No Rest 4 Wicked Botniks Chapter 8
Bobby Malone #5: The Russian Shuffle
CHAPTER 8
Bobby Malone #5:
The Russian Shuffle
After about four minutes without any sight or sound of the Bratva backup arriving, Bobby was about ready to call Dmitry a dirty damned liar. The accusation would have fallen on deaf ears, however. Liar or no, the Russian ragdoll splayed at his feet remained decidedly unconscious.
It was not until minute six that Bobby relaxed from his marksman’s stance, and only around minute seven or eight did he lower his gun and seriously consider walking out the front door the exact same way he had come in.
Could it really be that easy?
Then he heard…some noises…
And another minute stretched by…
…And one more…
No, he was not going to have anything easy tonight.
Bobby heard shuffling outside the Rusty Schooner. Sounded like five or six Brats. Too many Russians to shoot with the Rothbauer’s four slugs. Too many misunderstandings to just talk it out and end the night peacefully. The botnik bouncer was still a slag-heap, and the bartender would need a medevac or a hearse. The Russians would never understand or let him live.
Dammit. Dmitry must have hit a silent alarm under the bar before he went for the SMG!
Some detective he was, missing that all-important clue.
Fuck…
His sweat-soaked head was pounding like a jackhammer, already red to boot. Chugging that bottle of Nickel Creek definitely hadn’t helped matters for Bobby. He checked his Rothbauer. He still had the four shots but... Yikes Almighty, this was no good…
No fuzakenna good at all!
Bobby glanced down at Dmitry, hoping he was still unconscious but not Dead. Once the bartender’s ticket was punched, so was his. He felt sure. His gut tensed up in certainty. At the end of the night, though it was round, fat, and made him still too slow, Bobby trusted his gut more than anything.
He gasped in a ragged breath, and then puffed it out. He did it a few times over again… choking on the invisible cigarette in his mind. Bobby gripped his giant gun, but he frowned and glanced over his shoulder.
Were the Russians going to come in the front, the back, or both?
The Wisdom of Bobby’s gut threw one more pearl at swine: Live by the sword, live by the gun, die by the blah blah blah. I remember the verse, Lord! Dammit all. Jesus Christ, help me. Please!
It would take a miracle to save him now.
END OF CHAPTER 8
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