Free Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant

main dining room. It’s still deserted of customers and I hold my breath all the way to the street.

Nine
    Outside the tea house, I turn right and walk at a quick pace to put some distance between Lebed and myself.
    Sweat trickles down my neck and an emotional tremor vibrates through my shoulders, but I’m determined not to cry. I tell myself the vicious little prick wouldn’t be so frightening if he didn’t have a muscle-bound golem standing in each corner, but I know I’m lying.
    It’s apparent, from reputation and demeanor, that Lebed has the granite heart of a killer and the itchy hands of a butcher who still needs to sink his fingers into bloody offal on occasion in order to feel alive.
    I shake off the disturbing thoughts and look up from my feet too late to avoid running head first into an immobile iceberg wrapped in a beige trench coat and woolen cap.
    â€œSorry,” I blurt as the man’s hands grab me by the shoulders to steady my rebound.
    â€œ Kto vas poslal ?” asks the man.
    Confused, I look up to see a cruel visage with twisted lips. Before I can react, his grip tightens painfully and I’m jerked off my feet. My body is twisted in mid-air as though I weigh little more than an empty potato sack and I’m shoved hard against the red brick wall of a closed storefront.
    Upon contact, the back of my head cracks the bricks, sending an explosion of pain to the front of my eyes, where stars are already dancing. I open my mouth to scream for help, but the man’s a step ahead. He slaps one callused palm across my mouth, his fingernails black and smelling of rot, while his other hand pushes up on my breastbone to deflate my lungs and keep me glued to the wall. My feet dangle inches off the ground, making me feel as helpless as a child.
    â€œ Kto vas poslal ?” he repeats.
    Even if I understood Russian, which I don’t, I can barely breathe behind his rough hand, never mind talk. Beneath the nail rot, his skin smells of shoe polish, leather, and engine oil, while his face has all the charm of a circuit gambler’s pitbull. Livid burn scars crisscross his face; the worst is the left half of his upper lip, which is completely melted away. If he was a dog, he would be a shortsighted one who’s had to survive by stealing steaks and chicken off lit neighborhood barbecues.
    Instinctively, I plant one foot against the wall as an anchor and propel my other knee into his groin. It’s a good plan, but I can’t get enough force behind the strike to be taken seriously. The Russian grins through his ruined mouth, exposing the cigarette stubs of four teeth, laughing at my pathetic effort to break free.
    Good , I tell myself in forced bravado, I have him just where I need him.
    Pushing a vision of Alien into my head, I stab my teeth forward to latch onto the weathered flesh of his palm, scraping for purchase. At the same time, I swing my knee up again—but this time it has a passenger. The Russian releases a surprised grunt when my hitchhiking fingers grab hold of one withered testicle and clamp around it.
    I don’t waste time as my thumb seals the vise, and I use my remaining strength to viciously twist and squeeze. Blood squirts across my lips as he jerks his nipped hand away from my mouth.
    A shriek of pain escapes his lips as his other hand slips from my chest and dives down to grab my wrist. In his panic to break my grip, he’s forgotten about my other hand. Now that my feet are back on the ground, my free hand dives down, too, finds his testicular companion and applies eighty-plus pounds of pissed-off-female pressure.
    The man roars and his face turns the color of borscht. As his knees start to tremble, I stab my face forward to make sure he’s paying attention.
    â€œIf you understand English, tell your boss that I don’t appreciate threats and I have friends who will appreciate it even less.”
    â€œ Sooka !” he groans. “