly. 'Fuck. Patrol men. Sound like Dagi's' he whispered rapidly. He didn't see Giorgi's reaction in the darkness. 'How many?' he whispered back. 'I dunno. Too dark. Maybe six or seven. If they're Dagi, they'll be rough as fuck and probably armed. We should get back to Captain Milidani'. Giorgi didn't move. The woman from around the corner was screaming again. It pierced the silence of night like a knife. The Georgian slowly bent to the ground, where he dropped his boxes. He hugged the wall and glanced around the corner. 'What the fuck are you doing?' hissed Anatoli, horrified. Giorgi just motioned for him to shut up.

In the darkness, he could hear the laughter of several Dagi men as they threw the screaming woman to floor. One Dagistani, probably sick of her screaming, pulled out a pistol and shot near her head. He said something in his rough language and the woman took the hint. She quieted down to just a soft whimper. The group of men closed in around her, one cackling slightly. Giorgi's hand slid to his pocket, where he slowly slid a knife from it. It glinted slightly in the moon light. The Dagistani group parted slightly and Giorgi saw, illuminated by torchlight atop one of the guns, one of the men laying on top of the woman, grunting slightly. She just whimpered. Just when it looked like the young Patarava was to jump from around the corner and run at the men, he felt a hand firmly grab his shoulder. Another hand went around his mouth. He struggled slightly. 'Don't you fucking dare, Patarava. We have orders not to go near any patrol men and to come straight back if we see any. You fucking hear me? Put that knife back in your pocket and we're heading back'. Giorgi silently complied, glaring at the taller Russian. Anatoli let go of his companion. He shook his head when he heard the woman give a heart wrenching scream. Giorgi bit his lip. The pair dropped their boxes into the bushes and began a rapid run back to base.

[b]Back at base[/b]

The room was empty, par from Zugrab. He sat back in his chair and took a long drag from his cigarette. He was in the living room, that was largely empty apart from a chair and a table. No light shined through the cracks in the boarded up window. The muffled sound of several men enjoying themselves and laughing came through the thick walls. The men were all having a mini-celebration in the kitchen. When I say all the men and mini-celebration, I mean Davit Patarava, Captain Saba Milidani and Elchin drinking alcohol around a table and talking shit. Zagreb had never been much of a heavy drinker but Davit had gotten him on smoking again. He had been in Batumi for almost four days now and already had gotten sick of Elchin's company. The Azeri had taken to wearing the Battle Rifle on a strap around his neck and taking it everywhere with him. It was fully loaded and unlocked, a safety disaster waiting to happen. Zagreb hadn't changed clothes in his whole time here nor had he taken a shower, so the musk of sweat and grubby clothing was beginning to annoy him. Despite all the problems with Elchin, his renewed smoking habit and ripe armpit smell, the spy felt somewhat relaxed. While on his mission to Poti, he had been constantly watching over his shoulder for enemies, dodging through buildings to avoid people who may recognise him and stealing clothing and food just to survive. In this safe house, he felt...well, safe! For the first time in over five months, he could relax, enjoy a cigarette and put his feet up. [i]But work never ends[/i], he thought sadly.

The door clicked open and a man slipped into the room. It was Tamaz, who had spent the last few weeks under Captain Saba Milidani working with Bedros, the smuggler. He had been under orders to watch Bedros and protect him from danger. He was also the last surviving member of Zagreb's 'Watcher's' Unit. A unit dedicated to reconnaissance for the Guard that had once contained up to 10 men at once was now cut down to just Tamaz, a quiet, 20's-something man of Nordic origins. Unlike Saba's youth wing or Elchin's Guard, the Watchers were free to wear and look like they wanted. For protection reasons, only certain men knew Zagreb's real name. And Tamaz wasn't one of them. 'Good evening, Tamaz' nodded Zagreb, dropping his feet from the table. Tamaz nodded and slouched over to the table. 'Your mission went well, I've heard'. Tamaz nodded. 'You gave your report to Davit already, yes?' The blonde man just nodded again. Zagreb grimaced. Tamaz never had been much of a talker unless commanded to. He wore a loose flannel shirt, a pair of thin trousers and boots. It was the first time Zagreb had seen Tamaz in a long time and his mission with Bedros hadn't changed him much. 'Well, I have another mission for you. This time, you shall be with me. I want you up tomorrow morning early and ready. Take that pistol with you. Wear something completely different and meet me in the Tsar and Sultan at the previously agreed spot. Do you understand, Tamaz?'. Tamaz spoke for the first time. 'I do, Pikey'. His voice was significantly deep for a man of such normal stature. 'Good. Now go home, get some rest and set your alarm clock'. Tamaz nodded and slouched out of the room. The door clicked shut and a large guffaw came from the Kitchen. Davit always had too much to drink. 

The last of dregs of the cigarettes were collapsing in the spies fingers, so he threw the smoking remains in the ash tray. He fingered his pocket for the box and opened it, dropping the remains into his open palm. A few specks of tobacco floated out of the box and Zagreb swore quietly. He stood from his chair and walked out of the room, his hands in his pockets. One of Elchin's many sons sat on a stool outside the door, half-asleep and a shotgun at his side. He was barely a boy, a teenager at most. Fluff covered his face as a pathetic attempt at a beard. Zagreb gabbed the boys nose and he gasped loudly, waking from his slumber. 'Evening, Sleeping Beauty. I'll ask for our safety that you do not fall asleep again'. The boy nodded, bewildered and grabbed the shotgun in his hands, which he cradled. Zagreb glanced at the end of the hall to the closed door. He considered perhaps going to the kitchen and asking for another cigarette. But then he heard Elchin give a loud, drunken guffaw and decided against it. So he began the quick ascent up the stairs, scratching the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks.

'Devout Muslim my arse' he murmured, rolling his eyes as Elchin began another long roar of drunken laughter.