I overhand tossed the lighter at the globe, its flame arcing the distance to bounce off the sphere’s wooden shell. It fell to the floor and ignited the pool of liquor soaked paper there. Not to be left out of the havoc, flames jumped across the area carpet and up the wood of the desk and globe, quickly spreading. It rose fast, its own small thermals pushing the flying pages around before igniting those as well, the air filling with burning debris.
The fire’s sudden and surprising heat caused Cross to back away from the desk. With Mitnick gone, he swung his gray head around, yelling at the other vory to get out even as he reached for Oleg. The old man ignored his lieutenant and the flames to continue shooting at the men defending Mitnick’s exit.
I had to admire Cross’ tactical grasp of the situation, his discipline in calling for a retreat with the objective gone, his loyalty in trying to pull Oleg away from his own stupidity.
I shot him next. Cross collapsed behind the flames, two bullets his reward for a life of loyalty to monsters.
That got Oleg’s attention. He pulled on his downed comrade’s body, screaming at the fleeing vory. One stopped at the exit only to be pushed out by bullets from my pistol. I pivoted to aim at the thinner wood of the desk’s skirt guard and put three rounds through it. On the other side, Oleg collapsed.
Even over the sound of the room burning, I could hear the fighting continue outside. Someone might have called Oleg’s name. In the trench coat, I sweated in the flames, but walked around the desk with as much caution as I could muster. Oleg was too dangerous to leave wounded and alive.
He had fallen not far from Cross, still breathing in labored gasps. He tried to lift the chromed pistol, but couldn’t. He spoke quietly, almost gently. “You have killed me.”
I took his pistol away. “Shouldn’t have come to town.”
Oleg tried to laugh, gurgling blood instead. “Others of the Avoritet will come. We will rule this place. Nothing will change that.”
I pointed the chrome pistol at him. “There is no “we” anymore, Oleg. There’s just you in this preview of Hell.”
That made him laugh, something about the bitter truth appealing to the poet in his Russian soul. I let him have that, but didn’t leave him to the flames, as much as he might have deserved it. I shot him with his own pistol and ran from the room.
To start at the beginning of the story, go here.
Photo courtesy of Hert Niks.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
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