Sandstorm by Alan L. Lee Read Free Book Online

the moment, he was full of contempt but was careful not to display it. This poor, stupid fool, he thought. A low-life thug who was attempting to make a name for himself by muscling his way into the big leagues. The man ran a small operation of organized crime wannabes, and the money in the suitcase wasn’t enough? Hell, it would have made their year and then some.
    “Well, Petrov. What can I say? You are right. Things change,” Nevsky said. The words comforted the seven but more importantly, got them to ease up even further. “My employer wants this transaction completed in the worst way, so he has instructed me to take care of the matter.”
    With the money already being spent in his mind, Petrov chuckled. “Good. Glad we can do business.” He gave his men a look of triumph and conviction.
    His mood changed quickly. In a span of seconds, the speed with which his mind couldn’t fully comprehend, Petrov realized he wouldn’t be spending that money after all. A bullet from Nevsky’s automatic burned a hole through his throat, shattering vocal cords and splattering blood on his expensive silk shirt. Petrov’s shocked system sent his hands to his throat to check if this was really happening. Then, he fell backward, landing on the cold floor.
    The man holding the Heckler & Koch, behind to the left, was equally caught off guard as two bullets fired by one of Nevsky’s men ripped open his midsection. Nevsky’s other companion neutralized the guard carrying the Uzi by knocking him to the ground with a sideways kick. At the same time, he placed two bullets to the head of the other man on his right, who was frozen in amazement.
    Having used just one well-placed bullet on Petrov, Nevsky was able to address the other two men behind the table, whose reactions were lagging. Again, he was efficient and accurate. Each man stumbled to his death with a bullet to the head.
    The remaining man on the left dropped his gun in surrender just as one of Nevsky’s men was about to pull the trigger. The man holding the Uzi was on the ground, waiting for the shot that would end his life, but instead his weapon was knocked away. Petrov’s surrendering guard was directed to get behind the table. He was joined by the remaining survivor, who favored his left side after the kick to his kidney. The air smelled of burnt flesh, and the hum of the air conditioners could no longer be heard due to the gurgling noises from Petrov, who lay squirming on the floor.
    “Now, do we still have any negotiation problems?” Nevsky asked the survivors. Both men enthusiastically indicated they did not. “Then this,” Nevsky grabbed the briefcase and walked around the table, “will soon belong to you. We’ll be back within the hour with the trucks.”
    Nevsky hovered above Petrov, who now only held one blood-soaked hand over his throat. The other lay by his side, no longer responding to commands. The man’s eyes were watery, devoid of all the sureness they once held. Nevsky bent down.
    “Petrov, you are partly right. Life is a bitch. But to finalize the statement for you, Americans sometimes complete the expression by saying, Life is a bitch … and then you die.” Nevsky fired a lethal shot to the head. He and his men began their exit.
    “An hour, comrades,” he said forcefully. He then stopped to address the stunned pair.
    “Congratulations on your promotions.”

 
    CHAPTER 10
    Alex returned a flirtatious smile as he held the door open, allowing an attractive blonde and her less impressive friend to exit. He knew, at times, he could be quite shallow.
    The morning edition of the Washington Post pinned beneath his arm, he entered the Starbucks on Dupont Circle at precisely eight a.m. While in line, he perused the front page of the Post , which offered updates on the usual spattering of hot spots. The war on terror waged on, gas prices were edging up again, and the District was in for another warm day.
    He ordered a medium coffee, doctored it up with