by Jack Parker
"Sure. Gladly," Victor said primly. No chance in hell. This guy was a good five inches taller than he was and built like an ox. Victor was no stranger to physical fights. Especially bar fights. He'd been in five bar fights in his life, in fact, and he'd won almost half of them. If, you know, sucker punching and accidentally murdering a guy counted as a win… Another member of the crowd shoved him forward again when he stepped too close to the outer ring.
"Kill him, Ricky!" a voice shouted.
"Send him back to Texas!" another chimed in.
Victor narrowed his eyes at that guy in irritation. He turned back to face 'Ricky' with a frown.
"You scared, yank?" Ricky demanded, coming closer. "What's the matter? You want me to ring the queen up after all?"
"I'm sure she's busy," Victor uttered. Wow, that sounded tough. He shook his head and held up his fists. Beaten to death in the back alley of an Irish pub. It was as fitting an end as any.
"You English fight like children."
All eyes turned with interest to the tall blond Russian standing near the inner circle of men, hands in his pants pockets.
Ricky snorted at him. "You got somethin' to say, old man?"
Ludkov raised an eyebrow. "You invite your friends to watch an unfair fight for the sake of your pride. This is what schoolboys do."
"There's nothing unfair about this fight. Anyway it's what the little twat wanted. Unless you want in on it, why don't you keep your fucking mouth shut?" Ricky spat, turning back to Victor.
"He is drunk," Ludkov pointed out, which was true to the best of their knowledge.
Ricky rolled his eyes amid the hisses of his cohorts and turned back around. "And what's it to you, eh? You want to be next?"
"No," Ludkov replied. "I want to be first."
Chuckles when through the crowd and Ricky put his hands on his hips, looking around to them in disbelief. Then he looked back to Victor while jerking a thumb in Ludkov's direction. "Look at that. Your boyfriend wants to come to your rescue. Is that it? You his little bitch?"
Victor shrugged stupidly, unsure of what was happening.
Ludkov stepped forward into the open space to look down on him with about a two inch height advantage. "Yes. I am Russian. America is our bitch, but England…England is our whore."
This raised a few hackles. Victor could see an angry pulse run through the men around him.
"I'd knock you flat, you Slavic ponce," Ricky threatened.
Ludkov reached up a hand to loosen his tie. "Shall we see?"
The crowd cheered for it and Ricky swelled up with bravado. The fight was on. Ludkov went over to take Victor's place as he began to remove his jacket. Victor snapped out of his shock and stepped up to his side. "Dude, no offense, but this guy is like half your age," he said.
"Yes," Ludkov agreed. "This is to his disadvantage."
Victor didn't know what to think. He backed up as Ludkov removed his shirt, revealing a scarred and intimidating form. Jesus, even in his mid-forties the guy was a brick shithouse. Ricky clearly saw this and Victor caught a hesitant expression flicker across his face. He responded by removing his tank top and tossing it away, cracking his knuckles. "Alright. Two foreign wankers for the price of one," he said haughtily.
Ludkov stared, unimpressed.
Ricky shoved him. Ludkov fell back a step but his face remained stony, eyes set on his opponent's. Another shove and he fell back again. Ricky vibrated anxiously. "You gonna fight me, you prick? Suddenly you ain't so tough?"
"This is what you call fighting?" Ludkov asked.
Ricky shoved again, harder, and Ludkov stumbled back. What the fuck was this guy thinking? Victor looked on with confusion.
"Come on, don't disappoint the audience!" Ricky taunted. He swung out a fist to strike him in the face but Ludkov stepped back and his attacker nearly lost his balance. Then he reached out with a single scarred hand and shoved Ricky's shoulder with such force it knocked him flat to the ground. It looked like a man pushing over a damn toddler.
"I like my whores better on their backs," Ludkov commented, prowling around as he waited for Ricky to scramble back up.
"You're fucking dead!" Ricky snarled, lunging back for him. Again he missed, his arms grasping air where Ludkov's waist had been. The latter reached out from his sidestep with a hand to the back of Ricky's neck and shoved forward, sending him sprawling on his front against the asphalt. Ricky bolted back up. His lip was bloodied and he looked insane with rage. When he came for Ludkov again, he didn't miss. His fist struck the taller man in the jaw and made him stagger back. A cheer went up.
A part of Victor wanted to slink away and leave the Russian to sort his own shit, but that kind of seemed like a dick move considering. Morbid curiosity had him fixed to the spot on which he stood anyway. He'd never seen anyone fight so casually. Ludkov deflected most blows, backing away in a circular pattern when advanced upon, but didn't deliver any hits of his own. He seemed to absorb the impact of each strike without noticing and it suddenly occurred to Victor why. He was toying with Ricky. Prolonging this. Buying time. Lasting a hell of a lot longer than Victor would have. He never in a million years thought he'd be rooting for this motherfucker, but goddamn.
Ricky was clearly getting both frustrated and overconfident. His swipes became more furious, his hits harder, his accuracy slipping. Ludkov hadn't even broken a sweat. Ricky fainted right and dove left as Ludkov sidestepped again, this time catching him and dealing a hard one-two punch to his obliques. A gruff wheeze choked from the older man's mouth and he rammed his head forward to crack into Ricky's face. He reeled back, grabbing at his nose, coughing in surprise and Victor could see blood running through his fingers. To his credit he recovered fast, but Ludkov was already bearing down on him again. Ricky lashed out angrily and drove up his knee directly into Ludkov's groin. Victor's thighs tensed. He could fucking feel that one. Ludkov cursed and dropped to his knees, spitting and garbling an ugly-sounding string of Russian.
Ricky backed away to regain composure, panting wildly. "So Russians do have stones after all, eh? Could've fooled me."
Ludkov set a hand to the pavement and looked up and that's when Victor could see it. That switch flip. That electric spark of psychopathy that made Ludkov one of the most feared men in London. The one that made him rip off ears and strangle people and sic hyenas on them. Ludkov shook off the pain like a duck shakes off water and lurched back to his feet with purpose.
Ricky was cocky now. He swayed in place, awfully proud of himself for a low blow. "Maybe not. Did I make you mad, you dumb fuck? Let's see you do someth—"
Ricky didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, as he was suddenly struck by right hook that came faster than a viper's strike with the force of a semi-truck. Victor had never seen so much power behind one punch before. Ricky hit the ground like a sack of shit, blood spritzing from his mouth and head bouncing in a sickening way off the alley floor. Ludkov followed him down like a hungry animal, pinning his middle between his knees as he rained blows down upon him. Victor's eyes widened. The rest of the crowd was gaping as the great Russian continued to pound his closed, cinderblock of a fist into the man's face while crimson jets sprayed up around him. Again. Again. And again. Gore flung onto nearby spectators who dashed back. It was only when the body beneath him stopped seizing that he let up. Then Ludkov spat into his victim's destroyed face and slowly pushed himself to his feet. The men around him backed away.
The beaten man's face was a revolting, shapeless mess. He no longer looked human. His mouth was an oozing, black chasm of blood, his eyes completely red from broken vessels, and his nose was obliterated beyond repair. He was making the sort of sound a wet garbage disposal makes when a piece of silverware gets stuck in the blades. Victor felt sick looking on at the scene. He stared numbly as Ludkov approached him, blood-spattered and not the least bit out of breath. Victor's eyes went down to Ludkov's twisted right hand, noting with mild horror that a broken nose ring was lodged between two of his knuckl
es. Ludkov followed his gaze down and lifted the hand, chuckling and flexing it as rivulets of blood trickled from the wound. "Now this is what we call a distraction, yes Victor?"
Ludkov's other hand slapped Victor on the shoulder and he nearly fell over.
* * *
"So," Hennessey continued, loudly hacking down the whiskey-soaked phlegm in the back of his throat and leaning over the table. "The dead nuns all get queued up at the pearly gates now, see. All of 'em single file in front of St. Peter. But before he lets any through he's got to make certain they was chaste, right? Them being nuns and whatnot. So 'e asks the first nun in the queue, 'Sister, are ya absolutely sure you ain't never touched a man's penis before?' And she says, 'Well, if I'm bein' perfectly honest, there was this one time…but I just barely touched it with the wee tip of my finger here—honest!'" Hennessey wriggled his pinky finger in the air. "So St. Peter says, 'Well that's not so bad. You just go on and dip that finger into the holy water here and all is forgiven. You can go in.' So the nun does what he asks and the gates open up for her. The next nun comes on up and Peter asks her the same question. She hems and haws and says, 'Well, there was this one time I held one in me hand…but just for a second! Honest!' So St. Peter says, 'Alright, alright, child, you just go on and dip that hand into the holy water, and all is forgiven.' So she does it, and she's wiped clean of earthly sin. St. Peter's about to ask the next woman the same question when suddenly one of the nuns muscles up from the back of the queue, pushin' and shovin' until she gets to the front and Peter says 'Whoa, whoa now! There ain't no need to shove, Sister, there's enough salvation to go around! What's all this, then?' The nun looks at him, jerks a thumb at herself and says, 'Well if I'm gonna have to gargle the stuff, I figured I'd best do so before Sister Mary here sticks her arse in it!'"
Emery laughed like it was the first time he'd ever heard the joke, making a show of sputtering stout onto his coat sleeve and hurriedly wiping at his mouth.
"That's a beaut', ain't it?" Hennessey said, drinking up.
Emery grinned and toasted his glass. He let his eyes drift covertly around the pub and settled casually back into his chair. Things were going well. Kurt sat next to him, so many empty glasses between him and Mooney that he'd lost track of which ones belonged to who. Finally having pushed the man over his drunken edge, however, Kurt was drinking strictly water while Mooney swayed across from him, clumsily picking up empty glasses before finally finding his current drink. He was well useless now. Georgie and McDermott had moved to the bar. She'd attempted to nurse her drinks at first, but her suitor was persistent as he leaned over the bar with a smitten grin and she was looking a bit red in the cheeks perched up there on her stool. Emery hadn't the slightest idea what had transpired outside, but for the past twenty minutes Victor and Ludkov had been sitting at the other end of the bar doing vodka shots and looked miraculously no worse for wear. As for his part, Hennessey had seemed to turn to his charm much the same way Sheridan had. Thank god for Bill—without all of the nights he spent in Montreal trying to keep up with the old bloke and his mates he might be a bit too drunk himself at the moment to do this.
"I knew that fucking Dutchman was up to something," Hennessey said, pointing a finger at Emery with a fat hand. "That prick come sniffin' around my boots some months back. I told him to fuck off. So he made nice with the Slavs instead, did he?"
Emery nodded, turning serious again. "The Russians were stupid enough to buy into his peace treaty offer. You weren't. The problem with that is now he has enough men to challenge you, which is exactly what he's going to do."
Hennessey squinted at him. "And how is it that someone like you knows all of this?"
"By being caught in the middle of it," Emery replied. "That and I've got inside men."
"Inside men? What sort of inside men?"
Emery nodded, gesturing to Kurt. "My friend Mr. Gabler worked under the Dutchman until recently. He knows more about the man than any of us. And my new associate Mr. Ludkov knows everything there is about the Bratva."
"New associate?" Hennessey repeated, curling a lip. "You're working for that fucking piece of shit Ludkov?"
"No. Mr. Ludkov works for me."
"And I'm a Catholic priest," Hennessey replied.
"He hasn't got a choice about it. Beletski wants him dead. His whole brigade, in fact. They've already tried wiping them out and they were almost entirely successful. I've offered him my protection in exchange for information about his people." Hennessey was still sneering and Emery could feel his hold slipping. He quickly covered. "…An arrangement that will be revisited once he's served his purpose, I expect."
The look he got was an enigmatic one. He wasn't sure if Hennessey was buying this. The man slowly sat back and motioned to the waitress for another drink. "I don't know why you think I give a flying fuck one way or the other."
"Because the Dutchman is targeting you. He's already disarmed you and is gearing up to move in for the kill. He wants your warehouses. Your territory. Your power."
Hennessey waved a hand as he downed the last of his glass. "Let him try it. He knows where to find me."
Emery frowned. There was that stubborn bravado. "I'm also telling you this because frankly…I need your help. You're the most powerful force in all of London."
"I don't do charity, lad."
"Which is why my proposition is a transaction."
Hennessey looked up. "What sort?"
"My stepfather had a deal with the Russians to transport their product into England via his own private dock. An asset that I now control, but since I've got no interest in helping out a bunch of foreign twats, it may as well see a better use."
Hennessey's look was fortunately contemplative.
"Do with it what you like. I'll even fund the bloody operation. I'll keep your boys in booze from here to doomsday if it pleases you. All I'm asking in return is that you help me to take down our mutual enemy before he gives either of us any more grief."
"A partnership," Hennessey mused. "With the Eaton empire, eh?"
"But I wouldn't trust me if I were you," Emery said, waving a hand. "Some cocky young idiot marches up on your pub and tries to muscle in on your business? I'd've told me to jog on ages ago."
Hennessey grunted.
"That's why my first gesture of goodwill is a warning." Emery looked over and offered the floor to Kurt, who responded automatically.
"There are three men in your midst who are traitors. They're watching your moves and reporting your whereabouts at all times to the Dutchman. These are men you trust. Men you know. Men that I've personally witnessed feeding him details."
Emery nodded, turning back to Hennessey. "We'll give you their names and you can look into them. Give them a tail. Beat it out of them. Whatever you see fit. If you don't find any evidence, I'll personally let you put a bullet in my head. But when you do see that I'm telling the truth, I hope you'll agree that someone needs to put this nasty spy in his place."
Hennessey was clearly intrigued. His eyes flicked repeatedly between Kurt and Emery and he thought for a long moment. "Give me the names, then."
"John Carrigan. Shannon Cox. Alexander Bystrom," Kurt recited.
Hennessey absorbed the names with a glower and leaned back. "You'd better not be lying to me."
"I've got enough enemies already," Emery said. "A bunch of filthy outsiders trying to lay claim on my country. I'm of the mind that England's streets should remain in the hands of the English. What do you say, Mr. Hennessey?"
Hennessey was quiet for a tense moment before he spoke. "Alright, Eaton. Maybe it's the whiskey talking or maybe I'm just every bit certain that it don't make a difference one way or the other what that stupid knob thinks he knows, but I've got a feeling about you. I'll give you a shot."
"You won't regret it," Emery said.
"I'd better not, or it will be a bullet in your pretty little head. So, if you can prove to me that these cunts are traitors, I'll consider this transaction of yours."
/>
Emery paused. "You aren't going to look into them?"
Hennessey scowled lightly. "If you want to convince me, then convince me. I ain't gonna do it for you. That's the deal. Take it or piss off."
Emery quickly glanced to Kurt, who didn't react, and mentally swore. "Right. We'll take it, then."
"Good." Hennessey motioned to the new tray of drinks that was suddenly being set in front of them. "Now you boys do another round with me. And tell me another joke."
"Here here!" Mooney cheered drunkenly beside him.
Emery's stomach sank as he looked down at the whiskey set before him and he forced a smile. "Much obliged."
One drink and another vulgar joke later Emery quickly excused himself to the restroom, where he forced himself to vomit the alcohol from his system. He could feel the vile drink swimming around in his gut and really, he couldn't afford to be drunk at a time like this. That was some guarantee he'd just given Hennessey. How in the hell were they going to pull this off? He washed up and headed back out to check on Victor. He and Ludkov were still seated at the bar and looking almost, if he dared say it, friendly. He approached them carefully from behind and leaned in at Victor's side.
Victor turned to look at him crossly, but quickly brightened as he recognized him. "What's up, Em?"
"I'm just checking in. I think Hennessey's going to swing our way."
"No way," Victor said, gripping an overly enthusiastic hand on his shoulder and shaking him unnecessarily. "That's awesome!"
Emery blinked and stilled himself by gripping the bar. "Victor, are you drunk?"
"No, I just..." Victor shrugged, pointing at an empty shot glass. "Well, yeah."
Ludkov slunk up and leaned an elbow over Victor's shoulder. "It is victory drink. You drink shot with us."
"Uh, thank you, no," Emery insisted.
Victor leaned in much too close. "Hey Em. Did you know a hyena can eat a person whole?"
Emery pushed him back. "Stay here. And for god's sake, stop drinking." He turned away and wandered off, ignoring Victor's emphatic booing behind him to see that Hennessey was readying himself to leave. He stood at the table and gestured gruffly to McDermott at the bar, who shot a lingering look of disappointment before taking Georgie's hand in his and kissing it in a gentlemanly fashion. Then he joined Hennessey, slinging the arm of a nearly unconscious Mooney over his shoulder and the trio sauntered out of the pub. Hennessey gave Emery a nod of acknowledgment as he disappeared and Emery went back quickly to retrieve Kurt.