Page 129 of Nothing More

Toly’s pulse was lodged in his throat, but he maintained his outer air of calm. “You don’t want to start a war with the Lean Dogs. They’re a big club. Powerful, and dangerous, and they avenge their dead. It’s not too late to let this one go. Send him back with the guns if you don’t want them anymore – but if you maim him, or kill him, or his club brothers never see him again, they’ll come after you, and thenyou’llbe dead.”

Rage played out in stages on Oleg’s face, a whole Shakespearean theatrical production in shades of pink and red. He was too angry to speak for a moment, lips working silently, but Toly could read all that he wanted to say in his eyes:Insolence! Insubordination! I’ll kill you! I’ll tear you to pieces and drop you in the Hudson!In the thirty seconds it took Oleg to find his voice, his gaze promised two dozen deaths to Toly.

Toly stood, and met his stare without flinching, his decision made. A decision that had been a long time forming, an unavoidable one. Destiny, he might have said, if he’d been fanciful.

When he could, Oleg drew in a deep, trembling breath and said, “Dima, take Toly’s fingers instead.Take his whole fucking hand!”

Dima hesitated a fraction of a second, but that was all the time that Toly needed.

“Are you sure?” Dima asked, stepping out from behind Scott’s chair.

Toly drew his sidepiece in one quick, practiced motion, and shot Dima. Straight through the throat. He made an ugly, wet gasping sound as he fell.

Oleg screamed, wordless fury. As he lunged, Toly hooked an arm around his neck and got him spun around; used him, even flailing and kicking, as a human shield when he leveled a shot on Goon Number Two and shot him next. A head shot; Toly didn’t want to worry he might get up again.

“Kill him, kill him, kill him!” Oleg screamed in Russian, voice high and shrill as a woman’s, more animal panic than anger at this point.

Toly shot him through the temple.

Someone exclaimed over by the wall. Given the mess, there was an exit wound; maybe someone had been struck. Toly didn’t care. He pulled his arm back and let the body fall. Shook the blood and brain matter off his sleeve, and surveyed the room. In the shadows, it was hard to make out expressions. He saw the wet gleam of eyes, wide and staring. Flashes of teeth as some grimaced, and some whispered to one another, too low to hear.

Toly didn’t aim his gun at anyone, but it was there in his hand; it felt hot, heavy, like a living thing that might leap out of his palm.

“Does anyone have a problem with that?” he challenged. There were too many for him to take them on alone, gun or no, but none of them were all that loyal to Oleg.

Silence reigned a long moment, broken only by the rough in-and-out saw of Scott’s breathing as he waited to see what happened next.

Toly was waiting, too, turning slow circles, scanning, scanning.

“Well?” he prompted.

Finally, one man stepped forward. Maybe forty, graying at his temples, with a crooked nose and small, dark eyes. He had the shoulders of a brawler, and the cracked voice of a chain smoker when he said, “No, boss,” in Russian.

Then another: “No, boss.”

“No, boss.”

“No, sir.”

“No.”

A few kept silent, but most said the same thing:No, boss. Not merely an acceptance of what he’d done, but an acknowledgement of him as their new leader. Their Pakhan.

Dizziness struck him, plucking at the backs of his knees, blurring his vision. He didn’t want to, but he allowed himself to imagine it, for a moment: taking on the mantle of leadership. Trading his boots and leather jacket for chic suits and wingtips. Rings on his fingers, and cigars in a humidor. He would be like Andrei, instead of Oleg: the sort of Pakhan that should have been installed in America in the first place. Cool and aloof, but well-respected. Tough, but fair. He would elevate the bratva’s standing in the community; acquire more legitimate businesses, and strong-arm the sorts of seedy thugs Oleg had favored.

But that could never happen, now, after what he’d done. Gangs were like prides of lions: when one male conquered another, he supplanted him as leader, and the followers bowed down without a fuss. But Oleg was Andrei’s cousin.

And Toly wasn’t a leader.

He nodded, holstered his gun, and drew a knife instead. When he walked toward Scott, the boy’s eyes bugged.

“Wait – what are you–”

“Hold still,” Toly commanded, and Scott listened. He slit his bonds and moved around so they faced one another.

Scott didn’t move at first, save to pick the bits of tape off his wrists and look around the room in bewilderment, face wet and disgusting from his crying jag.

Toly said, “Take your guns and go.”

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