Ain't that some New Year Fuckery.
Goddammit. Some people needed to learn common fucking courtesy. Parking your vehicle in the middle of the street? Not very courteous at all.
"What should we do?" his driver asked as the dark Range Rover came to a halt just behind the white van. Maxim sighed as he looked about the interior. This thing was fucking big. He knew he should've just gone with a nice car. So much easier to drive than this behemoth.
The courteous thing for the two Russians to do would be get out and help the poor woman, who was struggling with a tire. The courteous thing for the duo to do would be to help get the woman back on her way. But that meant getting out into the cold Launceston night. That meant possibly ruining their suits. That meant rewarding her ignorance.
She threw the tire into the back of the van before staring back at the SUV, a hand raised in order block the headlights from blinding her completely. She looked stressed. Despite the cold, Maxim saw a light sheen of sweat across her forehead. Poor girl. Fuck. The Russian was far too soft.
"Go see what she needs. We're on a schedule and cannot be late."
Artyom slipped out of the vehicle and went to see the woman. She looked thankful at least. A little less stressed. A little more relaxed. There. There was their good deed for the day. Helping this poor damsel in distress. Maxim pulled out his phone from his jacket, eyes only briefly lifting up to look in the rearview mirror when headlights shone on behind him.
Looks like they weren't the only ones using the shortcut tonight. No matter. Artyom would have her moving in no time. Then they could all be on their way to whatever the fuck they were doing. Good.
Maxim looked down at his phone once more. They could still make it to Katarina's party. They weren't that late. As long as he made an appearance, that's all that mattered. Maxim was just slipping the phone into his pocket when someone was knocking on his window.
Now what did this one want? Couldn't he see the reason why they were stopped? Why talk to him? Go help the van. Maxim pressed the button, winding the darkly tinted window down.
"Yes?" Maxim asked, looking at the man. He was clearly unimpressed but at least the Russian was trying to put on a polite face. Even if it was a failure.
"Do you know what's going on here?" The nameless man asked. Max turned back to the van, watching as Artyom dragged the spare tire around to the front. "Looks like the woman has a flat." There was a small laugh from the side before the man spoke again. "So you've got no clue what's going on here then?"
Maxim closed his eyes as soon as he heard the man's words. For someone who prided himself on seeing the big picture he fell right into this. Fuck. He'd been to careless. He'd grown too fat and slow and soft here. Fuck. There was an anger churning within. Within his chest and his gut. It made him grit his teeth. It left a foul taste in his mouth. But that was the only physical sign. The only physical reaction the otherwise stoic Russian couldn't stop.
Max turned to face the man once more before opening his eyes after a few brief moments of reflection only to be greeted with the barrel of a pistol. But not just one. Two more gentlemen were on either side. Each of them hold identical weapons.
"Get out of the goddamn car, you Commie fuck!"
The Russian simply stared. From one face to the other, to the other then back to the first. He committed the faces to memory. Their hair and eye colour. Their heights and approximate weights. If he got the opportunity, Maxim would repay them in kind.
"I said," the man was obviously becoming more agitated. He reached in through the window and opened the door from the inside. There was a clang of metal echoing down the single-lane street. It caught his attention. The woman had dropped the tire iron on the brick street underfoot, right beside an unconscious Artyom before approaching the SUV. Maxim was sure he spied a crimson red staining the old road. Out cold. Possibly dead. Maxim stared at the woman. It was a little harder to see her face but he committed what little he could to his memory banks. The rough hand grabbing at his jacket ripped his attention back to the man with the gun who had by this point opened the vehicle door. "Get the fuck out!"
The way the man stood suggested he was used to handling firearms. The way the skin over his knuckles lost all colour suggested he was gripping the weapon far too tightly. Definitely angry. Maxim couldn't risk angering him further. He'd probably shoot. Max would rather keep his suit in one piece. So he climbed out of the SUV and was immediate slammed face-first into the hood.
Hands patted him down, removing his phone, wallet and the silver band he wore around the index finger of his right hand. Cable ties bound his arms at the wrist behind him and a loose black back cloth bag was pulled down over his head before he was thrown into what he assumed was the back of the van.
They worked quick and efficient. Maxim was impressed. Or he would've been if he wasn't the one being worked over. He felt the van rumble as the engine roared into life.
2017, huh? Off to a great start.
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