1
____________
Ivan
I realize how close winter is when the slap of cold hits me in the face like an angry lover. Normally I don't mind D.C. in the winter but I've been thinking of moving somewhere warmer lately. The cold reminds me of things I would rather leave buried in the icy ground of Russia. American winters are never going to be as bad as Russian winters but sometimes when I'm in my apartment and I've been holed up for days working I'm reminded of where I came from. It's usually then I have to leave and head to my favorite café close to my apartment.
Most days I take a break to walk there for a large black coffee and to people watch. It helps remind me that I'm not back in a dank cramped cell. I've made a life for myself here in D.C. One of the best things about D.C. is the influx of so many people and cultures and languages in one area. That and it is really easy to hide in a place that is constantly changing faces from day-to-day.
Today, when I swing the door open and the smell of coffee hits me I make sure to stare down each person in the café. I am just a moody bastard today I guess. Not that I'm not normally moody. I stand at the back of a line and wait my turn. In front of me are the two older women who have been trying to get me to tell them my story for months. Both of them are fighting the battle of the gray and yoga mats and weird green drinks are always in their hands. I've joked with them and called them cougars much to both of their delights. They come up with stories when I don't give them anything on who I really am.
This week I'm a Romanian Duke who had to flee his motherland because of a government upheaval. Last week I was a spy for the USSR that had to go into hiding. I wonder if they would still flirt and find me appealing if they knew how close to the truth they were.
Behind them is another regular, the lawyer. He's a total dick waffle to everyone who doesn't make a certain amount a year or wear a business suit. I've threatened to cut him plenty of times for talking down to the pretty, young barista that always makes my coffee. If he isn't talking down to a woman, he is trying to hit on them.
When cold air from the swinging door hits my back I find the other regular standing behind me. I've had to threaten the lawyer about her more than once. Fucking pervert. If he isn't eyeing her tits with his hand in his pocket playing the one dick shuffle then he's leering at her ass making rude sounds loud enough everyone can hear him. Not that she gives him any attention at all.
The only reason I know this fuckwad is a lawyer is because he tells me every time I threaten to end his life. It's a tired song and dance and eventually one day I'm going to have to come through with some of the stuff I've promised to do to him. But damn do I not want to have to.
I want to be able to sit back and enjoy the simple things in life - like freedom and fresh air. I don't want to have to go back to the violence I left in Russia. I damned sure don't want my hands to be stained with any more blood. I left that life when I left the land of my birth.
But the woman standing behind me reminds me of Moscow in the heart of winter. She always dresses in muted colors; today her suit is all white. Who does that? Her hair is the color of pale moonlight on the snow and she always has it pulled up in some kind of knot at the back of her head. She has an icy beauty that makes men shiver and women not realize how much of a threat she is to them until it's too late.
It's her eyes that make her more than just an ice queen, a frigid beauty held apart from people. Her eyes are huge chocolate orbs that seem to take in everything around her and give nothing away. She would have made very good money in my Russia as an assassin, or a government official. Of course, in Russia sometimes you can be both.
Her damned eyes always make me crave chocolate. I've been coming in here for years and haven't ever asked for a fucking hot chocolate but one day behind her after taking in her melted pools of brown I ordered a hot chocolate. I don't think I've said more than ten words to her during the months she's been coming in but somehow she's sank her talons into me and made me crave something warmer than my lonely studio apartment overlooking a river of pavement.
It pisses me off. She pisses me off, with her perfect face, and her perfect hair, and her soft perfect voice. I step out of line and gesture for her to move up. I don't like having her at my back. I don't like having anybody at my back. Old habits and whatnot.
She gives me that polite, icy smile of hers that's just a little too tight to be friendly and starts to move ahead of me when the chill from the door catches my attention again, but this time something else has the hair on the back of my neck rising other than the D.C. air.
In Russia, especially the prison system, you have to develop almost a sixth sense for knowing when bad shit is about to go down. It saved my life more than I care to admit and today is no different. When a man stands in front of the door wearing a large overcoat scanning the people in line I can tell something is off. I don't hesitate to drop to the ground and roll. Yeah, I could come off looking like a complete idiot who just lost his mind but at least I will be alive to be that idiot.
I take the woman with me. Thankfully when we where switching places she was already in a good position for me to grab her by the hips and pull her back, nestling her ass deeper into me. And, wow, what an ass. We've hit the floor by the time the man has his gun up and firing. I make sure I take most of the force of the fall by landing under her. Two more men come in behind him and start shooting as well. We've rolled under the swinging half door that separates the counter space from the front of the café but that is not going to keep us safe for long.
During our roll, I've ended up on top of her and somehow she's flipped over so that I can look down into brown pools of melted chocolate laced with fear. This is not the time to have a fucking hard-on but my body has told me to fuck off and got one anyway. If I'm fucking extremely lucky she's in shock, which will make it a lot easier to control her movements and actions. And possibly hide the little fucker in my pants. Behind the counter, I force myself to push off of her and crawl to the barista who’s served me coffee every day for years. She's dead, shot through the head with her eyes still open.
She was a college kid who just wanted a date for a football game coming up at the end of the month. She had dreams and hopes and now she is lying on the floor, a puddle of blood spreading from the back of her head. I make a silent promise to her and all of the other dead bodies littering the floor that I will end the people responsible for this.
I reach for the gun the café keeps behind the counter checking to make sure it's loaded. The men who opened fire on the dining area are shouting at one another trying to decide who is going to look in the bathrooms and the back of the store. My time is running out and so is hers.
She sat up, but doesn't move any further. I grab her by the hand and pull her closer to the door leading into the back of the store where they keep their supplies and a small kitchen is set up. She lets me slide her along the linoleum. I'm trying to think of a way to go in the back without them knowing the door has swung open when a man comes through the back.