Felicity
I watch as the old white-haired man shoves the barrel of the shotgun at Roma’s face. Odd, but I feel protective, like a lioness who’s just seen her lion threatened. He saved me, I think, and now he’s in danger. In my mind, I see how the next few minutes could go. I see the white-haired man pull the trigger and I see Roma’s head explode and the overgrown garden showered in red. Then what . . . I run, perhaps, and the white-haired man catches up with me. What if he’s just as bad as Barinov?
“You won’t,” Roma says, but his voice does not sound like his own. It breaks and I’m sure a genuine tone of fear enters it.
I watch, terrified, as the white-haired man shakes his head. “I’m done with the life.”
“I’d never ask you to come back to the life, you stupid old bastard,” Roma snaps. His fists are clenched, but he doesn’t lean forward or make any move toward the man holding the gun. I’ve seen him in action. He took out Barinov calmly and coldly; I’m sure he could snatch the gun away from the old man if he tried. I study the old man closer—through branches and leaves—and see that he only has one eye. Yes, Roma can take him. But he doesn’t even try, just stands there. “I want you to be happy, you oaf. I don’t want you in the life.”
“You just want me dead.”
The old man’s breathing gets quicker. It’s the breathing of a man who’s trying to key himself up, working himself up to something he doesn’t want to do but has to. It’s the breathing of a man who is about to cross a line he never thought he’d cross. He’s going to kill Roma, I think, and terror lances through me. He’s going to kill Roma!
I jump out from behind the bush, hands raised above my head. My heart thumps right to the tips of my fingers, making them tingle. “Wait!” I cry. When I lift my hands, the sleeves on this too-big shirt roll down to my shoulders, making me look like a little girl. Ridiculous, but maybe this huge white-haired ogre will feel bad about shooting somebody who looks like a little girl.
The man swings the gun to me and then immediately back to Roma when he sees I’m not a threat. “Wondered how long it was goin’ to be before she popped up. Gotta say, though, was expecting an armed killer.”
“I’m not here to kill you,” Roma sighs. “Bear, stop this. I need your help. What are you going to do? Shoot me and her?”
The old man looks down the sight of the shotgun with his one good eye, squinting into Roma’ face. “Tell me you’re not here to hurt me,” he says.
“He’s not!” I call across the garden. “I swear to it, he’s not. I was taken hostage on a yacht just off the coast by Russian gangsters. They were trying to use me as a sex slave. Roma impersonated an American politician and bought me. He saved me. He’s not a bad man and he doesn’t want to hurt you!”
The old man’s eyes flit to me and then back to Roma. “This true?”
“It’s true,” Roma says. “You remember Zherkov?”
The old man nods.
“What about Barinov?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, he’s dead. He tried to rape her and I snapped his neck. We jumped overboard and swam through the night. In a way, we were lucky Barinov attacked her when we did . . . right on the coast of your French slice of heaven.”
The old man continues to look down the barrel of the gun, but he seems more reluctant.
Roma sighs. “You’re not going to kill a woman, Bear. We both know that. And sure, maybe you could kill me. But I bet it gets awful lonely out here. How’re you going to sleep knowing I’m buried a few feet from your house? It’s me, Bear. Do you remember the Arena?”
For a moment, the old man’s eyes glisten.
“What’s the Arena?” I ask, seeing the effect it has. I lower my arms, my shoulders aching from the swim, and the old man doesn’t seem to notice.
“He remembers it like it was something out of legend,” the old man says, a wry smile on his lips. “In his mind it’s a huge arena like out of ancient Rome or something. In truth, the Arena was behind a Chinese takeout place; I had an apartment above it. It was a few chairs gathered around a rain-soaked stone. We used to fight there. At least, he used to think we were fighting. I’d use one hand and train him up. Got good, didn’t you, lad?”
“You let me win.” Roma’s back is to me, but I hear his smile in his voice.
“Aye, guess I did.” The man lowers the gun.
“Alright, guess you two better come in. Too old and tired to do any shooting at this time of day. Anyway, the old coots round here might hear the gunshot and come snooping. They’re already suspicious of the old white-haired bear who’s moved into their ass-end-of-nowhere neighborhood.”
He steps aside. Roma turns to me, holding out his hand. I step over the overgrown plants and take his hand. Together, we walk into the house.
The old man steps in front of me, looming two heads above me. I have to crane my head to look up at him. He’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen, even bigger than Roma. He must be almost seven foot, and wide.
“My name’s Bear, by the way.” He offers me his paw.
I take it and he shakes my hand so hard I think my shoulder will dislocate.
“My name is Felicity,” I tell him.
He grins, showing yellow teeth. “Nice to meet you.”