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was deafening. Certainly no casual conversation happening here. He descended the curving flight of stairs into the basement club, pushing his way past couples making out, others far beyond that. As he rounded the final bend he was grabbed by the sleeve of his jacket. He spun to see a girl, bent over as her partner mauled her from behind, staring at him, her lust filled eyes focused on him.
    “Join us!” she yelled.
    Dymovsky yanked his arm away, breaking her grip, and continued down the steps. He heard her and her partner laughing, their comments soon lost to the din that greeted him as the steps widened and deposited him into the club. He surveyed the crowd of several hundred, most on the dance floor, others lounging in a series of booths bordering the club. A second level above had more booths with a view of the dance floor five meters below. Strobe and neon lights illuminated the dance floor, augmented with a laser show that splayed out over the dancers’ heads. The bar area was the exception, fairly well lit so the throngs, about five deep trying to shout their orders, Rubles waving in the air, could see the selection of mostly cheap vodkas displayed across the mirrored shelves.
    Dymovsky slowly rounded the booths, searching for the man whose image he had burned into his mind. It might be easier to wait for him to leave the club at the end of the night, but the risk was too great they might miss him, and Dymovsky had a plan that needed Yakovski, tonight.
    He glanced up at the second level, and there, staring down at him, was Yakovski. Did he make me? Dymovsky spotted a drunken girl standing nearby, head flopping on her shoulders, knees threatening to give out, the alcohol long since having done its work. He gripped her hair and pulled her against him, then kissed her neck. She moaned, offering no resistance, her arms simply rags hanging by her sides. The support his hand provided as he held her by the neck, her hair tangled around his fingers, was the cue her knees needed to finally give out. Dymovsky wrapped his free hand around her waist, grabbing her ass and grinding his hips into hers. He slowly turned her around, continuing to grind their hips together to the beat, as he stared through her hair, up at his target. Yakovski kept his eyes on them for a moment, then looked away, losing interest. Dymovsky guided the girl toward a booth with an empty spot, and deposited her there, much to the surprise of the three men occupying it.
    He climbed the metal staircase leading to the second level. He glanced down and saw the young girl he had used pawed by the booth’s occupants. He felt a twinge of guilt, but he was after a nuclear weapon that could kill millions. One drunken girl was not his concern tonight.
    As he neared the table with Yakovski, he saw him slouch in his chair, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The table he sat at was covered by a cloth that overflowed to the floor in what at first appeared a poor attempt to add a touch of class to the cesspool they were actually in, but as he neared, he saw the table cloth draped over Yakovski’s lap move, revealing a flash of short, spiked, blonde hair. With sluts like this, how’s an honest whore supposed to make a living? Yakovski, his eyes mostly closed, tilted his head to face Dymovsky, and smiled. Suddenly he whipped his hand out from under the table cloth. As it swung at Dymovsky, he spotted the glint of a pistol.
    Dymovsky had nowhere to hide. The wall was too close, and provided no cover, and there was nothing between him and Yakovski’s weapon. He knew he couldn’t reach his own weapon in time. Instead, he dove over the railing, and tumbled toward the throng of dancers below.
     

 
     
     
    Harry’s Irish Pub, Fayetteville, NC
     
    “To BD! Not even a Sidewinder missile can take ’im out!”
    A round of cheers erupted from the table as glasses of beer rose in honor of the man of the hour. BD, short for Big Dog, a nickname given to Burt Dawson