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“From Russia with Love”

The Gun-Metal Blues. 

Part two



T1Legend: – He had given her instructions on the phone. Find the guy sitting at the bar, he had said. And just how was she to know which guy that was? If his good looks didn’t give it away, he’d be sitting alone with his jacket folded over the chair. There would be a pack of Japo-style cigarettes on the counter. She was supposed to bring a lighter and lay it beside him. She had followed his instructions to the letter, all except for one thing.

“You’re late,” he said, more observational than irate.

Sam reached for the zippo and flipped it open with the snap of his wrist. He held it to his mouth and lit another cigarette. He had dark, messy hair that was long enough to get in his eyes. Sam looked over at her and slides the pack of cigarettes in her direction—zippo on top.
“And wet.” She wasn’t how he had imagined her when they had spoken over the phone. In his mind, he saw with black hair—short, clipped black hair—and brown eyes, with a round face and a hawkish nose. The woman sitting next to him was classically beautiful. She wasn’t how he had imagined, but the voice matched the face.

Sam lifted his arm to wipe away his face with his sleeve, wearing the expression of a man who has just been splattered by a shaggy dog. Funny, it was always sexy when women did that in the vids. In real life, it was only awkward.

“So, tell me the details of this job that couldn’t be said on the phone.” Sam’s voice is low and cool, smooth in the way that aged bourbon is. He looked over to the bartender to order another glass of scotch—something about the way the bartender kept glancing to the door made Sam uneasy. Joe was normally pretty attentive to his customers, the guy worked for tips after all.

Usually it was, “another round, Sam? Can I get you anything else, Sam? Looking tired tonight, Sam. Got yourself a steady girl yet, Sam? Did’ja call ya’ mother, Sam?”

But not tonight.

Joe was sweating, too. A lot. And it wasn’t that hot—as a matter of fact, the temperature was on the chilly side of cool. But Joe’s shirt was damp beneath his arm pits and the gel from his slicked-back hairdo was starting to run down his brow. But the bartender didn’t notice. As a matter of fact, he made a show of /not/ noticing. Sam knew Joe was polishing a glass that had been polished at least three times already—Joe had his entire fist in the thing, spinning the glass round and round fast enough that it squeaked. When the bartender excused himself to the kitchen without pouring a glass of vodka for the girl, Sam knew something was bad was going to happen.

And, because trouble usually had a way of finding him (or he it), Sam was under the distinct impression that something bad was about to happen to /him/ in particular. He reached for his gun and turned his head to look at the door when a firm hand placed itself on his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he had caught a flash of what had disturbed Joe. The men playing cards weren’t really playing at all; they had suddenly developed an unusual interest in him.

The hand on Sam’s shoulder tightened. But it was the sharp, metal point pressed into his neck that arrested attention. “Put the gun on the table, Sam. Nice and slow like, nobody gets hurt.”

“Sure, sure—mind telling me what this is about?” Sam’s fingers moved delicately across his holster, unfastening his weapon. When it was undone, he began to pull the gun out by the barrel.

“The money you owe our boss. Or have you forgotten about that? Because we sure didn’t.” The knife dug deeper, pricking the skin.

“Oh, /that/ money. I was just about to go see, Vincent, too. The money is in my pock—”

“Don’t even try it, schmuck.” Sam now held his gun in one hand, with the barrel pointed down and the stock facing the man behind him.

“Sure, not trying anything. Here, I’ll just switch the safety on and—”

There is the thunderous boom of gunfire—the safety was not a toggle switch at all. Rather, it was the trigger to a hidden barrel concealed in the butt of the .45; the butt of which was presently facing the knife-wielding man behind Sam. The lightning crack of gunfire is deafening in the enclosed quarters, and it is followed by the much less impressive thump of a full-metal jacket slamming into human flesh at point-blank range. Sam is already falling out of his chair—there is the clang of metal as a knife hits the ground and the groaning OOOF! Of surprise as Sam’s assailant experiences what it is like to have his chest cavity collapse. There is a second clang—this one the sound of Sam’s gun being dropped beside the knife.

“Shit.” No sooner had he uttered the words, the chair he had previously been sitting in disintegrated into wood-pulp and splinters.


CharlotteCarrendar: : Sam was attractive, even in his tousled state, the loosened tie and lipstick stained collar. God knows how long he had been sitting there; however it was safe to say he was annoyed at her tardiness. The clatter of the zippo lighter on the polished wooden bar top alerted him to her presence. The signal given that she was his contact. Still drenched from her trip to the bar, she unceremoniously showered Sam’s side when she gave her head a light flick.

“You’re late,” Course she was late. Natasha had to dispose of two of Nagarda’s agents. With a light shrug of her shoulders, Natasha offered; ”I had zome..unexpected company.” The Russian gestured with her right hand, which had a large scratch mark across her knuckles. Only think was, the graze was not red in colour, but a metallic black. Like her skin had been burnt and metallic residue dribbled across it.

“And wet.” Yeah, he was pissed. But Natasha countered simply with. ”Don’t zay dat too loud. Other menz ‘ere getz ideas, no?” The blonde Russian seemed to have a sense of humor, which was surprising considering she looked like the kinda gal that didn’t pull punches. With contact made, it was time to give out the details for the job.

“So, tell me the details of this job that couldn’t be said on the phone.” 
Natasha licked her top lip as she inhaled a breath, before speaking to Sam, but not actually looking at him.

”There is a man, very well known in the science community. Doctor Wielham Steincroft. He is being held in an underground laboratory. Dhey are…..uhm..making him do…the unthinkable.”
Natasha was about to pull a photograph out from beneath her wet jacket, when she noticed that the barmen didn’t appear to be in a hurry to serve her a shot of vodka. In fact, he was still cleaning out the same glass, and looking past the pair as they sat at the bar. Natasha shot a look over her shoulder and quirked her brow. Something was not right about this. Grey steel eyes then went back to the barmen, as he suddenly walked from behind the bar, and into the kitchen.

”My drinkz? ‘ello?” Natasha’s voice rose slightly, before she did something rather bold, and reached for a bottle of vodka that was just within her reach from behind the bar. There was a stack of napkins to her left, and a bowl of nuts. Typical items you find on any bar top really. Another fumble with her hand over the bar top, and she picked at a shot glass, when there was a gruff voice that came from behind her contact.

. “Put the gun on the table, Sam. Nice and slow like, nobody gets hurt.”

~Great~ The Russian thought to herself. She has hired a man who already is marked as she is. Sam and his assailant start to have a conversation, as the Russian starts to grumble in her own native language, reaching for a napkin and twirling it around in her hand, kinda like twisting it. Maybe she was going to use it to wipe her brow. But…she wasn’t. Keeping one eye on Sam, she takes a swig straight from the bottle, then rests it between her and the counter. A slight of hand, and she stuffs the napkin into the bottle, just enough so the tip of the napkin meets with the clear alcohol. Behind them, is a group of men, that are now getting edgy in their seats, as Sam plays Mr Innocent.


“The money you owe our boss. Or have you forgotten about that? Because we sure didn’t.”

~We? One..two..three.~ Natasha counts the men in her mind, as she reaches for her zippo lighter and plays with the top, flicking it. The tension in the room building.

“Oh, /that/ money. I was just about to go see, Vincent, too. The money is in my pock—”

Natasha lit the flame on the zippo lighter, as a wry grin formed on her pale pink lips.

“Sure, not trying anything. Here, I’ll just switch the safety on and—”


That was when it happened, the thunderous sound of gunfire, and Natasha lit the napkin on the vodka bottle, spinning around as Sam’s chair exploded in a shower of splintered wood. With marksmanship like aim, she hurled the Molotov cocktail at the table of three men, which erupted in a fire ball as it smashed onto the table, lighting up not only their drinks, but the splattered flaming alcohol set them on fire. There was no time to lose, as there may have been more in the bar that were part of the assailant’s gang. Natasha reached for Sam’s hand and screamed at him.


Trying to get him off the floor and out the nearest exit, as the fire sprinklers came on, hosing everyone and everything in the bar. Natasha was not going to be getting dry anytime soon.