pouring out, fast but not fast enough. I feel tense and nervy. When I think there’s probably enough gas in the tank, I stop the flow and pull the nozzle free.
Too late.
The black SUV screeches into the lot, pulling right in front of my car so I’ll have to reverse to get out. I’m about to drop the nozzle, but before I can move, before the SUV has even stopped all the way, four Russians fling the doors open and jump out. The two in the front I don’t recognize. Siberia and his friend from the poker game come out the back. They surround me, closing in like a noose.
Gripping the gas nozzle in my right hand, I slip my left into my jeans pocket, feeling for metal.
“Dante Gallo,” Siberia says. He’s wearing a canvas jacket with the collar turned up. The thin material strains across the bulk of his chest and shoulders.
He’s the biggest of the Russians, but the other three aren’t exactly small. One is dark-complected—probably Armenian. One has tattoos down the sides of his face along the hairline. And one is wearing brass knuckles on both fists. They glint dully in the dim light. When he smiles, he’s got a gold tooth in the front, almost exactly the same shade.
“I was hoping it was Nero,” Siberia says, nodding toward my car.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t,” I growl. “You so much as look at my brother, and I’ll rip your spine out like a fucking ragweed.”
“Oh, you think so?” Siberia says softly. “I’m not so sure. You think you’re some kind of big man? We have a lot of big men in Russia. Brutal, too. I met a lot of big men in prison. You know my nickname is not from poker. It comes from the Gulag where I served eight years. Sometimes the guards staged matches between the biggest men. Boxing matches, bare-knuckle. The prize was food. I ate very well off the broken bones of those big men.”
“Why don’t you show me?” I say. “Tell your friends to back the fuck off and face me yourself.”
Even while I’m speaking, the two on my left are drawing closer. I’m looking at Siberia, but I’m watching them in my peripheral.
“You want a fair fight?” Siberia says. “Fair like your brother’s hand?”
Before he’s even finished his taunt, the two on the left are rushing at me.
It’s what I expected.
I depress the handle of the nozzle and fling gasoline right in their faces. At the same time, I’m already flicking open the lid of my zippo and lighting the flame. I throw the zippo at Brass Knuckles, hitting him square in the chest. He ignites like a torch. Within half a second, Tattoos is likewise aflame.
They scream in shock and pain, flailing around, forgetting to drop and roll. You don’t often hear a man scream. It’s worse than a woman.
The Armenian and Siberia don’t help their friends. They rush at me instead.
Some of the liquid flame has splashed onto the arm of my jacket. I can’t even feel the heat. My whole body is burning with adrenaline. I ball up my fists and swing my arms upward at the Armenian’s jaw. The force of the blow knocks him sideways into Siberia.
It doesn’t slow him down any. He shoves his friend aside and comes at me, fists raised in front of his face like a proper pugilist. He throws tight punches right at my face. I block my jaw, and he attacks my body instead, hitting me in the gut and ribs with full force.
Each blow is like a hammer. His fists are massive and rock-hard. They slam into me, rapid-fire. Keeping my hands up, I crack him across the jaw with an elbow, followed by a left cross. It barely phases him.
Meanwhile, the Armenian dives at my legs. He takes me down. We roll over on the concrete. I hear the unmistakable sound of a switchblade opening. With no time to look up, I grab the Armenian by the front of his shirt and lift him up, throwing him in the direction of Siberia. Siberia’s blade sinks into his friend’s arm, but he jerks it free again and runs at me, swinging the knife at my face.
I put my arm up. The blade cuts through my leather jacket like linen. It bites through the flesh of my forearm, leaving a long gash down to the bone. I feel the blood flowing down, dripping off my fingers.
Meanwhile, Brass Knuckles and Tattoo are