Free Downfall by Jeff Abbott Page A

What?”
    “I think you’ve answered my question. Tonight was a random encounter. We don’t need to dance together.”
    “You mean did I send those guys to your bar?” Belias said. “Do you mean was I targeting you? No. But we have collided now, and what are we going to do about that?”
    “Your ring. It’s like the charm the suburban dad wore on a necklace.” He pointed at Belias’s finger, at the delicate silver band marked with spaces and bars. “Interesting symbol. Are you two engaged?”
    Belias smiled. “Are you telling me you don’t know the woman you risked your life to save?”
    “I don’t know her.”
    “Well. You could be lying. I can’t decide.” Belias tilted his head. “I find you interestingly capable. That’s not random.”
    “I don’t have a beef with you if you don’t have one with me,” the bartender said. “Just stay away from me and my bar and we’re out of each other’s business. Oh, one thing more.”
    “What?”
    “Give up on hurting the woman.”
    “I have the gun yet you’re telling me what I’m going to do. Very nice. I like that. I want to have a drink at your bar with you, friend.”
    “I’m not your friend,” the bartender said.
    “Not yet. But I’m an optimist. So why did you come here?”
    “I want to know who Rostov is.”
    “Why?”
    “In case he has friends who want revenge against me.”
    “Now that I do believe. Back up slowly.”
    The bartender obeyed, moving back into the den, standing by the couch. Using his elbow, Belias flicked on a ceiling light. “Let’s sit, talk. I’m facing a challenge, so are you. Maybe we can work together.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I’m impressed by a…bartender who can take down a Russian Special Forces veteran. I don’t want to hurt your girlfriend. Truly, I don’t. What has happened between us was a misunderstanding. You get her to talk to me, let me explain. We can talk to her mom together. You get me that video she has and I’ll make it worth your while. And I can protect you from the Russian’s friends. And he has friends. A whole, bitter violent family of them, more than a bartender can handle. They will kill you. I can protect you.”
    “I’m not interested. I don’t know her. This has nothing to do with me.”
    “You’re in this now,” Belias said simply. “You know too much…” And then the front door opened and a thick-necked man entered the apartment.
    Belias swung the gun toward the man.

10
    Thursday, November 4, late evening
    I ’D KILLED ONE MAN TONIGHT ; maybe I could save a second one.
    I threw myself at the man in black, slamming into him, trying to get a hand on the gun. It spit fire, and the hiss of a suppressor is always louder than you think it is. I heard screaming in Russian from the man who’d just arrived—I presumed it was Rostov’s roommate. He was built big like Rostov—they could be brothers. I’d knocked the man in black to the couch and was intent on breaking his grip on the gun. He was stronger than he looked. He grunted as I wrested it from him, slamming my knee into his throat.
    I levered free the gun, and then the Russian swung a heavy backpack that had been on his shoulder hard into my hand. You’d think he’d run for the street but he didn’t. I didn’t have a tight grip on the gun, and it flew over the couch and landed on the carpet toward a corner of the room. The big Russian swung the backpack again and this time I caught it and pulled hard. It brought him into the heel of my hand.
    I needed to take him out of the fight to save him.
    The man in black ran over the sofa, springing for the gun. I kicked out, caught his shin, sent him sprawling over the edge of the couch.
    I guess the Russian believed muscle paved every road, made life easier. He tried to seize my throat in one big hand while grabbing at the man in black with the other.
    He missed.
    “Idiot!” I screamed. In English. The Russian started strangling me with one hand while dragging