“Where’re you going, slut?” Tomás demanded. “We still need to talk to you.”
“Turn her loose, Tomás,” Mendoza barked. “You’re bleeding. You might splash her.”
The man glared at Lucia for a few long seconds but did as he was told. As an afterthought, he ripped off a long strip of the girl’s shirt, exposing her breasts.
“I’ll wrap my cut with this,” he said, clutching the piece of shirt.
Lucia quickly crossed her arms over her breasts before Mendoza grabbed her again.
“Tell me what the hell you’re doing here. And I better like your answer.”
The door burst open in a whirlwind of rain and wind. A dripping figure stood in the shadows and surveyed the scene. He was short and stocky—that was all they could make out from the bar.
“Back away from her if you value your balls, amigo.” The shadowy figure’s voice was soft but menacing, like a voltage generator about to explode.
“Prit!” Lucia cried out in relief.
“Lucia, honey, come to me.” The Ukrainian stood firm in the doorway, looking like an angry bull terrier, never taking his eyes off Mendoza and the other men in the room. Rainwater dripped off his clothes, forming a puddle at his feet, but no one seemed to notice.
“Bullshit,” said Gato, gripping Lucia tighter. “The girl doesn’t leave until I say so.”
“Bad idea,” Pritchenko replied, scratching his ear with the tip of his huge knife.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Not waiting for an answer, Mendoza kept talking as he secretly signaled to the men at the tables. “Gotta hand it to you, you’ve got balls. You’re the first Aryan to come to the ghetto alone.”
“I’m not one of those brainless Aryan Nations assholes,” Prit replied, suspiciously calm. “For the last time, let the girl go.”
“Tell that to them,” Mendoza shouted.
Two men in the doorway jumped on Prit. In that split second, he blinked twice, spread his feet, and, unfazed, turned his right arm slightly and stuck his knife in the chest of the guy on one side. He let out a gurgling sound, and then fell into the Ukrainian’s arms with a look of disbelief. Prit shielded himself with the first guy’s body as he swung around to the second guy. As the goon stared down at the knife sticking out his buddy’s back, Prit punched his chin with a sharp crack, sending the guy’s head flying backward. Eyes dilated, the guy took a step back, and then collapsed like a heap of rags.
Prit threw the body of the first guy into the next two coming at him, then kicked hard at the crotch of a giant tattooed black guy stalking him. The guy let out a muffled scream and dropped to the floor, clutching his balls.
The Ukrainian had time to hit two other guys—and break the arm of one of them with a chilling crunch—before someone punched him in the temple.
Prit staggered and saw double. He got off two more kicks, but then felt a sharp pain in his side, like someone’d hit him with a baseball bat. He took a deep breath, gasping at the sharp pain. Broken ribs, he thought before a brutal kick to his back knocked him to his knees. He grabbed a bottle that had fallen on the floor during the brawl and smashed it in the face of a guy standing over him with a knife. The man writhed in pain as he pulled a sliver of glass out of his eye. As the blinded guy backed away, Prit tried to stand.
Although his rivals only knew how to fight in barroom brawls, Prit was outnumbered. It dawned on the Ukrainian that he was going to die there.
With one last effort, he roared and lunged at the three guys closest to him, who stepped back in surprise. Pritchenko took advantage of that hesitation to strike the neck of the one of them with the side of a hand, leaving him gasping for breath through his broken trachea. Suddenly, something hit him in the face so hard he felt his septum crack. He fell back and then they all jumped him, savagely kicking his curled-up body.
“Lucia! Run!” was all he could scream, frothy blood spilling from his lips, before a kick to his neck made him collapse in a ball.
Mendoza watched the fight, astonished. The little guy had seemed so low-key, but he’d killed two men and knocked out three others in less than a minute.
Suddenly, a shot rang out in the bar. They all looked up, startled. All but Pritchenko, who lay unconscious on the floor. Alejandra was standing in the doorway, an AK-47 in her hands. Although she was aiming at the ceiling, she could’ve lowered the rifle in a second and cut down everyone in the place. Morena let out a frightened squeak and ducked behind the bar.
“Everybody, back off!” the woman shouted, her voice shaking. “Get away from him! Careful, Gato! I know you’ve got a gun in your boot, so no tricks, got it?”
The guys who had been kicking Pritchenko backed away, not taking their eyes off Alejandra’s gun. Lucia ran to her side.
“Are you crazy?” Mendoza hissed. “There aren’t supposed to be any guns in the ghetto, you stupid shit. They could hear that shot all the way on the other side of Gulfport. In ten minutes, the whole fucking Green Guard’ll be here.”
“You’re the crazy one, Mendoza,” Alejandra shot back. “You lock up a girl and strip her, and then you nearly beat this man to death. That’s the kind of thing Greene and his Aryan pigs do, not us. You’re acting like your brain’s rotten like those Undead out there. And you say we’re the righteous ones? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Most of the people in the bar looked down, confused or embarrassed, but Mendoza kept his eyes on Alejandra, furious. “They could be spies,” he blurted out.
“She’s here because you invited her. Admit it. Your fucking macho pride’s hurt because she’s here to talk, not spread her legs. As for him”—Alejandra pointed to Prit with her chin—“if he were a spy, Greene’s men would be all over you by now.”
Mendoza grunted, not budging, but he sat back down on the barstool. The atmosphere in the room ratcheted down a few notches.
“OK,” he said and turned to Lucia. “Someone give the girls a hand with the Russian. Morena, find some clothes for the girl. I guess I owe her an apology.”
Lucia knelt beside Pritchenko, not looking at Mendoza. When she saw her friend’s face, she couldn’t hold back the tears. His nose was smashed to one side and blood streamed out his mouth. Without acknowledging that she was bare-chested, she tore off a scrap of her tattered shirt and wiped the blood from the Ukrainian’s face.
“Prit, please don’t die.” Her voice quavered. “Please.”
The Ukrainian groaned and coughed several times. Propping himself up on one elbow, he spit out a broken tooth and bloody phlegm, groaning as he felt his ribs.
“I’m not going to die,” he growled. “Not from this. Those guys fight like sissies.”
“Oh, Prit!” Lucia grabbed the Ukrainian in a hug that made him grunt in pain. “Sorry… How’d you know I was here?”
“I read the note this morning.” The Ukrainian glanced sideways before continuing, lowering his voice. “I warned you-know-who and then headed here. It wasn’t hard to find the bridge. Last night you left tracks in the mud even a blind man could find. Your friend with the rifle”—he pointed to Alejandra, who knelt beside him—“showed me the way, after she made me cover my tracks.”
The little Mexican woman grinned as she stanched the wounds on Prit’s face.
“What do we do now?” Lucia wiped away her tears and put on a faded shirt Morena handed her. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
A siren wailed in the distance, rising and falling in a strange cadence. Everyone jumped up and ran out of the bar, scattering in every direction in panic.
“What’s that?” Lucia asked.
“Bad news,” Alejandra said. “We gotta hide.”
“Why?” Prit muttered as he tried to sit up.