hair and round cheeks.
Dean squatted, looked at his brother. “Hey, Lee, what’s up, mate?”
The kid’s face was a state. Lower lip split, nose a puffy mess, one eye black already and swollen shut. Blood smeared everywhere.
The doctor used gauze pads to dab away some of the blood as he examined Lee.
The kid wasn’t responding.
Dean couldn’t see if he was even breathing.
“Lee?”
Then the good eye opened, found Dean. Puffed lips pulled back in a crude approximation of a grin, and that working eye flickered shut and open again, a wink of sorts.
“Hey, bro’,” the youngest Bailey Boy grunted. “We good?”
“Fuck, kid,” said Dean, fighting back the surge of emotion. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this, you know? You were supposed to beat the crap out of him ...”
Reuben put a hand on Dean’s arm now, and said, “It’s okay, Dean. We’ve got him. Sajeev’s going to take the boy somewhere safe where he can patch him up. We’ve got it.”
“You sure?”
Reuben nodded. “We’re good, mate.”
Dean reached out, gave Lee’s shoulder a squeeze. “You hear that, Lee? Going to be right as rain.”
§
Down the steps, and the crowd was starting to thin. People had drifted away to the bar, or were leaving already, the action over.
Putin was still there, though. Standing, arms folded, his minder, Timoshenko, at his shoulder. A cocky grin smeared across that thin mouth of his.
Dean straightened, pushing his shoulders back. It was all in the attitude, in not letting yourself appear rattled, gun in your face or not.
“Putin,” he said. “Invaded any more small countries recently, have you?”
Putin knew about not getting rattled, too. His expression didn’t flicker.
Instead, he just gave a slight shake of the head, and said in that smooth, slightly accented English of his, “You’ve lost it, Mr Bailey. You were losing it already, of course, but after tonight... You know momentum, yes? Your momentum is bringing you down.”
Dean stood facing the two Russians. A small space had opened up around the three, perhaps just a natural consequence of the thinning of the crowd, but maybe something more.
“You’re never going to run this city, Putin,” said Dean. “You know why? You don’t get it. You don’t get it in here –” To illustrate his point, Dean thumped his chest, over his heart. He stepped forward, on the point of forgetting altogether that thing about not letting himself get rattled.
Putin shrugged, turning the corners of his mouth downwards. Taking his time, knowing he was playing Dean on the end of a line now, just waiting to reel him in.
Finally, he said, “How is your brother?” Just those words, that smirk, that cocky way of standing, his arms still folded.
Dean lunged.
Putin stepped smoothly out of the way and it was Timoshenko who met Dean’s attack.
Dean swung, the Russian dodged, caught his wrist, twisted.
Dean squealed like a pig, and Putin laughed.
But Dean was quick. He used the momentum – yes, Putin, he understood momentum, all right – as the tall Russian tried to turn him, and pulled his rival off balance, following through with a fist to the man’s jaw.
There was a split second when the eyes swiveled in that skull-like face, opened wide, then Timoshenko fell, out cold.
Dean stood, straightened, brushing himself down.
Suddenly the sound of the warehouse erupted around him, voices at the bar and closer by, someone shouting.
More bodies closed in.
He saw Reuben’s face nearby, a couple of the organizer’s men moving in, grabbing his arms, hauling him back. He bucked his body, tried to twist free, but a fist in the midriff put an end to any resistance. Another to the face, and he felt something pop, the warm wetness of blood spilling from his nose, the center of his face puffing instantly in reaction to the blow.
He was saved by the girl. Jess.
One moment he was being held, fists flying in, the next she was there in the thick of it. She’d
Dean squatted, looked at his brother. “Hey, Lee, what’s up, mate?”
The kid’s face was a state. Lower lip split, nose a puffy mess, one eye black already and swollen shut. Blood smeared everywhere.
The doctor used gauze pads to dab away some of the blood as he examined Lee.
The kid wasn’t responding.
Dean couldn’t see if he was even breathing.
“Lee?”
Then the good eye opened, found Dean. Puffed lips pulled back in a crude approximation of a grin, and that working eye flickered shut and open again, a wink of sorts.
“Hey, bro’,” the youngest Bailey Boy grunted. “We good?”
“Fuck, kid,” said Dean, fighting back the surge of emotion. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this, you know? You were supposed to beat the crap out of him ...”
Reuben put a hand on Dean’s arm now, and said, “It’s okay, Dean. We’ve got him. Sajeev’s going to take the boy somewhere safe where he can patch him up. We’ve got it.”
“You sure?”
Reuben nodded. “We’re good, mate.”
Dean reached out, gave Lee’s shoulder a squeeze. “You hear that, Lee? Going to be right as rain.”
§
Down the steps, and the crowd was starting to thin. People had drifted away to the bar, or were leaving already, the action over.
Putin was still there, though. Standing, arms folded, his minder, Timoshenko, at his shoulder. A cocky grin smeared across that thin mouth of his.
Dean straightened, pushing his shoulders back. It was all in the attitude, in not letting yourself appear rattled, gun in your face or not.
“Putin,” he said. “Invaded any more small countries recently, have you?”
Putin knew about not getting rattled, too. His expression didn’t flicker.
Instead, he just gave a slight shake of the head, and said in that smooth, slightly accented English of his, “You’ve lost it, Mr Bailey. You were losing it already, of course, but after tonight... You know momentum, yes? Your momentum is bringing you down.”
Dean stood facing the two Russians. A small space had opened up around the three, perhaps just a natural consequence of the thinning of the crowd, but maybe something more.
“You’re never going to run this city, Putin,” said Dean. “You know why? You don’t get it. You don’t get it in here –” To illustrate his point, Dean thumped his chest, over his heart. He stepped forward, on the point of forgetting altogether that thing about not letting himself get rattled.
Putin shrugged, turning the corners of his mouth downwards. Taking his time, knowing he was playing Dean on the end of a line now, just waiting to reel him in.
Finally, he said, “How is your brother?” Just those words, that smirk, that cocky way of standing, his arms still folded.
Dean lunged.
Putin stepped smoothly out of the way and it was Timoshenko who met Dean’s attack.
Dean swung, the Russian dodged, caught his wrist, twisted.
Dean squealed like a pig, and Putin laughed.
But Dean was quick. He used the momentum – yes, Putin, he understood momentum, all right – as the tall Russian tried to turn him, and pulled his rival off balance, following through with a fist to the man’s jaw.
There was a split second when the eyes swiveled in that skull-like face, opened wide, then Timoshenko fell, out cold.
Dean stood, straightened, brushing himself down.
Suddenly the sound of the warehouse erupted around him, voices at the bar and closer by, someone shouting.
More bodies closed in.
He saw Reuben’s face nearby, a couple of the organizer’s men moving in, grabbing his arms, hauling him back. He bucked his body, tried to twist free, but a fist in the midriff put an end to any resistance. Another to the face, and he felt something pop, the warm wetness of blood spilling from his nose, the center of his face puffing instantly in reaction to the blow.
He was saved by the girl. Jess.
One moment he was being held, fists flying in, the next she was there in the thick of it. She’d
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