Loud banging on my apartment door is always a bad sign. Even with a door that had steel reinforced pins to stop any sudden entry. I was positioned between the legs of a six foot Russian, red haired model. Naked and feeling very vulnerable. I knew the red was direct from a bottle, as my mouth was full of blond snatch.
“They found me,” she said, from somewhere up beyond her towering twin peaks.
The door was holding up well to the battering and I could hear a stream of Russian curses as the goons tried to smash it down. I was off the bed and in my cloths, quicker than you can say “Putin on my Top Hat.” Red was pulling on her panties, long jeans and T-shirt.
“Who the fuck is it?” I asked.
“Max. He wants his blood money.”
I said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
In my line of work you do need a Plan B. And a Plan C, D and if possible an E. The door was coming apart as we scuttled through my Narnia escape cupboard and into the next apartment. We left by a side fire escape. The backup Dodge fired up and we headed for the Jesuit’s place. He had texted me the night before to say he was in town and we should meet up.
“Gimli,” she said, “I’m afraid.”
The reason a four foot nothing ex-soldier was doing the beast with two backs with a stunning six feet of red headed sex was simple – I knew no fear. Angry, always. Touching the insanity pad, frequently. Afraid, never.
On my special adapted muscle car seat we blasted on and into the night.
Cal was a retired Jesuit. An enforcer for the old Lord of the Dance, a lapsed Papal assassin and a good friend. Dressed in his trademark all black outfit, he let us into his town house.
“Indians on the warpath?” he asked, as I ushered Red into his home.
“Yeah, Russian in, where Archangels fear to tread. They’re after Red.”
He laughed at my bad joke.
“So how is Gimli? No, don’t answer. Pissed off as usual?”
“Pissed at the idea that these tattooed Russian circus fuckers are ruining my day.”
Red was staring at Cal.
I said, “Sorry, Red, this is Cal – the original Man in Black.”
Cal looked at Red. “This isn’t about money, is it?”
She looked at me. “It’s about ownership.”
“OK, Gimli the Dwarf,” said Cal, looking at the close circuit TV, “the bad guys have arrived. Its kick ass time, again.”
I knew he wanted me mean. So I obliged. “I’m no fucking Dwarf, goddamnit. I’m a man.”
“Can you use a gun?” Cal asked Red, ignoring me. She just put out her hand and took the offered Glock.
“We’ll need to kill them all,” I said. “It’s the only thing they seem to understand.”
The front door exploded in a shower of glass and wood, as the goons left subtlety to another day. Three masked, armed military guys came pouring through the door, throwing flash bangs as they came forward.
Cal ran at them, hacking his axe, aiming for the neck. His speed was blistering as he motored towards the door.
They were also breaching through the upstairs windows. I headed their way.
Red was terrified but she held it tight, along with the Glock.
There was three black masked, body armoured guys, moving through the flash bang smoke. I darted through them with speed, axe in one hand and sticking them with their impending demise. Cal had access to a lot of deathly toys and sticky explosives was just one of them.
I was flat on the floor when the plop of death went off and three healthy men expired.
I got up, grabbed the rope outside the window and was on the roof in seconds, chasing the backup.
I saw Cal was killing his way out through the front.
The two guys on the hoist weren’t expecting a mad, axe-wielding mini-man to come back up. They died very quickly as I hacked them apart. I looked down at Cal advancing on the two darkened SUV’s. The Russians had had enough and were trying to make a getaway.
Cal was shooting his sticky bombs at the SUV’s. They blew apart almost immediately. The short war was over. Long live the long war.
We gathered up Red and drove away in Cal’s Range Rover to the wailing oncoming sound of the NYPD.
“Why?” was all he asked Red.
“Because he’s fucking crazy that’s why.”
“Nobody’s that crazy,” was his answer, as he headed out of town.
“His name is Roman Solonik, nicknamed Max. An ex-KGB boy from Moscow. Lots of things about this guy but crazy is not one,” I said.
“He’s my husband,” she said quietly.
Cal hit the brakes and pulled over.
He looked straight ahead as his knuckles tightened on the wheel.
“We wiped out a complete Speznaz assault team because of a fucking domestic dispute.
Have you never heard of counselling?”
“So,” I said, “Do you think Max will be upset?”
Cal thought this was funny and smiled.
“Why Gimli?” Cal asked her.
“Because everybody is terrified of Max. Even me.”
“So get a fucking divorce.”
“I tried and this is the result.”
“I think he’s got the message. You can go back to him now,” I said.
We dropped her off near her apartment. It was the price of love and a possible armistice.
I had convinced her she would be safe. Or I would be coming for his head.
Between Max and Cal’s contacts, the encounter would be swept under the NYPD Russian File carpet. Cal headed for the nearest Jesuit safe house.
“Gimli,” he said, “next time can you stick it to an unmarried Dwarf Princess?”
Bio: Frank Sonderborg lives in the UK and does his best to write interesting stories.
His stories have appeared in: Action: Pulse Pounding Tales 2, Noir Nation 3, Noir Nation 5, Pulp Modern JFK Issue #6, Shadows and Light, 100 Words 100 Books – (The O’Brien Press), TheBigAdios, Thrills, Kills ‘n’ Chaos, Shotgunhoney, Near2TheKnuckle.
Amazon page: amazon.co.uk/Frank-Sonderborg/e/B00F8P3AX6