State Terrorism

[Anonymous]

Stepan deplaned, climbing down the steps to the tarmac. He'd never been to Banja Luka before. But the sights, the smells, the people, it all made this place feel like home. Certainly moreso than the hard streets of Ouistreham.

Inside the terminal, Stepan collected this luggage and passed through customs without a problem. His papers were of the highest quality of forgery, certainly enough to get past a bohunk immigration official in Crotobaltislavonia.

Outside, Stepan hailed a cab. "The Tenth Quarter. The Drive. Number Five-One-Five."

 

[Anonymous]

It was a bit of work for one man, but Stepan was pleased with his results so far. He'd whittled the group down to twenty men and women. Some were criminals. Some were veterans. Some were internally displaced. They were all people who'd been hardened by the last few years of life in Crotobaltislavonia. As a bonus, these were lost people and needed only some direction. Stepan had expected they'd need to be bought and he'd brought enough cash to do the job. Now he could keep the money for other uses.

Naturally, the women were cooking supper for the group. The men sat around, drinking, playing cards, guessing at what they'd signed up for. Stepan sat apart, enjoying the fragrances of old-world Slavonian cooking and filling out the paperwork to take the group across borders.