Drago sat on the ground, his hand pressed to his side, trying to stem the blood seeping from the gunshot wound just below his ribs.
He guessed the stray bullet had come from one of Ilya’s men, who were mostly fucking useless when it came to handling guns.
He looked down at the blood and noted it was a light red, and vaguely remembered hearing something about arterial blood being brighter red, but he had no idea whether that was a good sign or not. He guessed that as long as he was still bleeding it was a good sign. It meant his heart was still pumping the blood around his body, even if some of it was leaking onto the floor.
Ilya glanced over at him from behind the van where he was crouched, taking pot-shots at what Drago assumed must be the Russian special forces guys. Although, with all the smoke swirling around it was difficult to tell who the good guys were, and who were the bad, so it was entirely possible that Ilya was shooting at his own men. Not that Drago cared one way or another.
“Are you Ok, brother?” Ilya turned and grinned at him.
‘Brother?’ Drago almost yelled. ‘Since when have I been your brother?’
“I’m good.” He snarled, the pain every time he moved almost making him faint. “Do you have a spare gun? I dropped mine when I got shot.”
‘Or I’d have blown your fucking brains out.’ He thought, trying not to let the hatred show on his face.
“Sorry. I only have this one.” Ilya shrugged. “But there’s more in the vans. Can you get up?”
“Do I look like I can get up?” Drago hissed, wishing he had any sort of weapon to hand so he could kill this asshole.
Ilya shrugged and turned back around, firing shots into the cloud with no thought or care as to who might be out there.
Drago tried to adjust his position, but a spike dug into his back and he groaned.
He reached back to see what he was leaning against, and he touched a long metal object. A nail or screw maybe?
His fingers gripped it and he tried to see if it was loose. It didn’t seem to have much sideways movement, but it did give way as he twisted it, so he gripped the end and started to turn.
When it twisted more easily with each turn, Drago realised it must be a screw, and he continued to turn it faster as he felt more and more of it available for him to get a better grip.
After a minute of turning, the screw came loose in his hand, and he brought it forward, so he could see what he was dealing with. This ten-centimetre screw was his only weapon, so it was imperative he made the best use of it he could.
Gripping it tightly in his free hand, Drago looked around him for inspiration as to how best he could use the screw. Ilya was around fifteen feet from him, so what was he gonna do? He couldn’t exactly throw it at him!
“We need to get out of here.” Ilya mumbled, still firing off into the distance. “Can you move?”
“If you can help me get to my feet, I’m pretty sure I can.” Drago hissed. “I think if we can join up with our men, we can fight our way out.”
Ilya glanced at him sceptically before turning back and firing off a few more shots.
“Come on, then.” Ilya half crawled across the floor to him and grabbed Drago by the arm. “Get your feet underneath you, or you’re just gonna end up on your face.”
As Ilya pulled him up, Drago gripped the screw tighter in his free hand, leaving the pointed end sticking out. If he got the chance, how he’d love to plant it in Ilya’s neck.
Unfortunately, Drago never got the chance to attack, as the pain of stretching his wound shot through him, and all he could do was bend over double and vomit.
“Fuck, man!” Ilya stepped away quickly. “Get a grip on yourself, would you? I can’t get you out of here while you’re hurling all over my boots.”
Drago spat out the last of the vomit from his mouth.
“Sorry man, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.” He growled.
Standing up slowly, Drago tried to ignore the second wave of sickness, swallowing hard as he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
He tried to ignore the dizziness, but it competed with the nausea for which was going to floor him first.
“Ok, man?” Ilya wrapped his arm around Dragos’ shoulder, effectively trapping the hand holding the screw between their two bodies. “Ready to go?”
As Drago turned his head to look at Ilya, he caught a flicker of movement through the drifting smoke.
Hollywood!
“Hold on.” Drago deliberately wobbled, giving Ilya the impression that his legs were about to give way. “Just give me a second until the dizziness passes.”
Ilya leaned him against the van and turned to fire off a few more rounds.
“Let me have your belt.” Drago rasped.
“What?” Ilya looked back in disbelief.
“Your belt, Ilya!” Drago hissed. “I’m fucking bleeding out here. I need something to stem the flow of blood.”
Ilya turned to Drago and sighed.
He put his gun on the floor and pulled off his outer shirt, before starting to unfasten his belt. Wadding the shirt up into a ball, he shoved it at Drago.
“Put that against the wound.” Ilya instructed.
Drago watched over Ilya’s shoulder as Hollywood and a few of his men edged closer, weapons already raised to their shoulders. All they needed was one clean shot without him in the way.
Ilya pulled his belt through the loops of his pants and threw it around Drago’s middle.
Drago placed the wadded shirt over the wound, just as Ilya tightened the belt.
Gritting his teeth, Drago waited for both of Ilya’s hands to be busy, and then swung his arm up.
Gripping the screw as hard as he could, he lashed out, catching Ilya in the face. He’d hope to get him in the eye, but with Ilya holding the belt tightly around his waist, he couldn’t quite reach far enough.
With one hand he gripped Ilya’s t-shirt, stopping him from moving away. With the other, he gouged the screw as hard as he could into Ilya’s cheek, as the scumbag tried to squirm away from him.
The first punch was unexpected and off target, so Drago just kept gouging, feeling Ilya’s skin tear under the pressure. Ilya’s second punch was exactly on target, and he could feel the bile rise in his throat even as his vision swam, the pain radiating out from the bullet wound. Eventually he couldn’t hold himself up any longer and he slumped back.
Ilya immediately let him go and reached for his gun.
Drago flopped back against the wall, gasping for air as Ilya pointed the gun at him, blood dripping from his face where he now had almost matching scars on each cheek.
“What the fuck, man?” Ilya screamed at him, clutching his bloody face with his free hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Drago would have told him, but his mouth was full of bile.
“Is this because of Niko? Because I gave her to the men?” Ilya screamed. “Were you trying to get in her panties all along? Is that it?”
Drago turned and wretched, spitting out the bile as the pain from his wound almost made him pass out.
“You’re a fucking idiot.” He scoffed as soon as he had enough air in his lungs to speak. “Is that the only reason you can come up with why someone would hate your guts? Your sister?”
“Then why?” Ilya demanded, bending so he could shove the gun in Drago’s face. “What have I ever done to you?”
Drago coughed a laugh.
“Ilya, you’re a scum-sucking piece of shit.” He sneered, wishing he’d had the sense to kill him before today. “What other reason do I need to want you dead? Fuck, it’s at the top of my Christmas wish list!”
Ilya stood up and laughed.
“It’s a shame that you won’t get your wish today.” Ilya pointed the gun at Drago’s head. “If only you’d been smart enough to bring a back-up weapon, then things might have gone very differently.”
Drago laughed a little hysterically.
“Oh, I brought back-up alright.” He just about lifted his hand high enough to point.
It took a second or two for Ilya to figure out what he was saying, and then his head swung around to find Hollywood and the others behind him, weapons raised.
The cry of rage that came from Ilya was one of a trapped animal, as his arm whipped around, already firing.
What sounded like one loud burst of fire had Drago flinching, and then everything went quiet.
He watched in bemusement as Ilya’s body flew backwards, landing at the end of Drago’s boots.
The single large hole in Ilya’s forehead was probably the killer shot, but as it probably arrived at the same time as the second shot to the chest, the third to the abdomen and the fourth to the neck, it was probably going to be difficult to say with any surety. He’d leave that up to the coroner to figure out.
Drago looked up to see Kellen, Hollywood, and Evan, right in front of him, their guns still raised. In the distance, Yuri was standing on top of the truck with his rifle still to his shoulder.
Yeah, if he had to guess, he’d give Yuri credit for the head shot.
Drago felt his vision slipping, and his head dropped back.
“Are you Ok?” Kellen was next to him in a second, checking his wound.
“Don’t touch it, or I’ll probably throw up on you.” He murmured. “Don’t think it’s too bad, but I’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Ok, keep still and we’ll get you some medical help.” Kellen looked up at Hollywood.
“I can’t hear any more gunfire.” He observed. “Have the Russians finished with the rest of Ilya’s men?”
“Alex? What’s the position over there?” Hollywood asked, stepping to the side of the van to see what was going on.
Drago watched as a big grin appeared on the man’s face.
“Five or six of Ilya’s men are still alive and have been arrested, but the rest of them have probably already met up with Ilya in hell.” Hollywood grinned as he relayed the message.
“Ok, then do you want to send some of your Russian SF friends back here with handcuffs?” Hollywood suggested to Alex. “It would be better if those men of Ilya’s that are still alive thought we’d actually been arrested as well. It’ll keep our cover intact and will make it look like we’re the bad guys we were supposed to be.”
“Great. We can all get arrested.” Drago rasped. “But do you think one of you could find me a doctor before I bleed out? I really don’t want a reunion with Ilya just yet.”