Nikola Alexandrovich Popov stepped into the pharmacy with his wool scarf pulled so high over his mouth and nose that it touched his bug-eyed sunglasses.
Customers stopped talking and froze. They stared at his big submachine gun.
Pumped up and in-charge. The power thrilled him.
He felt the others slip through the doorway behind him, weapons drawn. They positioned themselves around the pharmacy.
Even Filshin, that pussy, had put down the bar of soap he had been pretending to buy and reached inside his jacket for his sweet 9 mm Beretta. What a muppie! Should be against the law for middle-aged urban professionals to buy really sweet guns. Look at how he pointed his Beretta at the counter. Like it was a tire gauge for his Porsche!
The pharmacist dropped a glass beaker and lifted his hands in the air.
A woman screamed.
Filshin’s lame-ass, wobbly pistol pointing was working on the amateurs, but Pawlowski was no fool. He had flattened himself against the wall in the space at the end of the magazine rack and was reaching into his jacket.
Popov put his papirossa between his teeth, raised the converted M1, and sprayed bullets at the shelves above Pawlowski’s head.
Glass exploded. Colored powders, pills and liquids splashed onto the pharmacist’s white coat. The screaming woman fell; ending her annoying noise. A man standing at the counter grabbed his leg and collapsed.
The pharmacist dove behind the ice cream freezer.
Pawlowski’s hands came back out of his jacket empty and went over his head
“I said no one gets hurt!” Filshin yelled.
Popov spat out his cigarette. “Collateral damage,” he said. Stupid fuck was going to get them caught, the way he was bending over the moaning man. He would live. The woman was already coughing up blood. Nothing Filshin did would save her.
He should have demanded for Filshin to give his money up front. Dumb fuck would have given it to him too. Then he could shoot Filshin and be done with him.
“Mario! Now! Let’s go!” Popov ordered.
Caspar burst through the alley door behind Popov. “Politsiya!” he shouted.
Sirens. They were getting louder. A setup! And Filshin had fallen for it.
He could see the police cars through the pharmacy’s front window. Czech police were shouting into megaphones.
“Mario, Caspar, grab Pawlowski. Get him in the van.”
Pawlowski heard his name and shrank deeper into the corner.
Caspar tucked his gun in his waistband, yanked Pawlowski up and pinned his arms from behind.
Mario punched him in the stomach. “So you don’t get any ideas,” he said, his face inches away from Pawlowski’s. The shiny steel barrel of his pistol dug into his temple. The skin bled.
Caspar pushed him from behind, but Pawlowski stood his ground.
Mario’s pistol cracked against his jaw and blood bubbled out of his mouth.
“They won’t pay for damaged goods.” Filshin shouted.
Pawlowski spat out a mouthful of blood and three teeth, and began walking.
9 Prague