“The first time I saw you, I knew you had balls.” Grapes let out a squeaky, tuneless giggle. “Dammit! We could’ve had it all. Women, power, wealth.”
Prit shifted his knife to his other hand, concealing it as he leaned against the reception desk, never taking his eyes off the Aryan.
Grapes inched slowly, almost imperceptibly, around the seal in the center of the marble floor. “You didn’t choose your friends wisely, Russian,” he barked with a contemptuous laugh. “Your lawyer buddy is dead by now and you’re trapped like a rat. You should’ve picked a better side to be on.”
Prit yawned exaggeratedly. “Are you finished, or do I have to listen to more of your stupid babbling?” he said, feeling the heft of the knife in his hand.
With a roar, Grapes lunged at Prit. He’d tried to distract the Ukrainian and get as close as he could so he wouldn’t miss, but Viktor Pritchenko was a sly old dog.
The ax sank into the wooden counter with a sharp crack, exactly where Prit had been standing. Grapes yanked out the blade and attacked again, brandishing the ax like a Viking.
Prit dodged a couple of times, steadily retreating toward the foot of the stairs. Grapes swung the ax in huge, deadly circles in front of him. Each time the blade cut the air with a sinister hum, the Aryan let out a roar. The giant thug came at Prit faster and faster. The little Ukrainian desperately feinted at the last minute. He was running out of room. Armed with only his knife, he couldn’t get close to Grapes.
As Prit backed up, he stumbled on the bottom of the staircase that led to the second floor. The Ukrainian lost his balance and grabbed hold of the oak handrail. Grapes saw his chance and brought the ax down toward Pritchenko’s arm. Prit threw himself flat on the ground, and a split second later the ax crashed into the railing and sent splinters flying.
Grapes growled as he tried to pull out the blade, but it was stuck deep in the wood. This was the chance Prit had been waiting for. Quick as a snake, he sprang up and drove his knife into Grapes’s forearm. The big Aryan screamed and recoiled. There wasn’t much room between them, but it was enough for a guy Pritchenko’s size to maneuver. The Ukrainian’s arm shot forward and buried the serrated blade in Grapes’s groin.
The Aryan howled and staggered back, furious. Instead of continuing his attack, Prit crouched, waiting, his eyes fixed on the leader of the Green Guard.
“I’m gonna carve you up, you motherfucker,” Grapes gasped. He ran his hand over his face. His vision was blurry and he was really cold. He felt something sticky on his pants. He looked down—they were soaked in blood.
“Your femoral artery is severed,” Prit said, his voice ice cold. “You’re bleeding out, Grapes. It’s over.”
No! Can’t be! No, no, no, no! The Aryan took a couple of steps toward Prit, but his legs buckled and he fell to his knees. Pritchenko came over to him unhurriedly and grabbed him by the chin.
“Bleeding to death is a painless way to go,” he said, squatting beside him. “You drift off to sleep and then it’s over. A better death than the hundreds of victims on the trains got. So here’s my parting gift to you.”
Grapes opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, Prit plunged his knife into the man’s stomach. The Aryan howled in pain and his eyes teared up.
“You motherfucking psychopath,” Pritchenko growled, his teeth clenched. He yanked out his knife and plunged it in again, this time skewering Grapes’s genitals. “That’s for Lucullus, you son of a bitch.”
Grapes collapsed in a heap as the pool of blood around him spread. The Aryan stared into Pritchenko’s face. The hate-filled gleam in his eyes faded and finally went out.
Prit looked at him for a moment. The Ukrainian rarely enjoyed killing anyone, but this was a special case. He bent over Grapes’s body and wiped his knife on the man’s shirt. Then he stood and started for the lab.
He didn’t hear the shot. He felt like someone had punched him really hard in the back, and then he got hot, very hot. His arms weighed a ton and his legs were like melted sticks of butter. He tried to turn his head as he fell forward, but couldn’t.
Pritchenko’s body collapsed like a felled oak tree onto the lobby floor. His clenched hand scratched at the ruined parquet floor a couple of times, then stopped.
At the top of the stairs stood Reverend Greene, gripping his smoking Colt, his dark eyes glaring at Prit. A dense, black shadow behind him seemed to draw more life.
54
One down, one to go. But the second guy had me pinned down. He wasn’t shooting wildly; he was saving ammo, waiting for me to pop up and fire.
The Green Guard turned in surprise when he heard the grenades explode. Acting on instinct, I stood up and fired. I emptied half a clip into his chest.
The Aryan spun around in a wild dance, then collapsed. Then everything was quiet on that wretched street. I looked around. No one was standing. The wounded moaned softly and crawled for cover. The ones in better shape crept away slowly. The most seriously injured watched helplessly from where they lay on the ground as the huge fire sped toward them, about to swallow them alive.
I couldn’t hang around to help. They’d have to fend for themselves or die trying. I had one thing on my mind as I limped on my broken ankle toward city hall. We had to get out of there. Time was running out.
I finally staggered up the front steps of city hall. Leaning against a doorpost was the headless body of a man thrown there by the explosion. His clothes were so drenched in blood that I couldn’t tell which side he was on. At that point, I didn’t care.
When I entered the lobby, I froze, paralyzed with shock.
Grapes lay motionless in a huge pool of blood. Next to him another body lay facedown. His hair was unmistakable. No. Oh, no, please, oh, no, it can’t be…
I fell to my knees next to Prit and turned him over. A high-caliber bullet had torn through his back between his shoulder blades and exited out the front. My old friend was covered in blood.
“Prit! Prit, say something! Come on, man, say something!” I was too distraught to think clearly. I whipped off my shirt and tore it into strips to plug up his wound. Those dressings were soaked the minute I laid them on the gaping bullet hole. No way was a shirt going to stop the bleeding. I didn’t want to think about Prit’s internal injuries.
Prit groaned and opened his eyes a slit. He swiveled his head around until he found me. His skin was freezing cold, but he wasn’t even shivering.
“You… finally… made it…” Pritchenko whispered, his voice rising and falling, like a radio signal about to fade out. “You… took your… sweet time.”
“Prit.” I choked up as tears welled up in my eyes. “Prit, don’t die. Please, don’t die.”
“Don’t think I have a choice…” Deep coughs racked his body. Bloody saliva flowed from his mouth and tinted his mustache a sinister red. “You have to live… you and Lucia… Do it… for me.” He gripped my hands and fixed his gaze on me. “Promise me you will!”
All I could do was nod. Tears streamed down my face as I gripped Prit’s hands.
“Greene… is up there.” Pritchenko raised a bloody hand. “He did this… Be careful… OK?” More deep coughs interrupted him. The Ukrainian said in a faint voice, trying to smile, “I… told you… we’d see each other… on the other side.”
Pritchenko’s face contorted in pain. His body tensed, then went limp, and a peaceful expression spread across his face. Then he was gone.
I don’t know how long I knelt there, cradling my friend’s body. I know I cried and cursed at the top of my lungs. I dragged his body into the street so his blood wouldn’t mix with Grapes’s, and propped him up against a car, his skin so pale, his hair falling in his eyes. I ran back into the burning building, muttering over and over, “Greene, you’re a dead man.”