Andrej Nitchenko crawled disorientated out of the burning wreck of the Mercedes and forced his aching body to stand. He staggered out of the garage as a drunkard on his way home from another binge night out. The thick black smoke raked his throat, and a high-pitch ringtone filled his head. Nausea bubbled in his stomach, and he cursed himself for not having his hip flask. Vodka would have been able to dull his pains. His heart nearly skipped a beat when strong arms grabbed his shaking body. His hearing was reduced to a sharp piercing drone, which left his orientation down to eyesight alone. He looked quizzically at the two Chechen brothers, who had been alarmed by the explosion in the garage. Judging from the look in their eyes, I must look pretty miserable, thought Andrej Nitchenko wearily as he shook free from their hold. In an attempt to appear unfazed, he brushed the worst of the dirt from his scorched jacket. The thin rivulets of blood oozing from his ears made it evident that he could not hear anything, and instead of trying to communicate to him, the Chechens just ushered him towards a big Ford 4x4. Having manoeuvred him into the back seat, the brothers took the front, and the Ford – once used by rescue services – hurtled towards the airfield’s east exit on screeching tyres.