Petrov jabbed with his left hand this time, again missing the target, but this time he followed the punch with a roundhouse kick. Dufort’s hands moved fast. He jerked his head to the side to avoid the punch, then spun and knocked down the heavy-booted foot.
The Russian took a step back and stared at his opponent with evident surprise. “I didn’t know they taught rich boys like you how to fight.”
Dufort only replied with a hands-out shrug.
“I guess your parents must have had to pay for you to do something with your time. Too bad it will be money wasted.”
He took a bold step forward and leaped through the air, his right foot out in front aimed at Dufort’s chest. The Frenchman took a step to the side and swung around with his elbow, bringing it hard into the Russian’s chest as he flew by.
The blow hurt, but hardly knocked Petrov down. He doubled over for half a second when he landed, then stood up and attacked again. “You’re an annoying little gnat.” This time, he went full force at Dufort, but he was aware of his opponent’s counters. Petrov faked a short kick, a jab, and then brought a right hook at the man’s jaw.
Dufort was clearly faster, parrying the kick, and the jab, but he was too slow to block the right hook, and the huge Russian's fist smacked into his cheek, just below the eye.
Pain seared through his face, but he recovered quickly enough to block the uppercut Petrov threw next. He deflected the punch, stepped to the side, and chopped hard into the Russian’s spine with his elbow.
Petrov grunted and took three steps forward, spinning around to face Dufort again. The Frenchman’s face throbbed, and a thin cut oozed thick blood down the side of his face.
“You have spirit,” Petrov said. “I’ll give you that.”
He lunged again with another jab. Dufort swiped the punch aside, twisting his body as he did. Petrov reached out to grab the smaller man, wrapping his hand around Dufort’s head. He knew if he could get the Frenchman within his grasp, the fight would soon be over. Petrov could crush him like a rodent.
His fingers locked in on Dufort’s hair, and he pulled him close. Dufort punched hard at Petrov’s ribs, but his scrawny fists did little damage. Petrov was a highly trained, highly fit killing machine. It would take much more than what Dufort could offer to bring him down.
The Russian’s other arm wrapped around his prey like a boa constrictor, bringing him in suddenly and squeezing him to his chest. There was no look of panic in Dufort’s eyes, despite the desperate situation.
Petrov tightened his grip, lifting Dufort off the ground by a few inches. He stared into his victim’s reddening face. The Frenchman struggled, wriggling around.
“It will all be over soon,” Petrov said in a sinister tone.
He felt the bones in Dufort’s back cracking. He wondered how long it would take until they broke.
The Frenchman stared with bulging eyes into Petrov’s cold, icy-blue orbs. There was no fear on Dufort’s face. Rather, it was the kind of smug expression someone wore when they knew something someone else didn’t.
Petrov’s grip tightened again as he tried to squeeze the last moments of life out of his former employer. He felt Dufort’s body begin to go limp, and the chest of his victim ceased its struggle to bring air into his lungs. It would only be a few more seconds now. Petrov grinned wickedly, ready to see his victim’s life come to an end.
Suddenly, Dufort's head cocked back and then snapped forward, bringing his forehead straight into Petrov’s nose. He repeated the move, thrashing his head into the Russian’s face over and over again like a heavy metal head banger.
Petrov’s grip loosened, and he stumbled backward, grabbing at his face. Blood poured freely from the nostrils, the bone inside likely broken in several places. The fresh pain ripped through his entire body, but he remained focused in spite of his vision being blurred by the involuntary tears brought on by the injury.
He staggered forward, fists in front to defend himself.
Dufort circled the Russian like a hawk soaring above an unsuspecting rabbit. He still said nothing, allowing Petrov to reel in the agony he’d just been dealt. Petrov wiped his nose and regained his bearings, now angrier than ever. He moved quickly at the Frenchman, but his attack carried less precision than before. His furious attack proved fruitless as Dufort blocked and parried punches and kicks, turning every one aside.
The effort was wearing down Petrov, and he knew it. He normally wouldn’t have been so exhausted, but the broken nose clogged with blood was making breathing a strenuous venture.
Dufort fended off the flurry, waiting patiently for the right moment. Finally, Petrov’s patience wore thin, and he overextended on a left hook, leaving his front open. Instead of taking the opening, Dufort grabbed the man’s arm and jerked it over his shoulder. He used momentum and leverage to snap the bone at a painfully awkward angle, rendering the appendage completely useless.
Petrov screamed, but his voice was muffled when Dufort’s shoe struck him in the cheek. A spray of blood and spit slung across the room. The Russian collapsed to the floor. He struggled to get up with the one good arm he had left. Dufort kicked the man’s wrist, and Petrov’s face smacked the floor again. His breathing became more labored. He spit more blood onto the floor, mingling it with the crimson dripping from his nose.
Dufort took a step away and walked over to Caron who held out a towel. Dufort took the towel and wiped his face and neck with it, then tossed it at Petrov. It landed on his back as the Russian dragged himself across the floor, inch by inch toward the chair in the middle of the room.
Caron motioned with a nod of the head to the defeated man, noting the direction he headed.
Dufort shook his head and laughed. “Nicholas? My dear friend, where are you going?”
The Russian grunted but said nothing. He continued dragging himself toward the chair, now only a few feet away. He glanced back through narrow, tear-filled eyes, then hurried his clumsy movements, desperately trying to reach the chair before someone stopped him.
Dufort stepped out into the middle of the room and watched as Petrov reached up to the seat and grabbed the Desert Eagle. He collapsed to the ground and leaned up as far as he could, holding the weapon in his good hand.
“Now, Nicholas. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t use weapons.” Dufort said with his hands out. He spoke to Petrov as if he were a child.
The big Russian’s hand trembled, but he kept the barrel trained on Dufort. “I will see you in hell.”
He pulled the trigger, but instead of the loud pop, the gun only clicked. A terrified confusion poured over Petrov’s bloody face. He squeezed the trigger again, only to be greeted by the exact same sound. Dufort took a deliberate step forward, followed by another and another until he reached Petrov’s feet.
The Russian continued to pull the trigger until he realized that no salvation lay within the empty magazine. He yelped and dropped the weapon to the floor, still barely propping himself up on one elbow.
“Did you really think I was going to fire that weapon in this room, Nicholas?” Dufort asked in a snide tone. “It would have made us all deaf.” He waved a hand around to the rest of the onlookers.
Petrov breathed hard, anger once again rising inside him. There was nothing he could do though. He was beaten, and he knew it, a fact that only served to enrage him further. To say losing was never an option would be an understatement. Now, he stared death in the face — a pale, thin, weak face. It was a face that represented everything he’d loathed in life, the people who grew up in a life of privilege, never having to work for what they needed. Just like so many millions of those born into a life of poverty throughout history, he was going to be crushed by the boot of the wealthy.