Page 142 of Bad Bishop
When I reached the desired vehicle, I produced a prick punch from my pocket and set it between the gap of the sliding door. There was no point trying to shoot my way into the truck. It was bulletproof, windows included.
“Cover for me,” I ordered Achilles, since I had my back to the commotion. He pressed his back to mine, shooting at everything that moved toward us while I pried the sliding door open. It clicked, gliding just enough for me to take a grenade out of my pocket, pull the pin, toss it inside, and slam the door. I grabbed Achilles by the collar and dragged him behind a dune on the side of the road to avoid the shrapnel. Halfway through, he roared, “duck!” and before I had the time to process the word, grabbed the back of my head and shoved me to my stomach.
A bullet flew a millimeter from my head.
A second later, Achilles rose from beneath the dune, aimed at a Bratva sniper who had assumed his place on a dune, and shot him clean between the eyes.
“Fuck,” I groaned. “That was close.”
“Spared ya.”
“Surprisingly.”
“Nah. You make my sister happy.” He yawned. “Toohappy sometimes, unfortunately.”
The grenade exploded, shaking the van behind us. Black smoke curled from the gaps in the doors and windows. The unmistakable scent of burned flesh wafted through the air.
It was weird to think of Alex as dead.
Weirder still to think that I killed him myself.
For a few moments, I just stood there, staring at the van.
The hubbub around us died, along with two dozen Bratva soldiers who were splayed on the road. A few Irish and Camorra soldiers also lay lifeless at our feet.
“Okay, lover boy. Let’s see our handiwork.” Achilles advanced toward Alex’s van. He slid the door open and popped his head inside. Ripped the balaclava from his face to inspect the massacre.
“Hmm,” he said, tone flat. I studied his back, oddly uneager to step forward and see for myself. “Interesting,” he mused.
“Don’t fuck with me,” I growled. “What’s the damage?”
He turned around, casually waltzing over to a mostly dead Bratva soldier on the road. The wounded mobster was still groaning into the asphalt, desperately trying to stop the blood spritzing through a gush in his neck. Achilles lit himself a cigarette, unzipping his combat pants. He took a piss on the Russian’s face. “Why don’t you take a look while I go make sure my brother isn’t bleeding out all over the side of the road?”Achilles asked around his cigarette, the Bratva soldier gagging and choking on his urine.
I stuck my upper body into the van. Tore the balaclava from my face, propping it against my sweaty forehead.
Carnage.
Blood everywhere.
Body parts scattered—the driver and the guy next to him took the biggest hit, with their limbs tossed about like doll parts.
Flesh melting into metal. Charred, unrecognized faces.
Blood. Internal organs. Piss. Shit.
And then there was Alex. Lying under a pile of bodies to shield him. His gun cocked and pointed at me.
Alive, well, and royally pissed.
He didn’t come out of it completely unscathed.
His brow was busted, he had some cuts on his cheeks, and his left arm was at a weird angle, suggesting he might’ve broken it.
We stared at each other, motionless, for a few moments.
He didn’t shoot.
Neither did I.
