Russian Roulette

Sunday, May 10, 2009
Kiev, Ukraine

Shaking hands, trembling with nerves, tried in vain to light the sweat-soaked cigarette clamped between his teeth. The Zippo's wheel stuttered, and stuck, refusing to coax a spark from the flint. "Don't quit on me now, baby." The silver was battered, dulled to a matte sheen from years spent banging around in his pockets. The initials engraved diagonally across the surface were a shadow, at best, worn smooth by the repetitive stroke of his thumb.

The wind was cool. Cold enough that steam rose from his overheated skin. Welcome to Kiev.

"Fuck, just fuck," the words came unbidden from between his lips as those traitorous fingers raked through his sweat-soaked hair. Bile rose, and with effort he forced it back, exhausting the last of his physical reserves to remain upright, instead of curled on the asphalt barfing up a lung like some green piece of shit after his first hard workout. Tears stung his eyes, drawn by the sweat that ran down through his furrowed brows to soak past his eyelashes. His mouth tasted like ashes and chalk.

He needed a cigarette. Bad.

"Pieceashit." He slapped the warm metal against his palm. Three times. No more, no less. The lid clicked open. His callused thumb rolled across the wheel. This time the sparks flew, and the blue-orange flame sprang to life. Cupping it with his other hand, he brought it to the end of the deadhead Camel, managing to scorch it, and his stubble covered chin before the end caught. The shakes were bad.

His guts cramped, acid percolating in the back of his throat. It was bad tonight all around, despite the unexpected win.

The simple cinderblock wall behind his back was solid enough to ground him to reality, despite the buzz in his ears. He'd almost missed fighting in places like this. Hell, shitholes worse than this had given him that first foothold in wrestling- back when he was still green enough to think that charisma and a good reference was enough to get him to the top. Oh, to be young and fatally stupid again. He exhaled sharply, the lungful of Turkish smoke imbuing the air around him with a ghostly haze.

He tried like hell to shake the feeling. Gooseflesh trying to break out under the greasy sheen of sweat that covered his skin, soaking into the white wifebeater he'd thrown on with his dirty jeans before slipping outside. Spiral was here. Armageddon, firey damnation and a Biblical plague of locusts was sure to follow.

"Jesusfuck." the back of his head struck the wall as he tilted it back. The stripe of starry sky visible between the rooftops was almost comforting. "Everything floats down here," he muttered, letting his eyes slip closed as he pulled in another drag of that acrid smoke.

In his preoccupation, he didn't notice the sleek black limousine pull into the head of the alley, as silent as a shadow. Instead he stood there, immobile and awkward, dripping sweat. He could smell his own stink- blood and sweat. Smelled like victory, like some sort of old school gladiator. He didn't realize he was no longer alone until something wet was forced over his nose and mouth, causing him to alternately gasp, and then choke on the fumes mixed with exhaled cigarette smoke. Harsh chemical fumes filled his head, and this time the ground looked as soft as a bed as his knees came unhinged, spilling him into oblivion.



A motherlode of adrenaline ebbed and flowed, fight or flight blind panic stealing his breath as he came to. His temples ached as though Victor Frankenstein had ripped apart his cranium and reattached his ears with railroad spikes. He flailed, ineffectively as he slid to the floor, unable to break his own fall with his arms pinned behind his back.

"Whuf." His first word back in the land of the living was more an animal grunt as the wind was driven from his lungs.

The smell of rich leather filled his nostrils, accompanied with the gritty texture and taste of the carpeting that grazed his tongue as it lolled from his mouth.

"Welcome back," the voice was mellow, tinged with just a hint of some sort of old world accent, "you have managed something few do, pizdets. You have managed to piss me off."

"It's a skill." Even hog-tied and fuzzy-headed from the chloroform, the acidic wit was still as sharp as ever. A sardonic smirk curved Jackson's lips as he lifted his head from the floor, eyes focusing on the owner of the voice, who seemed to be sitting at least a thousand miles away. Chalking it up to a trick of the drugs, he cleared his throat.

"You do not seem to care," the man remarked, looking down at Jackson. "Hit him."

The blow from the textured pistol grip was unexpected, but it caught him square in the temple, driving him back down to the floor. A small, booted foot slammed into his solar plexus, driving the breath from his lungs. It took a while for him to remember how to breathe. The world faded to white noise and static.

Pain. Once upon a time it was what he lived for. Now- well now he just wanted to finish that cigarette, go back to the hotel, and blow off the rest of the adrenaline fucking his girl. "I am not amused, Mr. Jackson."

"Yeah," his jaw was stiff from the pistol whip. He smelled blood. His. "Somehow I was getting that feelin'." He tensed, this time sensing the movement in his peripheral vision as the other side of his face was smashed. "Fuck!" The word came as a sharp exhalation, almost instinct. He was half tempted to scream, just to see what they would do, but pride kept his teeth clenched.

"I am not amused," the Russian leaned forward, light reflecting off the dark sunglasses that shaded his eyes, effectively masking his identity. His voice was soft, the weight behind each word echoed in the plosive exhalations of the diminutive woman who crouched on the seat behind him. "Do you know why?"

Jackson almost laughed, barely managed to put a lid on the sardonic words that tried to bubble up this throat. "Not a clue, buddy. Maybe if you spelled it out…"

The cue was subtle, just the slight inclination of his head, and there was a knee in his back, forcing his spine to bow with an audible crunch. Slim fingers gripped his face, torquing his neck painfully to the side as the nails scraped his face. He looked up into a pair of piercing cerulean blue eyes that were as cold as a winter sky.

"She will kill you," the Russian said laconically, making no effort to conceal his smile. "Do you want to die?"

"Trick question…" Jackson licked his lips, feeling the saliva thicken to paste on his tongue. "Would I have joined your little fuckaree if I wasn't suicidal?"

"Ah." It was blatantly obvious to him now that this was the infamous Tibor Petrov. The man who had personally signed his letter. "So, it is not money you want?"

"Nope." The hold on his head tightened, and a flicker of fear passed through Jackson's eyes. Petrov saw this, and noted it with another imperceptible nod.

"What do you want, Mr. Jackson?"

"Nothing."

"Do not fuck with me."

"Do I look like I'm fucking, comrade?" He sneered the word, revealing his teeth. "I don't throw fights. I've NEVER sold out that way… never will. You want someone to play that game, look elsewhere. I came to The Circuit to draw blood. I came to do what you asked me to do… hurt people and survive. Did Aleks tell you that? Fuck, probably not."

"Congratulations," Petrov's voice was warmer now, the smile a little more noticeable. "You have aced with flying colors."

Jackson drew in a breath to reply, and filled his sinuses with harsh chemicals yet again. The tiny woman rode him to the floor, slapping him in the back of the head.

"He will serve us well, milyi……" the words followed him down into the abyss, lost almost immediately.


Monday, May 11, 2009
location unknown

The plane was small. A corporate class Lear, the rear section stripped down to bare metal with a single vinyl coated seat bolted in the middle. Iron rings grew from the armrests, and through these were threaded heavy chains. At the front of the plane were a few richly upholstered seats in a muted burgundy- business sedate, complete with a round little conference table. On the table was a laptop computer. MacBook by the looks of it.

Lightning slashed across the sky, flickering in the heavy cloud cover below the plane, lending surrealness to the scene that Jackson found more than a little disconcerting. His hands ached, his jaw clicked and popped as he swallowed hard. They'd worked him over but good.

His fingers were stiff with dried blood, curved into awkward claws. Exhaustion carved hollows beneath his eyes, and the lightning reflected off the metal of the wing outside the window, bathing him in an eerie glow. A thousand emotions battled for supremacy as he stared at the gloom outside the window, watching the storm wage its war in the heavens. The plane was flying low, through the middle of the storm.

A chain-rattling tremor slid down his spine from his scalp to his bare feet. He cleared his throat loudly and then arched his back, making the chains surrounding the back of his seat creak and squeal. He was trussed up like a turkey, with leg irons and chains going under the supports for the seat. He almost pondered pulling a parlor trick and slipping out of the bonds, but that wouldn't serve any purpose at all. Thirty-thousand feet in the air didn't leave much in the way of escape options.

"...need something for the pain..." he said, the rusty rumble of his voice carrying easily as it bounced off the metal that surrounded him. "Think you broke my ribs."

James Bond never had to put up with this shit. Nah, he would have been jolted softly from sleep with the touch of a vicious vixen ripped from the pages of Maxim, or some European runway to tumble in bed with him before pulling off a double cross. Bond would never have been jumped by Russian goons in some shitty little alley, and ended up here.

He could feel the panic attack nipping at his neck, bringing that tingle to his face that always preceded the inevitable.

The Russian woman took her sweet time making her way over, and then took an even longer time to settle herself into the seat opposite Jackson. Jackson could feet the sweat running down his back; it was cold as ice. He'd never liked flying. But this, well this was something different. He met the woman's piercing blue gaze with desperation on his face. Panic was starting to creep in around the edges, making him jumpy. "Say, listen," he began, noticing the quaver in his voice and finding himself powerless to stop it. "Could you maybe unchain me? I mean, Christ, where am I going to go at thirty thousand feet?"

The woman inclined her head, running her small white fingers across the gun that rested on her thigh. She said nothing, serving only to drive his tension one notch closer to full meltdown. He was beginning to feel lightheaded. His stomach rolled, bitterly warm saliva and bile flooding his mouth. He swallowed with effort, feeling the acid burn in this throat.

"I don't like flying... at all. You get me, sweetheart? I'm about ten seconds away from wigging right the fuck out. You want to me choke on my own puke?" He was babbling. He knew it, too. He jerked at the chains, trying to bring his hands up to his face. They fell short by a few inches. Inches that he claimed by slumping his shoulders forward, hunching despite the cut of metal against his neck as he realized just how fucked he was. There was a metal collar around his neck, also connected to the back of the chair by chains. Like Jacob Marley, he rattled, almost sobbing in his frustration. "Please..." the word was muffled, as close to breaking down and begging as he had EVER come.

He gulped, suddenly sickened. He felt the walls closing in, crushing claustrophobia... always happened on planes, but this was worse by a thousand times. He looked up at the silent woman, his face ashen, tears glittering in his eyes, threatening to fall. Pathetic. "I. Don't. Want. This." Each word was clipped, as though he was trying to bite back the emotion. "Please, tell Petrov I'm sorry, ok? I'm... f-fucking sorry." He damn near choked on the apology.

The woman studied him, cocking her head to the side. Her eyes were hooded, veiled by the dark shadow and a fringe of lashes that only accented her porcelain skin.

"No." He said it again, over and over, that one word becoming a chant. He was shaking, filled with anger, consumed with that blind terror that only seemed to strike when he was in the air. He threw his head back and let loose a yell that made the woman flinch. Her fingers twitched over the gun, but she kept right on stroking it, almost sensually. Jackson let his head hang, breathing heavily. Utter silence fell over the two as the plane sliced through the night sky undeterred. After a long moment, he looked up, his eyes darkening to the same stormy purple black as the sky outside the windows. "You won't kill me," he muttered, "you would have already, if you were going to."

"Yes," she said, her voice just a little husky, tinged with that Russian accent.

Jackson snorted, rolling his eyes. His face was a mess. He wondered what she thought of him now, standing up to her, with her handiwork etched all over his swollen, craggy features. "Vsyo zayebis!" He snarled, acid dripping from the scornful Russian epithet. She gave him another look that spoke volumes, adjusting her position.

"You are not American?" She said with a raised eyebrow, curiosity piqued. His accent was good. Most Americans had difficulty with the pronunciation. Jackson didn't.

"Mongrel Dutch… father was American… mother was an Amsterdam whore." Jackson laughed, the sound barely passing for amusement. The crooked smile cracked his lip, spilling blood down his chin. Jackson brought his fingers to his lip and touched the blood, looking at it with detachment before sucking it off the tip of his index finger. His expression was cold, but pain and anger sparked in his eyes, making them glitter strangely as though the lightning outside the window had somehow gotten inside them. His voice was low, filled with bitterness. "You like doing this grunt work, sweetheart?"

She looked at him impassively. "It is what I do." She said it as though she'd never given an alternative to this life a second thought. Perhaps she hadn't.

"So, what now?"

"We take you home to Los Angeles."

Jackson nodded, accepting her frank answer with equanimity. He knew it was a load of shit. They wouldn't have sent her along if it was that simple. They could have simply drugged him and got him on a real commercial flight. They intended to send some sort of message.

He just hoped he lived long enough to figure out just what that was.



Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Los Angeles, CA

The back of the bucket seat bowed outward, pressing against Jackson's knees. Springs creaked, groaned in protest under the onslaught of the Russian goon's muscled bulk. The gun in his hand wavered as the car jittered over the hardpacked road.

The woman, known in her own circles as Yaponchik cut a sour glance at her companion. He lowered the gun, expression carefully neutral as he turned towards the woman behind the wheel, those light hungry eyes fixing on her white knuckle grip on the wheel. Hatred emanated from his dark eyes, mixed with a predatory lust, speaking volumes as he snapped the gun back into his shoulder rig.

Jackson groaned, couldn't really help himself as the impact of the massive dosage of chloral hydrate faded away, leaving behind nothing but the side effects. Crushing headache like he'd been kicked in the head. They'd been drugging him too much. Any more might kill him. They knew that. She didn't care. She knew letting him talk was dangerous.

"Give him more." She snapped, pointing her finger at the little black bag on the seat between them.

Jackson coughed feebly, stirring on the back seat. He grunted, blinking blearily, and then the Russian's meathook hand closed over his shoulder, dragging him up off the seat. He stabbed the needle into Jackson's neck, dumping another load of knockout drugs into his system.

"Will he die?"

"Mudilo." She spat, "Tibor says no. He is strong. I think is right, that man is… not right."

"Stop here." The man inclined his head, looking out at the barren landscape beside the service road. Nothing for miles. "We leave him here, no?"

She shrugged, slowing the vehicle to a stop. She watched while the burly Russian pilot heaved his bulk out of the seat, and walked around to the back. A moment later Jackson's battered body was laying on a dusty strip of dirt, barefoot and half naked.

She laughed to herself as she put the car in gear. "Tibor says if he makes it to Monaco alive, it will be miracle…"