David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“Because—” the Koldun licked his lips. “Because I would have been observed.”

“And I wouldn’t?”

The Koldun didn’t answer and he didn’t have to as far as Gibson was concerned.

“You were fuckin’ setting me up, weren’t you?”

“You know that’s wrong,” said the Koldun.

“I don’t know anything.”

The Koldun shrugged. “That’s not true. You know who you are, John.”

Gibson massaged his knuckles. “I could fuckin’ kill you right now. Set me up. Fucker.”

The Koldun went on. “You know your name is John Kaye. And being as that is your name — you should have known better than to listen to her.”

“Her?”

“When she contacted you. With the children.”

“What do you mean?” Gibson bristled. “You talking about the phone call? These kids? I’d have been fucked if I hadn’t agreed to it. It was the best fuckin’ deal to come along the pipe in a year.” These children — they’re talented. They’ll make you rich for as long as you’re alive. Come get them . “More than a year. A fuckin’ lifetime.”

“Yes. It seemed that way for all of us. But we fell into her trap. As we have all in the past.”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

The Koldun threw his hands in the air theatrically. “Oh. I forgot. I am not talking to John Kaye. I am talking to Holden Gibson. You have no idea what happened to you that night.”

“Fuck you,” said Gibson. He turned to walk off. Brought here by Babushka. Fuck off . He was here because of a deal that he’d made with a woman on a telephone to bring some very talented young people — that was how she called them — very talented young people — into the fold. The woman was tough — she made a lot of fun of Walt Disney for some reason — and that pissed Gibson off for some reason —

For fuck’s sake, it was supposed to be frightening: the Devil; shrieking winged demons, the souls of the dead, lakes of pitch — that big mothering Satan in the middle.

Really , she’d said. Fantasia? Why don’t you just have the mouse send broomsticks after us? That is every bit as terrifying as this scribble of a demon you’ve made of yourself .

Was that all it took to bring down John Kaye? Just a little doubt? Mockery?

“Bitch,” said Holden Gibson.

“Shh,” said the Koldun. “You don’t want her to hear.”

Gibson turned around. Now he was feeling tears in his eyes. “Bitch,” he said again.

The Koldun shook his head sadly. “She had very little to do with why you are the way you are, you know. That responsibility fell to others — afterwards. But without her? John Kaye would still be the man that he was, I think.”

“Ball-busting bitch,” said Gibson.

The Koldun frowned and looked to a spot behind Gibson.

“Shit,” he said. “Someone’s coming.”

“Who the fuck would be coming?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The Koldun, Vasili Borovich, reached into his coat. He produced a machine pistol and handed it to Gibson. Then pulled another one out and kept it for himself.

“What the fuck?”

“The children,” he said, his voice flat. “We have to take them — before it becomes any worse.”

Fyodor Kolyokov spread two blinds apart with his thumb and peered out the window. Light flickered across his eyes. Heather squirmed in her chair.

“Is it time or what?” she said.

Kolyokov appeared to weigh the question, rocking his head to the left — to the right.

“Well?”

“Ha,” he said. “She is dissipating.”

“Is that good?”

Kolyokov looked at her. “Not good, not bad,” he said. “Just—”

“Just? Just what?”

“Just next. The next thing.”

Alexei and Montassini decided to leave Makar and Oleg for last. Montassini didn’t care how tough Makar and Oleg were supposed to be; he figured it was better to deal with gunmen first. And so he did — creeping around the side of the building, keeping low. When he saw the two patrolling guards to the west, he motioned to Alexei to follow him — moved forward, keeping down, stopping when one of them seemed to pause. They got inside twenty feet before Montassini did it — just muttered “fuck it” and ran — motioned Alexei to do the same. One of the guards saw him and brought up the rifle, but it was too late for gunplay. Montassini grabbed the gun barrel and twisted, jamming the rifle butt into the guy’s gut. Alexei cuffed the gun out of the other guard’s hand before it could even fire, then stepped around him and pushed, sending him to the ground. Montassini spun the rifle barrel around, smacked it across his guy’s temple. Alexei stomped down on his guy’s forearm, then bent and grabbed something out of his hand. Montassini’s guy crumpled. There was a click, and a whizzing sound, and Alexei’s guy stopped moving. Montassini stood and looked more closely at Alexei. He was holding a little metal rod, with a ball on the end of it. The ball looked like it was vibrating. Montassini stared at it, snapped his fingers, and then it came to him.

“Fuck,” he said. “You got an Asp. That’s cool shit. Loco keeps one of those in his organizer right next to his laser pointer. Why didn’t you say?”

“This guy had it,” said Alexei. He held it like a strange treasure, arm’s length, looked at it with wonder. “It used to belong to Alexei.”

“How’d he get it?”

“From Borovich.”

“Boro—”

“The Koldun. He robbed Alexei,” said Alexei. “Just as they robbed us all.”

“Let’s go take care of the other two,” said Leo, hefting one of the rifles. He caught a look from Alexei.

“No shooting,” said Alexei.

Montassini rolled his shoulders and hefted the rifle. “Just in case.”

“You are a clever fighter,” said Alexei. “Don’t shoot anybody.”

They rounded the corner. Makar the giant fisherman and Oleg his vicious little brother were standing there, unarmed and unmoving. Montassini raised the rifle then lowered it as Alexei took off in a charge. Montassini hesitated for a moment — in admiration, watching as the Russian spy seemed to fly through the air, in the same motion clicking his Asp open and bringing it across Makar’s skull in a stroke that was almost painterly. Alexei continued past, as Oleg spun away from him and rolled onto the ground.

Montassini was tempted to just shoot Oleg right there but he held himself back. He charged at Oleg — who was far from the psycho that Alexei described. He seemed to be in retreat. He pulled down the handle of the front door and had started to step inside when Montassini caught up with him. He brought the butt of the rifle down on Oleg’s forearm, then pulled down on the barrel in a manoeuvre that was supposed to see-saw the butt up into Oleg’s chin.

It didn’t work out that way. Oleg swung back and turned to deliver a knee to Montassini’s unprotected groin. He had been groined three times in his life: once as a kid in some back-alley schoolyard shit; once by his ex-wife’s sister when he probably had it coming; and once in a deal with a guy who’d led everyone to believe was an uncle with the NYC Fuk Ching, but in fact was just a faggoty street fighter from San Francisco with a video collection and a death wish.

It never got easier.

Montassini fell back. It felt like his lungs were in seizure. He was able to hold onto the rifle at least. But Oleg had hold of it too, a ways up the barrel. The murderous little Russian fisherman rolled to the ground with Montassini.

Fuck, but it hurt down there. Montassini did his best to put it out of his mind — but it was tough. It was all he could do to dodge out of the way as Oleg jabbed two rigid fingers towards his eyes and suck air back into his spasming chest.