Christopher Golden - Sons of Anarchy - Bratva

The Russians mounted the wide, cracked stone steps of the church. They fanned out, surrounding Jax and Opie in a half circle. The man in the center stood about five-five and had his head shaved down to stubble that matched his chin. He didn’t seem like a natural leader, but the proud, upward tilt of his chin said otherwise. To the left of him and one step back was a much taller man, late forties but in murderous physical condition, with pockmarks on the right side of his face that had been left behind by shotgun pellets instead of acne. His bodyguard, Jax figured.

“Name,” the little stubblehead said.

“Jack Ashby,” Jax replied. “And this is—”

Stubblehead grinned, never taking his eyes off Jax. “His name doesn’t matter. Is you who are looking for this woman, yes?”

Jax felt the cold serpent of that reptilian calm slither into him. “What about you? Does your name matter?”

Stubblehead nodded as if in appreciation of his brass balls. Then he turned to the guy with the shotgun scars. “Hurt him a little.”

Opie tried to get in front of Jax and all the Russians moved at once. Jax put up a hand to push Opie backward, then stood facing Stubblehead and Scarface with his own chin raised defiantly.

“You heard the man,” he said, staring at Scarface’s black shark eyes. “Hurt me.”

The big man—six foot three and built to inflict pain—took a step up and plowed a fist into Jax’s skull as casually as if he’d waved hello. Stars exploded behind Jax’s eyes, and he staggered to the side and up another step. Scarface went to follow him, but Stubblehead put up a hand.

“My name is Viktor Krupin,” Stubblehead said.

Head ringing, Jax smiled thinly. The son of a bitch hadn’t cared about giving up his name, only about Jax’s having the balls to demand it. Opie’s jaw was set, chest rising and falling, ready for a brawl, and Jax mentally noted how funny it was that Op had been concerned about his temper. Back where they’d left the bikes, Jax could see that Chibs had a hand on Joyce’s shoulder, keeping him in place. That was good. Chibs would do as he’d been asked, trusting that Jax knew what he was doing. Maybe until it was almost too late.

“I thought we were gonna meet someone named Lagoshin.”

Krupin sniffed. “Mr. Lagoshin doesn’t waste his time with street trash.”

Jax glanced around, made a show of noticing how many Bratva men had come to this little meeting on the church steps. He wanted Krupin to see that he recognized bullshit when it was spoken to him. Lagoshin might not have come to the meeting, but he’d taken it seriously, or he wouldn’t have sent all of these goons.

“Look, this is supposed to be simple. My sister’s with this Oleg guy, thinks she’s in love with him. The family doesn’t want her to end up catching a bullet, so I’m here to bring her home. If he works for you, all I’m asking is—”

Krupin shook his head. “Oleg does not work for me. And we don’t know where he is, or if your sister is with him.”

Jax cocked his head. “Then why the hell are we talking?” He glanced at Scarface, head still aching from that one punch.

“It’s very simple, Mr. Ashby,” Krupin said. “We wanted to tell you that if you find your sister with Oleg, you’re going to let us know where Oleg can be found. And we want to make sure you are who you say you are.”

A ripple went through Jax. They had no idea where Trinity was—this meet had been a waste of his time. His temper began to slip.

“You’re telling me you don’t have a single lead?”

“We have a few, but nothing very helpful,” Krupin replied.

“Anything you feel like sharing?”

“You keep asking the wrong questions.”

Jax nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll bite. How are you gonna make sure I am who I say I am?”

Krupin grinned. “I thought you must be smarter than you looked.”

He gestured with his right hand, almost a flourish, and the Bratva men drew their guns—all except for Scarface and Krupin himself.

“Only a complete fool would have come here without a gun,” Krupin said. “Carefully take out your weapons and walk them up to the top step, leave them there, and then return.”

Jax complied immediately, drawing his gun with his fingers, letting the Russians see the whole process. He turned, holding the gun out to one side, and started climbing the eight remaining steps to the boarded-over doors of the church.

“This is a bad idea,” Opie muttered as he passed by, even as he drew out his own gun.

“If you’ve got an alternative, I’m listening,” Jax replied quietly as they climbed the last few steps together.

They both knew shoot-and-run was not an option—not with so many guns, and not even with Chibs and Joyce as backup.

With the guns on the top step, they descended back toward the Russians. Six steps. Seven. Scarface didn’t wait for Jax to reach the eighth step. Jax tried to deflect the punch, but the big bastard’s fist glanced off his jaw hard enough to nearly unhinge it. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. He shuffled sideways, turned and lunged inside Scarface’s reach, hit him with three fast gut punches and one to the kidneys, but the big man dropped an elbow down on his shoulder, and Jax went to his knees. Wheezing, trying to catch his breath, he fought the blackness at the edges of his vision as pain washed over him.

He heard a chorus of guns cocking, glanced up, and saw that half of them were aimed at Opie and half at him.

“No, Mr. Ashby,” Krupin said. “There is no defending yourself.”

Jax exhaled through gritted, bloodstained teeth. Then he opened his fists and climbed to his feet. Pain radiated through him but he breathed, letting it spread and diminish. Once again, he turned toward Scarface and let the man hit him.

Opie swore and took a step, and one of the Russians jammed a gun against his throat.

Punches rained down on Jax. He felt his lip split and tasted a fresh gush of own blood. A fist to the gut and a knee to the balls were followed by another crashing blow to his skull, and those black waves swept in again at the edges of his vision. He blinked, on his knees again, trying not to go down. Even then, in the midst of pain and with blood running freely from his nose and mouth, he understood that Scarface was going easy on him. He could have broken hands, arms, ribs… anything. He could have shattered Jax’s nose or crushed his kidneys. They wanted him bloody and in pain but not broken.

He let it go on. At one point, he heard shouting and caught a glimpse of Chibs and Joyce over by the bikes, at the edge of the park. Joyce had started toward the church, and Chibs had restrained him because Chibs understood—maybe had understood before even Jax himself. If Krupin wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t have met somewhere so out in the open.

Maureen, he thought, you owe me .

But he wasn’t doing this for Maureen Ashby. And, as much as he liked Trinity, he wasn’t really doing it for her, either. He let the punches land, let his blood flow, for his father’s sake. JT had not been perfect, but Jax could not let his old man’s daughter die.

Scarface stood over him. “Your name?”

He speaks, Jax thought. “Already told you. And fuck yourself.”

The fist came down again. Jax barely felt it. He blinked and realized that his cheek was pressed against granite—he was sprawled on the church steps and had lost a few seconds of time. Voices cursed in Russian.

Jax spat a wad of bloody spittle and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Ears ringing, head and ribs throbbing, he looked up at Krupin. The little man seemed to nod with approval, though whether he was expressing appreciation for Scarface’s efforts or Jax’s ability to sit up seemed unclear.