“Bring her to me.”
A few moments later, after a couple of cigarettes and a few fingers of ultrarare, forty-year-old Balvenie scotch, Dragov’s fire had reduced to a simmer. As he waited for Melania to bring Sam in for a chat, he stared out the window of his fortified mansion at the south end of the richest subdivision in all of Russia. He bought the surrounding lots, giving him many acres all to himself and his business. He took another sip of scotch and lit another cigarette as he contemplated the empire he had grown. The media calls it the largest organized crime ring in the world. Dragov chuckled to himself. They didn’t know the half of it. His empire, built on the blood of lesser men, was double the size of the six billion dollars they all said it was worth. He took a long drag of his cigarette, arched his back, and puffed smoke into the air, the way a man does when he is on top of the world. All of a sudden he became very relaxed. Why was he worrying about this pissant, Xander King? Of all the men Dragov had dealt with in his life, of all the kingpins and drug lords, he couldn’t figure for the life of him why he had let this one American ruffle his feathers.
“Dragov is real king. Not this Xander King,” he said to the walls of his office.
He was impressed with what Xander had done in Syria. He was impressed with the way he dispatched the men he’d sent to his home in Lexington, and he was impressed with the way his team, headed by this Sam, had been able to bail Xander out not once, but twice this week. But Dragov had defeated entire gangs. Rival organizations that had hundreds of associates, not just one man and his measly two or three. Dragov knew he had fought wars, and he decided right then not to waste another second worrying about this Xander. If Pavlovich hadn’t already disposed of him, his men would easily do so when he showed up here to save his precious Sam.
“Mr. Dragov, we have Sam in the hallway. Shall we bring her in?” Melania, from the doorway behind him, interrupted Dragov’s train of thought,
“Dah.” Dragov nodded, ashed his cigarette, took his scotch over behind his desk, and remained standing as he lit a cigar this time. Chimneys had nothing on Dragov.
* * *
Melania stepped back out into the hallway.
“Sam, I suggest you keep mouth shut unless Dragov expects answer. Then give answer and nothing more.”
Sam was still a bit taken aback by Melania’s Russian accent; she had disguised it well while inside her company.
“Melanie”—Sam was sure not to use Melania’s real name—“I suggest you pull a one-eighty and join the correct side. Before it’s too late.”
Melania gave a short but mocking laugh. “I suppose you would rather I be the nerdy and submissive woman, you like me better in this role, yes? Before it’s too late.” She made air quotes. “Ha! You are delusional. Too late for what, Sam?” Melania held an arrogant smile. The smile someone wears when they believe themselves untouchable.
Sam looked dead into Melania’s eyes, unwavering, cold as ice. “Before I squeeze your neck so hard you won’t even have the chance to beg for your life.”
Melania punched Sam in the face. Then spit at her. Just the reaction Sam was hoping for. Stupid bitch hit just like a toddler. The three men who had shuffled her up four floors nudged her not so gently into the room where a huge fat ass stood behind an oversized desk. Sam observed the walls that were covered in books—books she knew were all for show, she’d be surprised if this blob could even read—and took in the stench of the smoke-smothered space. The men continued to nudge her up to the desk where Dragov stood, smugly continuing to fill the room with cancer clouds. Sam was the stark opposite of Dragov. To him, she reminded him of Kate Beckinsale in one of his favorite movies, Underworld. To her, Dragov reminded her of the dad in one of her least favorite movies, Shallow Hal. Pockmarked face, three chins, and a waistline the size of the Equator: disgusting.
Dragov spoke first.
“So . . . this is famous Sam? You don’t look so special to Vitalii Dragov. Though you are more beautiful than I imagined.” His lazy Russian accent almost hypnotized Sam to sleep. Dragov ashed his cigarette, tabled his scotch, and slithered around the corner of his desk with the grace of an anaconda that just swallowed a human. Two men held Sam in place as Dragov walked right up to her. His mouth smelled of whisky and smoke, his face uglier the closer he came, and his eyes, dark and gray. Lifeless. Sam held those eyes, unafraid, as he ran his fat-fingered hand down the soft skin of her left cheek. Though revolted by his touch, she didn’t dare flinch.
“Yes, very beautiful.” He continued to slide his hand down her neck, then down around her black leather-covered breast, and he finished by cupping it over her crotch. Again, Sam didn’t flinch. However, her mind did flash back to the basement of Sanharib Khatib’s compound, his urine running down her naked back as one of his men raped her from behind. Still, Sam didn’t so much as shudder. “This”—Dragov pushed up with his hand—“this is all you are good for now. Your precious Xander cannot save you here. You will be mine, over and over again until I tire of you. Which I am sure will not take long.”
It took everything in Sam’s will to keep from snap-kicking that pudgy mound of sleaze in his tiny little balls. It also took everything she had to keep from vomiting. The thought of that fat shit, naked and sweating on top of her, almost triggered a gag reflex she didn’t even know she had. He removed his hand from her crotch and forcefully wrapped it around her neck. His face scrunched in anger as he continued to clamp tighter around her throat.
“Listen to me, bitch. As soon as Pavlovich returns with Xander, I am going to gut him right in front of you.” Dragov spat as he released his grip.
Sam cleared her throat and spoke evenly through the pain. “You are? Or do you mean you will have someone do your dirty work for you?”
“I will personally end him. Just for you. Would you like that?”
“What I would like is for you to consider popping a mint. I recommend Altoids, curiously strong little buggers.”
Dragov backhanded Sam in the face, almost twisting her head in the opposite direction. She snapped her head back, taking his eyes, slowly letting a smile grow across her face. Blood trickled from her bottom lip. Dragov nodded to the two men holding her, and they kicked the back of her legs, forcing her down to her knees. He stepped forward, his crotch now directly in front of her face.
“You have very smart mouth. Let Dragov see if that mouth is good for anything else.” Dragov reached for his zipper and pulled it all the way down. Just as he reached in his pants, Melania’s phone chirped.
“It is text from Pavlovich.” She unlocked her phone. Dragov’s attention moved to Melania, and he zipped his pants. “He says he has Xander cornered. He has already called for helicopter to escort them back after his capture. He says three hours maximum.”
Before Dragov could react to Melania’s words, Sam responded, “That is the last time you will ever hear from Nicoli Pavlovich.”
Dragov let a slow and guttural laugh roll from his big round belly. He shook his finger at Sam in a tsk-tsk fashion. “You must not know about skill of Nicoli Pavlovich.”
“Don’t need to, I know about skill of Xander King.”
26
Welcome to the Jungle
“I must admit, Xander, I am impressed.” Pavlovich shouted through the rows of pine trees. “You’ve got balls. You’re stupid, but you’ve got balls,” He motioned to his men on the left and right of him to fan out and flank around. He had a good view of Xander floating from his parachute into the tree line, and there was still plenty of sunlight to see into the shadows to determine which direction he ran. “Unfortunately for you, I am going to cut those balls off. You didn’t actually think you could get away from me, did you? I am not like other men you have faced in past. I am greatest assassin in the world.” Nicoli’s voice echoed through the trees and up the mountain that lay just beyond them. His men had fully loaded AK-47s, and Nicoli himself had two nine-millimeter pistols and a backup magazine.
* * *
Xa
nder was outnumbered three to one. His enemies had ninety-six bullets, he had only one. Ninety-six to two if you counted his trusty knife, Rambo, which he always kept tucked against his right calf muscle. These weren’t the worst odds he had faced, not by a long shot. As he leaned his back against the sturdy pine and listened to Pavlovich stroke his own ego, a flashback to Syria ran through his mind when he killed eight men with a smoke bomb and a knife. However, according to Sam, Pavlovich is definitely a far more competent killer than all of those men would have been, combined.
Overhead he heard the scream of a hawk, and now on his left and right he could hear the crunching of twigs and pine cones. They were surrounding him. With one bullet and a knife, Xander’s options were limited. Ahead of him, he could just barely make out the edge of the trees where it met the mountain range. It would do him no good to run there, he would be even more exposed than he was at the moment. Plus, the hole in his leg was really starting to ache.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Pavlovich shouted.
Real original.
Pavlovich must have learned his trash talk from old JeanClaude Van Damme movies. Wait, maybe that was Steven Seagal. Either way, this guy was a total cliché. Even though it seemed so dismal, Xander couldn’t help but smile. It was in these moments that he felt most alive. It must be the reason he always seemed to end up in them. He could feel his adrenaline leaking into his veins, and at that moment he just couldn’t imagine a life without this. How boring? Most people get off on other things, normal things, like business. And while horse racing definitely got Xander going, it wasn’t the same. Most people would feel at the pinnacle of their lives when they are told that their bourbon brand just got picked up in ten more states. That made Xander happy, proud even, but this—being out there in the middle of nowhere, outnumbered, outgunned, nowhere to hide, and death knocking at the door—this was living.
Like a lion outnumbered by elephants, Xander had to thin the herd. It was the only way he was going to get out of there alive, and get back to Sam. There was a branch above him, so he pulled himself up into the tree. A couple of branches farther up and he was semi-hidden, and had a decent view of what was around him. The footfalls of his enemies grew closer. He strained his eyes to his left, and through the branches he finally saw movement coming his way. He crouched on the branch, freeing his hands. He took his gun in his right and reached across with his left and slowly slid Rambo from its sheath. The man to his left was heading directly under his position. As he prepared for the drop, he saw movement to his right. The second gunman had turned toward them, walking directly for his comrade. The man coming from the left was only steps from being under him now.
“Come on, Xander, give it up. I could beat you alone, but it’s even worse for you, it is three against one.”
Xander dropped from the branch, and as he landed, with his left hand he drove the razor-sharp blade of Rambo into the gunman’s neck, and with his right hand he shot the other gunman walking toward him in the forehead, before he could fire off a single round.
“I demand a recount,” Xander announced, before the echo of his gunshot had even made it out of the trees.
The herd had been thinned.
“Admit it,” Xander said loud enough for Pavlovich to hear as he pulled his knife from the man’s neck and wiped the blade clean of blood on his white linen pants. “Your butthole puckered a little bit just now.”
From only a few yards behind him, Pavlovich answered, “What this mean, butthole pucker? You think Nicoli Pavlovich is scared?”
“Enough with the third person, who do you think you are, Elmo?”
“Elmo?”
“Yeah, you know, Sesame Street. Elmo want to play. Come on man, don’t you have a TV in douche-bag-ville? My niece loves Elmo.”
“You talk, Xander King, because you are nervous.”
Xander re-sheathed Rambo and traded his empty nine-millimeter for the dead man’s AK-47. A pool of the dead man’s blood gathered around Xander’s feet as he threw the gun’s strap over his head and shucked the lock on the machine gun, making a loud click-clack.
“You hear that, Pavlov? Does that sound like I’m nervous?”
“Name is Pavlovich, and any coward can shoot gun. Real man fight with hands.”
Xander took a quick glance around the trunk of the tree and saw Pavlovich standing behind a tree of his own, a pistol in each of his outstretched hands. “Then why don’t you drop those pistols and fight like a real man?”
With the quickness of a deadly cat, Pavlovich dove out from behind the tree and sent bullets whizzing past Xander’s head. He was barely able to get back behind his own tree. Bullet-stung bark scattered around his head. Pavlovich was quicker than Xander expected. It was time to stop underestimating him. Xander was ready to retaliate when he heard a familiar thump coming out of the sky from off in the distance.
“You hear that, King? That is your ride back to Dragov. Question is, will you be dead or alive on way back? Makes no difference to me. You are a dead man in the end, either way.”
Xander hadn’t had a chance to see if Sarah e-mailed him back. He had no way of knowing if the e-mail he sent her even went through, or for that matter, if she even wanted to help. It was far more likely that Pavlovich got through to have a chopper sent here, so it seemed that things had just gone from bad to worse. He had no idea if there would be more armed men waiting for him in the helicopter, so he had to act now.
Xander had seen instances on a number of occasions while in Iraq where a man had dropped his AK-47 onto the ground and, because the trigger was so loose, bullets scattered into the air. It certainly would make a good distraction now. With the thumping of helicopter rotors getting closer by the second, it was time for action, not reaction. Xander tossed his AK-47 as far as he could to the right of where Pavlovich was hiding. As the machine gun floated through the air, Xander sprinted around the left side of Pavlovich. Halfway there, the AK-47 landed in a thud on the ground, and sure enough, bullets sprayed up into the air like fire off a freshly lit sparkler. Pavlovich’s reflex was the one Xander was counting on. He turned immediately and began firing at the unmanned AK-47. Now, only about twenty-five yards in front of him, Pavlovich’s back was turned, his attention on the distraction. In just a few powerful strides, Xander was at full speed and only a few feet from Pavlovich, when Pavlovich pivoted around and extended two pistols out in front of him, there was a mixture of surprise and anger cloaking his normally hardened face. Xander planted his left foot and launched himself forward in a dive that ended in a collision with the much smaller Pavlovich, just before he was able to squeeze either of the triggers on his guns. They landed in a crash to the ground, and Pavlovich managed to roll backward, freeing himself from Xander, though losing hold of his weapons in the process as they went flying several feet from him. Xander rolled to his feet, Pavlovich rose to his. It was a sight of sharp contrast. Pavlovich stood with more the frame of Pierce Brosnan’s James Bond. Xander stood more like Captain America. After the injection. Pavlovich was known all over the world for his skills as an assassin, but only because of his cunning and his skill with weapons. He was not known as a master assassin because of his hand-to-hand combat abilities. This wasn’t going to end well for him, and he knew it as he stared into Xander’s adrenaline-sparked eyes. His only chance was to get a weapon in his hands. For a moment, they stood, locked in a battle stance, their chests heaving as they both steadied their heart rates.
The helicopter was now hovering at the tree line’s edge. Waiting.
“There is no way you can win.” Pavlovich sneered.
“Did you kill my parents?” Xander asked, his voice cold and flat.
Pavlovich’s eyes darted, only for a split second, from Xander’s to one of his guns.
No more questions.
Simultaneously, they both launched themselves in the direction of the gun. However, Xander wasn’t going for the gun; he launched himself where Pavlovich was going to be, and it paid
off. Just as Pavlovich got his hands on the gun, Xander had his hands on him. Xander straddled him and clasped his hands around Pavlovich’s grip on the gun and forced the bullets off course just as he squeezed the trigger. The bang of the gun clamored in Xander’s ears, and a high-pitched whistle stayed behind, stinging through his eardrums. Before Pavlovich could once again squeeze the trigger, Xander forced his arms over his head and banged them against the ground. On the third slam, Pavlovich released the gun but was able to roll Xander over because of his lack of balance. He was now straddling Xander in an immensely dominant position. The worst position you could be in if you are fighting a man. Flat on your back, pinned underneath him, with only your arms to protect yourself.
A look of satisfaction grew over Pavlovich’s face, but it quickly turned to surprise. Not surprise because Xander had managed to grab the gun, and he wasn’t surprised because Xander had managed any other weapon either. He was surprised because when he looked down from his dominant position, ready to end this deadly encounter, he was shocked to find the look on Xander’s face. Not only did he see no fear, but Xander was smiling.
“You smile?” Pavlovich grunted as rage washed over his face. He pulled his fist back and launched it at Xander’s face. Xander slapped it away like he would a child’s hand reaching for a hot pan. Pavlovich immediately drew back his other fist, launched it, and had it easily slapped away again.
Xander was toying with him.
“Nicoli Pavlovich, a world-renowned assassin, hits like a little fucking girl.” Xander maintained his smile.
Pavlovich reached back once more, but Xander didn’t give him the chance to try again. Xander took Pavlovich’s dangling arm, pulled it down as he pushed up with his hips, then swept him from his dominant position, turning the tables, and now Xander was on top. Xander quickly passed Pavlovich’s guard and straddled his rib cage.
Xander King BoxSet Page 41