Rasputin's Bastards

THE IDIOT AND THE HONEST THIEF

Alexei and Montassini decided to leave Makar and Oleg for last. Montassini didn’t care how tough Makar and Oleg were supposed to be; he figured it was better to deal with gunmen first. And so he did — creeping around the side of the building, keeping low. When he saw the two patrolling guards to the west, he motioned to Alexei to follow him — moved forward, keeping down, stopping when one of them seemed to pause. They got inside twenty feet before Montassini did it — just muttered “fuck it” and ran — motioned Alexei to do the same. One of the guards saw him and brought up the rifle, but it was too late for gunplay. Montassini grabbed the gun barrel and twisted, jamming the rifle butt into the guy’s gut. Alexei cuffed the gun out of the other guard’s hand before it could even fire, then stepped around him and pushed, sending him to the ground. Montassini spun the rifle barrel around, smacked it across his guy’s temple. Alexei stomped down on his guy’s forearm, then bent and grabbed something out of his hand. Montassini’s guy crumpled. There was a click, and a whizzing sound, and Alexei’s guy stopped moving. Montassini stood and looked more closely at Alexei. He was holding a little metal rod, with a ball on the end of it. The ball looked like it was vibrating. Montassini stared at it, snapped his fingers, and then it came to him.

“Fuck,” he said. “You got an Asp. That’s cool shit. Loco keeps one of those in his organizer right next to his laser pointer. Why didn’t you say?”

“This guy had it,” said Alexei. He held it like a strange treasure, arm’s length, looked at it with wonder. “It used to belong to Alexei.”

“How’d he get it?”

“From Borovich.”

“Boro—”

“The Koldun. He robbed Alexei,” said Alexei. “Just as they robbed us all.”

“Let’s go take care of the other two,” said Leo, hefting one of the rifles. He caught a look from Alexei.

“No shooting,” said Alexei.

Montassini rolled his shoulders and hefted the rifle. “Just in case.”

“You are a clever fighter,” said Alexei. “Don’t shoot anybody.”

They rounded the corner. Makar the giant fisherman and Oleg his vicious little brother were standing there, unarmed and unmoving. Montassini raised the rifle then lowered it as Alexei took off in a charge. Montassini hesitated for a moment — in admiration, watching as the Russian spy seemed to fly through the air, in the same motion clicking his Asp open and bringing it across Makar’s skull in a stroke that was almost painterly. Alexei continued past, as Oleg spun away from him and rolled onto the ground.

Montassini was tempted to just shoot Oleg right there but he held himself back. He charged at Oleg — who was far from the psycho that Alexei described. He seemed to be in retreat. He pulled down the handle of the front door and had started to step inside when Montassini caught up with him. He brought the butt of the rifle down on Oleg’s forearm, then pulled down on the barrel in a manoeuvre that was supposed to see-saw the butt up into Oleg’s chin.

It didn’t work out that way. Oleg swung back and turned to deliver a knee to Montassini’s unprotected groin. He had been groined three times in his life: once as a kid in some back-alley schoolyard shit; once by his ex-wife’s sister when he probably had it coming; and once in a deal with a guy who’d led everyone to believe was an uncle with the NYC Fuk Ching, but in fact was just a faggoty street fighter from San Francisco with a video collection and a death wish.

It never got easier.

Montassini fell back. It felt like his lungs were in seizure. He was able to hold onto the rifle at least. But Oleg had hold of it too, a ways up the barrel. The murderous little Russian fisherman rolled to the ground with Montassini.

Fuck, but it hurt down there. Montassini did his best to put it out of his mind — but it was tough. It was all he could do to dodge out of the way as Oleg jabbed two rigid fingers towards his eyes and suck air back into his spasming chest.

Montassini did his best. He twisted the rifle butt so it wedged in the general vicinity of Oleg’s solar plexus, but it wasn’t close enough. He shifted to one side, then the other, and then tried to use the momentum to flip Oleg over, but Oleg was doing his own shifting and rolling and it was no good. He finally grabbed Oleg’s ear and twisted it, but Oleg didn’t seem to mind that as much as another guy might and Montassini was just left twisting the guy’s earlobe while Oleg looked at him all “you getting off on this buddy?” and then grabbed Montassini by the hair and hit his head against the ground which hurt like a sonofabitch. Montassini’s vision got blurry before he could try anything else.