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“End of the line,” I said.
The van pulled up behind us. Men climbed out.
I checked my gun, nodded to myself. “You ready?”
“Leo,” Robin said, her eyes wide, fear in her voice.
I looked back at Hedeon. “It’s been real.”
He grunted at me, face pale, blood staining the seat.
I kicked open my door and rolled out. Gunfire filled the air. Good, I wanted them to shoot at me. I got behind the generator and fired back. I hit one right away, made him stagger and drop to one knee.
But their fire pinned me down. I shot blind, barely staying undercover as the bullets slammed into the pavement around me and made horrible dents in the generator’s steel.
Then all hell broke loose.
An enormous spray of noise and shrapnel tore across the afternoon. The guys coming toward me staggered and broke away. I knelt and fired a few more shots, but they were being torn to pieces.
I saw Oleg standing on the sidewalk with his legs spread wide, bracing an enormous black machine gun with a long strand of bullets draped over to one side on his massive shoulder. The gun screamed and fired, the bullets ripping the Volkov guys to pieces.
It was a fucking Hotchkiss machine gun. Some shit British WWI vets fought with. Oleg’s face was wild with delight as the antique firearm did its deadly job, tearing the Volkov men to pieces.
It ended in a spray of smoke and steam. Black plumes rose from the car’s engine. Gunpowder stink spread out across the sidewalk. Oleg’s laughter drifted on the wind.
I ran to the car. Robin looked scared, but okay. I pulled the back door open and dragged Hedeon out.
“Oleg,” I yelled.
He came jogging over, machine gun on his shoulder. “I didn’t think it’d fucking work,” he said. “I rebuilt it myself, but didn’t think it’d work. I mean, I never actually shot it before, but goddamn, did you see that? Tore those motherfuckers a new one.”
“Hedeon’s hit,” I said.
His delight faded. “How bad?”
“Straight through the arm.” I took Hedeon’s weight and lifted him out with a grunt.
“Get him to my car. I’ll take him out of here.”
I nodded and he took some of Hedeon’s weight. We limped as fast as we could. Hedeon let out small grunts of pain, but he remained conscious. Oleg’s vehicle was a pick-up truck halfway down the block parked behind a BMW. I put Hedeon into the passenger seat and touched his chest.
“You’ll survive,” I said.
He grunted. “Always do.”
Oleg started the engine. I ran back to Robin as Oleg pulled out, drove the wrong way down the block, and turned right, disappearing.
“We’ve got to go.” I tugged at her wrist.
She stood staring at the dead Volkov guys on the ground.
“I recognize them. I mean, two of them.” She pointed. “They used to come around the diner all the time.”
“Yeah, well, they’re fucked now. Come on.” I pulled her to the van and pushed her into the passenger side. I got behind the wheel.
Fortunately, they left the keys in the ignition.
I slammed my door and roared the van forward. It bumped over the dead Volkov corpses, mashing them down into the pavement. I swerved around the wreck of my car, turned left, and drove north, not really caring where I ended up. I just drove for a while, taking side streets, alleys, doing whatever I could to avoid main roads.
We’d barely gotten past that. If I hadn’t gone to see Hedeon, he would be dead. There was no way he would’ve survived a hit like that. And we got lucky only one of the two vans followed.
If one thing had gone different, we’d all be dead.
But as I drove and the silence deepened, one thing became startlingly clear.
We had a traitor.
There was no other way the Volkovs could know about Hedeon’s place.
We had a traitor, and whoever it was, had to pay with his life.18RobinWhen I first called Ursula Pushkin, she didn’t sound happy to hear from me.
“I thought you were dead.” She spoke in a clipped, annoyed tone.
“Hi, Ursula. Nice to hear your voice, too.”
“They told us not to talk to you.” I heard her light up a cigarette in the background, then the unmistakable sound of her taking a deep drag. “They told us you were dead, yes?”
“I’m not dead. I think they’re just afraid of me.”
“Big, bad Volkov men afraid of little, pretty Robin Volkov? I don’t think so. That very funny.”
I smiled a little and pictured the look on her pretty, bland face. She had long red hair, curly in the right humidity, and pale skin. She was probably pretty once, but years of hard living, drugs, and depression hadn’t done her any favors.
But we were friends. At least, I thought we were. Back when I worked at the diner, Ursula was always my favorite. Sometimes we’d sit in the back together and tell stories about when we were kids. She’d talk about growing up in Belarus, about being so poor she couldn’t afford socks, about the blisters she had for a while and about how the blisters turned into calluses so thick her feet never hurt again. I always thought that was a poignant metaphor for her life, but when I pointed that out, she’d just scoffed and said, “Metaphor? Feet? I think no.”
