To start at the beginning of the story, go here.
There was a loud, dull thud, like a mortar attack at dawn, an unmistakeable sound that shook the room. I had seen what a grenade could do to a full gas tank, so I knew what it was. I guess someone had finally decided to move the car.
The vory, though, only knew something very bad had happened. The uncertainty stripped them of their postured cool and they scrambled. Fear burned through the room like det cord, snaking through both sides. Each man glanced at the next in uncertainty, men of violence shifting in a growing panic that they needed to act before their enemies got the better of them.
Oleg fired a shot at Mitnick, the muzzle flash painting faces and casting shadows on the walls. Brick threw himself into its path, tackling the nearest vory as the two groups collided. Whip stepped in front of his boss, pulling his own weapon even as Mitnick’s mouth opened in protest. It was seconds between the explosion and the room thundering with shots fired, followed by the chorus of men yelling and the wounded screaming.
The vory next to me was on his feet, his own pistol out. I threw a shoulder into him, knocking him off balance so I could clap my hands around his firearm, leveraging it in his hands. In the din of the room, I felt more than heard the snap of his finger as it broke in the trigger guard. In the chaos, only Diamonds noticed.
Diamonds moved to plunge his knife into me, but I swung the vory between us. I smelled the vodka on his breath as the blade pushed into his back. Over his shoulder, Diamonds’ paleness reddened with the anger of knowing he had killed one of his own.
He pulled the blade out, blood spraying as he pushed the dying boy out of the way to get at me. I let the body fall, angling the pistol at Diamonds, betting my life that the young vory had been stupid enough to have a round in the chamber.
I yanked on the dead man’s finger, pulling the trigger. Even in the chaos of the room, the first shot out of the pistol was deafening, punctuating Diamond’s full stop, his ropey muscles falling loose as he looked down at the hole in his chest. I gave him two more for good measure.
As he fell, I plunged behind the chaise, ripping the pistol from the vory. Bullets meant for me landed in the corpse, shaking it so hard coins fell out of its pocket. I pulled my feet in, going fetal as bullets and debris flew around the room.
I peeked over the chaise. Mitnick was being hustled out of the room by Whip, the rest of his men protecting his retreat. It was a close-range business, with fists and knives and guns, and it was as ugly as you’d imagine. The yells, screams, and shots blended together into a sonic sea of chaos that rose and fell in decibels.
A gut-shot vory landed on his back not far from me. Both of us saw Diamond’s knife and reached for it. He got it first, ignoring me to plunge the blade into the chest of a man who dove onto him. I yanked my hand back to save my fingers from the bullets that took both men, my only prize Diamond’s silver flip lighter.
The shock of combat sank in, trying to hold me in place. Knowing the only way to survive was to fight through it, I tried to get to my feet, but a burst of fire landed around me, pinning me. I saw the man who shot fumble to reload, panic making his fingers thick. Any new recruit could have told him to get behind cover before doing that. He was rewarded for his ignorance with bullets tearing through him.
Another vory slid behind the chaise, putting us foxhole close. His grey eyes widening in shock as he realized I was on the wrong side and pointing a pistol at him. Sometimes, late at night, I still see him, even though he meant nothing to me. I put a bullet in him, killing one more man to get at the ones I wanted. It was hours later before I realized it had been Pyotr.
I caught a glimpse of Oleg behind the desk, hunkering down like it was a bunker, the wood holding strong under the barrage even as the globe cracked under gunfire and leaked its high-octane liquor onto the floor. Rounds smacked into the books behind him, sending bits of paper twisting into the air, showering the room in a ticker tape parade.
Oleg didn’t see me, eyes on the exiting Mitnick and his remaining men. I didn’t know how many rounds were left in the pistol, so I squeezed my eyes shut and flicked open the lighter. When I peeked through one eye, I was ecstatic to see a solid, butane flame rising from te chrome.
Photo courtesy of Hert Niks.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read the author’s published work, go here.
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