The Russian Crisis

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

As Jackson was having a late breakfast, Petrenko was waking up on his couch. He had fretted late into the night after the intrusion by Jackson and his security men. He wore the same clothes as he had the day before and had a four-day growth of whiskers. His hair was greasy and he smelled of sweat and fear.

There was a banging at the door of the rental. 'Not again,' thought Petrenko. He rummaged through the junk thrown about the living room until he found his Glock. The gun had no bullets in it but no one else knew that. He also found a knife and flicked it open. He went to the door.

As soon as Petrenko released the lock, the door was pushed open and Petrenko was shoved back into the hallway. For the second time in a few hours the apartment was being raided by men but, this time, it was Petrenko's depleted crew that entered.

"Hey. Stop it," yelled Petrenko recognizing the two Russians in the lead with the Jamaican following on their heels. "Are you crazy?"

The Jamaican closed the door behind him while the two Russians continued to shove Petrenko into the living room. The three crew members looked like patients escaped from a prison hospital. Each had bandages on arms or legs or both. The Jamaican had one heavily bandaged arm in a blue sling. He had the other arm behind his back.

"You got one million dollars," one of the Russian men screamed at Petrenko. "Where is our share?" The second Russian shoved Petrenko onto the couch where the Ukrainian fought against the soft cushions trying to rise again. "You give?" The Russian was red-faced and spittle shot from his mouth as he shouted a stream of invective in Russian.

"That is my money," Petrenko yelled back in the same language. "You did nothing."

Clarence, the Jamaican, was thoroughly confused since the others were screaming at each other in Russian.

"He's a shit, mon. He never gives us nothing but crap." The Jamaican's free hand appeared from behind his back. It was wrapped around a machete. The black man shoved Pavel aside and moved toward Petrenko.

"No. Okay, I give you money," Petrenko screamed. He pushed himself back into the couch. He put his hands in front of him as he stared in terror at the machete in the Jamaican's grip. He continued in Russian. "I give you everything. You can't..."

The machete rose and fell with a thunking sound as it cut into one of Petrenko's wrists. The Ukrainian screamed again, this time in pain. The furious Jamaican yanked the machete out of the horrific wound and swung it again. The large blade cut into Petrenko's neck and blood began to pump out onto the couch and floor.

"Aw, Christ," said Victor. "It's getting all over the place." He looked at the blood in disgust and stepped quickly away.

The Jamaican pulled the machete away from Petrenko. It had cut through about half of the man's neck. The pulsing flow of blood slowed and stopped as Petrenko's heart gave out.

"Let's get the hell out of here, mon," Clarene said. He grabbed a shirt from a pile of clothing that had been tossed on the floor by Jackson's men. He wiped the blade of the machete and wrapped the weapon in an undershirt he found in the pile.

The three men left the apartment as quickly as they could. There was no one in the hallway leading from Petrenko's apartment but several neighbours behind their bolted doors were dialing 911 to report the screams.