The Pure

backing towards the door. The men rose too. One of them spat. Uzi threw the money down and pushed his way into the restaurant. It was busier now, and he almost collided with the waitress as he dashed into the street. His heart was beating and he couldn’t escape the feeling that he needed another spliff. Part of him was relishing the adrenaline. It had been a long time.
    As soon as he turned a corner the Poles were there. They had taken the back exit and doubled back. Bastards, he thought. He had given them back their money, but that was not enough. They walked towards him, illuminated by the bloody sun which was beginning to die behind the houses.
    ‘Tomislav,’ called Andrzej, smiling, ‘there was no need to be impolite.’
    Uzi felt the old coldness spreading through his body, shining out of his eyes, and suddenly he was hyper-alert. They couldn’t allow him to insult them, just as he couldn’t allow them to rip him off. He stepped into the middle of the road, drawing them out where he could see them. In his mind’s eye he saw, from fifteen years before, the mock street with the wooden men that would pop out to be shot; his training was kicking in, and that meant danger. There were no snipers on the roofs, of course there weren’t, why would there be? It felt strange being unarmed, not even a knife. Reckless. No backup, of course not. The streets were strangely deserted. He was ready to die. His shirt was sticking to his body and his eyes tracked the men like an animal. They fanned out, Andrzej walking straight towards him and the others taking the flanks. The way they walked, so brazenly, it was clear they were amateurs. But he was outnumbered, slowed by the dope, and he’d lost his edge. A hundred yards away, some passers-by stopped, staring.
    ‘Don’t be stupid, my friend,’ called Andrzej. ‘Why are you being stupid?’
    Uzi glanced to his left and then bolted to his right, heading for a gap between two cars. One of the men tried to grab at him. Uzi gripped the man’s wrist and landed a heavy punch on his temple. They scuffled as the man went down, and in the process Uzi felt a swipe across his leg. He kicked the Pole hard against a parked car; the man crumpled and something fell from his hand. Uzi turned to run, but it was already too late. He was boxed in: Andrzej on one side, his second accomplice on the other. And both held butterfly knives.
    ‘You’re being stupid, my Russian friend,’ said Andrzej smiling. ‘Take a look at your leg.’ Uzi looked down. His trousers were flapping open and a bloody wound gaped in his thigh. ‘See? Business is business.’
    Uzi did not feel any pain, but the sight of his own blood enraged him. This was stupid, to get cut for the sake of a hundred pounds, to get cut by such amateurs. But still his rage was channelled, kept in check, in the old way. Andrzej’s companion looked away and in that instant Uzi sprang at him, twisting his knife hand away and butting him in the face, his Krav Maga training returning seamlessly to him. The man recoiled and bucked in an unexpected way, breaking free. Then he lunged and Uzi was just able to sidestep, spinning the man into the wall. But his knife caught his shoulder, and another gash appeared. This one Uzi felt. A sharp pain, like a paper cut. And now he felt the pain in his leg as well.
    ‘Your life is about to end here, far from home,’ said Andrzej. ‘Ask yourself if it is worth it. For two herds of cows in Russia.’ The other man stood panting, holding his knife at throat height. And now the other was picking himself up painfully from the ground. ‘Give me the bag or we will take it from your fingers when you’re bleeding in the gutter like a pig.’
    Suddenly, from between two parked cars, a figure stepped into view. A woman: elegant and slightly aloof, like an actress from an old film, too striking to be a woman in the street. She looked at Uzi, nodded, then focused on the Russians.
    ‘OK,’ she said slowly, ‘that’s enough.’ She slipped her hand into her Versace bag and a pistol glinted. Uzi recognised it at once; an American-made Taurus .22 snub-nosed revolver, two-inch barrel, nine-shot cylinder, optimal penetrating power. Just the weapon for a woman: compact and powerful. And she held it comfortably, like a professional. ‘Put the weapons down,’ said Eve. ‘Then fuck off. I’m only telling you once.’ It was only then that Uzi noticed a gang of five men standing in the shadows behind