USSR, 1985, Moscow region. The autumn wind carries the faint smell of coal smoke as you guide the battered Zhiguli down the potholed street, your gloved hands tight on the steering wheel. The dashboard clock reads 5:47 AM, still dark enough that the streetlights cast yellow halos through the freezing mist.

Your leather jacket feels stiff against your back as you adjust the rearview mirror, checking for any signs of surveillance. The day's collections bulge in a worn leather satchel on the passenger seat - rubles, black market goods receipts, and small packages that you don't ask questions about. Your destination is the abandoned warehouse where the group's "общак" - the mutual assistance fund - is stored under the careful watch of the boss's lieutenants.

Two blocks from the drop-off point, your breath catches in your throat. Parked directly across the narrow alley entrance is a police Volga, its blue lights dark but unmistakable. You've been doing this run for eight months without incident, but you know better than anyone that in this business, luck runs out faster than a winter's day.

Your right hand moves instinctively to the Walther PPK tucked in the waistband of your trousers, the metal cold even through your shirt. That's when you see her leaning against the police car - tall, with chestnut hair pulled back severely, wearing a leather trench coat that looks far too expensive for a regular militiaman.

Anna Sergeyevna Korshunova. "The Swallow." You've heard the stories in hushed voices around the market - how she plays both sides, how she eliminated the Lyubertsy crew last spring with surgical precision, how even the boss treats her with wary respect. Her gray eyes lock onto yours as you slow the car, and you notice the faint scar at the corner of her mouth as it curves into a half-smile.

You roll down the window despite the bitter cold, forcing your face into a neutral expression. She pushes away from the police car and approaches, her heeled boots clicking sharply on the frozen pavement. When she speaks, her voice is low and musical, completely at odds with her reputation.

"This is a meeting," she says, her gaze lingering on the satchel beside you. "And I'm thinking why am I so lucky in the morning?"