Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  One of the gang members shouted, “He’s not one of ours!”

  The unknown man behind Boris shouted, “Militsiya! Stop!”

  “Sergei, look out!” cried Boris.

  Boris dropped to his knees just as the man behind him fired his gun. The bullet whizzed to his side, past Sergei, and slammed into the man in the leather jacket. In automatic response, three of his men leveled their weapons at the stranger near the tree. Sergei, shocked and confused, stood in the middle of it all waving his arms.

  “No, no!” he cried. “There’s a mistake! You—”

  Without hesitation, three guns exploded with fire and bullets. Almost instantly Sergei grabbed at his chest and his throat. He cried out and splotches of red gushed from his body as he twisted and stumbled to the ground. The electric torch dropped from his hand, hit a stone, and shattered. Then the other lights were flicked off, and the cemetery fell again into blackness.

  “Sergei!” shouted Boris at the empty space before him.

  Hugging the muddy earth, Boris dug his fingers into the dirt and crawled to his friend. Two more shots streaked over his head as he pushed through the deep grass and around a log. Up ahead, the murky figures of the gang members dropped behind gravestones and returned gunfire.

  “Get them all!” shouted the wounded leader.

  Scraping his chin over rocks and fallen branches, Boris slithered across the ground. If only he could reach Sergei. He ducked behind a log, raised his head. Up ahead lay the crumpled figure of his friend.

  “Sergei! Sergei!”

  Several shots blazed in his direction. Then Boris heard a faint moan. A desperate gasp for air hissed and bubbled somewhere out there, followed by complete silence.

  “Sergei!”

  Boris leapt to his feet and ran to his friend. A shot was fired, another one. Boris dove and hit the ground, burning his cheek along the grass. He dragged himself over to his friend, wrapped his arms around him.

  “Come on, Sergei, we can make it!”

  Sergei, his body like ten wet blankets wrapped in a knot, didn’t answer.

  “Please,” prayed Boris. “Sergei, please!”

  Boris’ shaking hand passed from a cold cheek to a splotch of hot liquid oozing from Sergei’s chest. Lower, more blood bubbled as if from an artesian well. Boris grabbed at his friend’s neck, pressed his hand into the muscle and found no sign of a pulsing heart.

  “Nyet!” cried Boris.

  He raised his head and scanned for an escape. With eyes as beady as a cat’s, he saw the men of the gang shifting slowly to the side. He spun around, listening intently. The unknown man, the one who had fired first, was stalking along the other side, his feet pushing through the brush.

  Boris reached into Sergei’s pocket and pulled out the car keys. Then he wrapped his arms around his friend and scooped him up. He focused on a clump of cottonwood trees, burst to his feet, and ran, cradling Sergei. At once a bullet streaked out of the night, rushing past him and richocheting off a gravestone ahead. Another gun fired and a bullet slammed into a tree. Boris ducked to the right, the left, then back again, the body bouncing in his arms.

  Then suddenly a figure leapt out from the right. Boris ducked, slipped in the mud. He tumbled to the ground with the body. Footsteps converged all around, charging in for the final kill. One last time, Boris bent over, felt for a pulse, found none. He pressed his cheek to Sergei’s lips and sensed no breathing either.

  Boris kissed his friend on both cheeks, then ran. Hunkered over, he tore for the trees, then dodged between the thick trunks. He smashed into a marble statue, toppled a stone woman to the ground, and ducked behind a gravestone. He started to move, but felt something like a burning poker touch his left arm. He shot forward. Running steps and heavy breathing were all around him, reverberating off tombs and markers. He tripped over a crib-like fence around a grave, tore to the right, and vaulted across the path and into the Lazarus Cemetery. Footsteps closed in on him from behind. He dove into a thick clump of bushes, their thorny branches pricking his skin and clothing.

  He saw it, a crack in the night just a few meters away: the broken section of a wall. He darted toward it, lunged to the top, and threw himself over. Hitting the ground, he tumbled down the grassy knoll, rolled to his feet, and shot for Sergei’s car. As he ran, he ripped off his bloodied jacket and threw it back over the cemetery wall.

  By the time he reached the edge of the monastery there were pulsing sirens and flashing yellow lights erupting in the dark. The militsiya. A whole herd of their yellow jeeps were zooming in from every direction. If the man who had fired at him, wondered Boris, had been one of them, why wasn’t the place already surrounded?

  A bus pulled up, its shocked riders staring out the back window at the assemblage of militsiya. Boris stepped from the edge of the wall to the front bumper of the bus. Then, as if he had just disembarked, he walked from the front of the bus and calmly up the street. Every bit of his willpower rallied to prevent him from running the rest of the way to Sergei’s car.

  Someone slithered right up behind him on the sidewalk, and Boris jumped.

  “What’s going on?” asked a young man.

  Boris reached for the door handle. “I… I don’t know. Leningrad hasn’t seen such activity since the war.”

  He glanced back toward the monastery and saw someone running along the edge of the wall. A gang member. Boris jumped in the car and brought its little engine to a roaring start. No. Calm down, he told himself. Don’t give yourself away so foolishly. With both hands he released the parking brake, then sat perfectly still for a moment. He took a deep breath, and pushed down on the gas. The small red car rolled forward, leaving the running man in the dark.

  His blue eyes glanced in the mirror. The way back up Nevsky was flooding with yellow jeeps, so he drove straight toward the Neva. That’s what he’d do. Cross the Alexander Nevsky Bridge up ahead, circle around the city, back down Lirovsky Prospekt, then to Lara’s on Vasilevsky Island. As he neared Obukhovskoy Avenue that ran along the embankment, however, he saw a sedan racing up behind him. He caught his breath. No. It couldn’t be, he prayed as he passed through a green light, then onto the large bridge. Still, he couldn’t help but check his mirror.

  “Gospodi!”

  A beige Volga sedan whipped behind him. Boris stared in the mirror, unable to believe his eyes. Yet with each moment the faces in the car grew clearer. So did the gun held out the window. His pursuers were like wolves chasing a hare.

  Abruptly, metal screamed and sparked right in front of him. The car heaved, groaned, slowed. Boris twisted the wheel to the left. He’d been so busy looking back that he’d scraped the car along the bridge railing. With the lights of the Volga barreling in on him, Boris steered back into the lane, then slammed the gas to the floor.

  Little by little he gained on a bus in front of him. He swerved the wheel to the left and overtook the large vehicle. He waited, letting the Volga pass behind the bus and almost reach him. Then, just as he came to the other end of the bridge, he dashed around the front of the bus. The driver leaned on his horn, but Boris was already out of the way. Just as quickly, he jabbed the wheel to the right, shot over a curb, and swerved down a circular ramp that curled around to the river’s edge. Pressed against the door, Boris hung on as his Zhiguli whipped down and around. Holding the wheel steady, he checked behind and saw no sign of the Volga.

  Like an amusement ride, the little car was hurled out of the ramp and onto the slick road that ran along the embankment. Just as he was about to pass beneath the bridge, though, a car came speeding the wrong way down the opposite ramp. It was the Volga sedan, and the driver bore down on the Zhiguli. Boris trod on the brakes, twisted the wheel, and screeched a hundred-and-eighty degree turn. A cloud of black smoking rubber engulfed him.

  “Go!” he screamed, the gas pedal flat on the floor.

  Within seconds, though, the lights from the sedan embraced him. He tried to speed away, but the Zhiguli wasn’t fast enough. Th
e larger Volga sped at him, streaking from behind and up on his left side. He leaned on the steering wheel and rocked himself, trying to make the car accelerate. He glanced over. The three men in the sedan were bent in laughter. Then the one in the backseat cranked down his window and leveled his gun on Boris’ temple. He was on the brink of firing when the one in the front seat grabbed him, shook his head, and pulled him back in. He shouted something and their laughter grew loud enough to reach Boris’ ears.

  At once, the Volga careened over, slammed into the side of the Zhiguli. The car’s frame seemed to explode in pain and Boris’ door crumpled inward. The automobile was hurled to the right, hit the curb and jumped up on the embankment. Boris sensed the car tilt, saw the dark waters right below, and knew the car was ready to launch itself into the Neva. With all his strength, he wrapped his arms on the steering wheel and pulled to the left. There was a thud and the car dropped off the curb and back on the road.

  He glanced over at his pursuers. Laughing, they pulled away, then swooped down on him like an eagle. There was a loud crash and instantaneously the side windows disintegrated. Metal crumpled like wadded paper, and the Zhiguli was thrown off toward the river again. Racing along at seventy-five kilometers per hour, the small car teetered on the edge of the embankment as Boris wrestled with the steering wheel.

  No sooner was the car back on the road than a large truck came bombing around the corner. The driver of the transport vehicle spotted the two side-by-side cars, sent his horn blaring, swerved right, and shot up and over the concrete curb. Boris’ heart practically burst from his chest, and he swerved toward the river. This left the Volga in the center of the road, making it an easy target for the second, equally huge truck that next came barreling around the curve. The driver of the sedan tried to brake, but that only caused the car to swing sideways, and in the next instant the truck soared from the night and broadsided the Volga. The three gang members trapped inside shrieked like a chorus of young boys.

  In horror, Boris watched from the side of the road as metal was crumpled like tissue paper. Sparks flew and bodies were crushed like rotten tomatoes. And still the force of the huge truck continued forward, hurling the Volga like a battered soccer ball upon the embankment behind Boris. For an instant, the sedan teetered on the edge, then with a loud whoosh, it dropped into the Neva and sank out of sight.

  Chapter 16

  Boris was greeted by Lara’s scream.

  “Gospodi, what happened?”

  But before he could answer, before the neighbors downstairs could hear, she grabbed him and pulled him into her room. He stumbled in, his clothes damp from sweat and blood, not knowing quite how he got there. A dark fog was seeping into his skull, toying with his senses. Something quite terrible had happened and he needed sleep.

  Lara began peeling away his shirt. “Boris, you’re hurt and—”

  He brought her hands together between his and kissed her soft fist. “They killed Sergei.”

  She exclaimed, “No!” recoiling in disbelief.

  Ready to collapse, he turned away from her and made his way to the wooden table. He leaned on it with both hands and closed his eyes. Immediately, he saw the hailstorm of bullets and his friend crumpling to the muddy earth.

  He shook away the burning memories. “Don’t ask me why, but this gang told Sergei and me to meet them inside the Alexander Nevsky Monastery. In one of the old cemeteries. They were there right in front of us.” A flash of the bottom of that leather coat seared his mind. “But then someone sneaked up from behind.” He heard the snap of the branch. “He shouted something and… and all these guns fired on… Sergei.”

  “How awful!” Her eyes wet, Lara dropped onto a wooden chair. Her head fell in her hands and a mass of her light brown hair tumbled over. “Who, Boris? And why?”

  Only gray against black, that’s all that came to him. “I don’t know.”

  Could there be some sort of gang war? There’d recently been an American movie on television about two rival Mafia families, each trying to eliminate the other. Perhaps that was the answer.

  “I’m sure that the surprise attacker wasn’t militsiya. He wouldn’t have been alone. There would have been a bunch of them waiting outside.” He gazed at the floor, his vision weak and hazy. “For some reason he was trying to cause trouble.”

  “Poor Sergei….”

  His face red with guilt, he spun to her. “I… I tried to help him, but there was so much confusion! He just didn’t move. He couldn’t believe what was happening. I went to him, but it was too late. The militsiya must have found him by now.” Was his best friend really dead? “It was as if that stranger was out for only one reason—to kill someone.”

  “To kill Sergei? Or you?” Her unblemished complexion was now tortured with a mass of wrinkles. She simply couldn’t believe it. “But why? Boris, that just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, drifting into a daze. “He couldn’t have been after me. Maybe he wanted Sergei out of the picture so he could take over his dealings with the gang.” Hadn’t that been part of the American movie? Hadn’t the lust for financial gain been the spark behind the bullets? “Perhaps Sergei was more deeply into the black market than I thought. Who knows? Maybe he was even dealing drugs. I hear there’s a lot of narkotiki coming back from Afghanistan.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” she gasped in disbelief. “Sergei did a lot of things he shouldn’t have, but he wouldn’t get involved in something like that.”

  His back to her, he heard the legs of her chair scrape the floor, then her quick, light steps. Like a warm blanket, Lara reached up and encircled his shoulders with her arms. She kissed him on the back, long and forcefully. One of her breasts pressed into him, molding itself over his arm. How he wished this had been just a wonderful night, the two of them alone. Then he could sleep this nightmare away.

  “Boris, now you must go to the militsiya. You have to tell them everything even if…”

  He held onto one of her hands as if it were a life rope. His mass of curly blond hair bobbed up and down. She was right, even though it meant he might be locked up, sent away. Whatever. He had to confess for Sergei’s sake. His friend deserved that.

  “I’ll explain everything. Maybe they’ll be generous.” He leaned over and burrowed his cheek against hers. “But first I have to take care of Musya—make sure she’s all right.”

  Her body suddenly tense, Lara stepped back. Pieces of the night flooded her mind, and her green eyes bounced from side to side. A terrifying realization washed over her and her fingers dug into Boris’ arms.

  “Bozhe. That man in the leather jacket—he knows where you live, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course. He’s the head of the gang. The one who attacked me this morning. Lara, what are you getting at?”

  Biting her lower lip, she looked directly up at him. “Doesn’t that mean they could be on the way there now?”

  His eyes widened in terror. If only he weren’t so tired he would have thought of that, gone there first.

  “The telephone—quick!” he shouted.

  Lara rushed to her apartment door and threw it open. Boris hurried behind her, then stopped at the top of the narrow, steep stairs as Lara continued to the landing below. She mounted the stairs a second later, clutching the phone. He met her halfway, the telephone cord stretched to its limit.

  “I hope it’s not too late,” she said from the steps beneath him. “What if—”

  “She has to be all right!” he raged.

  The telephone system was so slow, but finally there was a connection. Agonizing eons passed between the first ring and the second, the second and the third…

  “Tfoo, there’s no—” The receiver was picked up and he tensed. “Musya? Musya? Are you all right?”

  The woman’s voice sounded incredulous. “B-Bo-ris?”

  “Yes.” He clutched the phone with two fists and slumped down on the stair. “It’s me. Don’t worry. I’m all right. But what about you?
”

  “Me? Me?” she asked in disbelief. “I’m… I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.”

  Her stunned voice, however, was prime evidence that she knew something was wrong. He just had to keep her calm and get her away from the apartment as quickly as possible. What if the gang leader caught her outside? That madman with the cleaver…

  “Listen carefully and do exactly as I say.” He forced himself to stay calm. “Get the car keys from my dresser, take your coat and your purse, and leave the house at once. Immediately, Musya. That gang’s following me and they may be on their way to the apartment.”

  There was silence on the other end. Boris, clutching the phone, glanced up at Lara, who was focused on his every word. Then he looked beyond her, checking the hall downstairs to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

  He rubbed a forefinger up and down the ridges of his brow. “Musya?”

  The voice was faint. “I… I…”

  “Listen, it’s all very complicated, but you’ll be fine if you leave right away. Please do that.” He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he were responsible for her death too. “There’s a gang war going on with a bunch of crazy Georgians. Sergei—”

  “Sergei?”

  “Yes, Sergei. For once would you just listen to me?” he shouted into the receiver. “Someone might have wanted him out of the way. He…”

  Boris caught himself. No, he couldn’t go into it now. She might panic or freeze or call the militsiya. He’d explain later when he could comfort her.

  “Musya,” he said in a tortured voice, “you simply must leave the apartment. Just grab your coat. Take the car. You know where it is around the corner?”

  “But, Boris—”

  “Go, Musya! Now,” he said, with a pained look at Lara. “Watch out, though, for any strangers in the hall or downstairs.”

  “I understand.” Her voice sounded stronger. “But Borinka, are you all right, my love?”