Anosov’s crew of ten men gathered around in the kitchen, and he briefed them on who was coming their way and why.
“The American cowboy riding in to save his girlfriend,” Vasili Melnik said, and the rest of them laughed.
“I want this clean, no outside interference,” Anosov said. “Which means we have to let the gentleman inside before we take him down.”
“Why don’t you let me and Sergei save us all some trouble?” Melnik said. “We’ll wait outside—no guns—and when the stupid son of a bitch shows up, we’ll break his fucking neck.”
“He’s an ex-SEAL,” Anosov said.
“Pizdec,” Melnik said. Pussy.
“I want it clean. No noise.”
Melnik and Sergei left their pistols on the kitchen table and went out the back door.
“SEALs aren’t pussies,” Anosov told the others. “If he should get past them, I want him to think that they were the only lookouts on duty, and that the rest of us are either asleep in our beds or maybe playing poker in the dining room.”
The others were skeptical, but they nodded.
“I want a layered defense. Scatter yourselves between here and the attic.”