Czekovski’s Gun
E/N: The initial prompt for this was to “take a common trope and turn it on it’s head,” or something to that effect.
What an incredible sight to behold.
A rifle had been mounted above the fireplace in the manse. The stock was bound in old pine, made incandescent through a fresh lacquer sheen against the metal of the barrel. The action had been cast in gold, now faded and dull, save for the trigger itself. Where all else in the manse was opulent and modern, the rifle was antiquated yet indispensable, an anachronism that still held relevance, even here.
Dixon swallowed the lump in his throat, once again reminded of the danger of this job. He’d never been more out of his depth than now, nor had he ever tangled with fish half as big. How he wanted nothing more than to get paid and get out.
He studied the firearm before him. He’d been told to disarm himself before entering, and couldn’t help but note that this rifle was the only weapon in sight, should things for whatever reason go south…
Mr Finch entered the room, his eyes on the rifle as well. “Ah, Mr Dixon, I see that you’re admiring the centerpiece of my home.”
Dixon straightened his back, burying his unease. “That a Nagant?”
“How very perceptive. I see that your reputation precedes you.”
“Hope you don’t mind, Mr Finch. I made myself a pitcher of coffee.”
“Not at all. I could use a cup as well.” Finch waved him closer. “Come, sit down. We have much to discuss.”
The two men sat opposed to each other, with the living room table in between, and fireplace beside. Dixon poured a second cup of coffee for Mr Finch, leaving his own untouched.
Mr Finch took a sip. “You have been made aware of my predicament, I presume? This is no ordinary protection detail.”
“I have,” Dixon said.
“And what are your qualifications?”
“As our mutual associate in Hungary no doubt told you,” Dixon began, “I’ve built a name for myself over the years, learnin’ all the different ways that men can die. Poison’s my specialty.”
“An assassin to protect me from assassins,” Mr Finch quipped.
Dixon grinned. “You’d be doing yourself a disservice settling for anything less. Someone in the trade knows all the tricks, and how best to deal with them. Rest assured, Mr Finch, your former employers won’t bring any harm to you. Not with me around.”
“A bit cavalier, given that we’re against the Forum.”
Dixon clenched his jaw.
Mr Finch sighed. “Come now, Mr Dixon, there’s no reason to play coy. The Forum is a transcontinental clandestine organization composed of the world’s most influential criminals, but they aren’t omnipotent. Neither of us will turn to ash just by speaking candidly of them.
Again Dixon regretted traveling such a far distance. He was a professional, the kind that desperate men like Mr Finch needed at a time like this, but involving himself with the Forum was a different beast entirely. Up until now, Dixon had only been small time. A few burglaries here, a murder there. Always keeping a low profile.
This job was supposed to be different. A big change in his life, and one that’d get him out of his studio apartment in Tallahassee and into some third-world tax haven where all the true killers lived, with all the bitches and blow to boot. A place where his skills could earn him some real respect.
If nothing went wrong, of course.
Keep your game face on, Dixon thought. You’ve got this in the bag.
“You’re right,” Dixon said, if not for Finch’s benefit, than his own. “The Forum’s just another competitor, end of the day. But if we’re speaking frankly here, then there’s something I’d like to know before getting started. What did you do to get on their bad side?”
Mr Finch said nothing for a time, only swallowed more coffee, before finally turning back to the rifle above the fireplace. “Have you ever heard the story of Viktor Czekovski?”
Dixon shook his head.
“Czekovski was a renowned cossack general who backed the Bolsheviks during the Russian Revolution and subsequent Civil War. There weren’t many in the Red Army, you see. Most cossacks were wealthy and supported the Whites. But Czekovski had seen the shifting winds years before they came, and believed that the Bolsheviks would create a more noble Russia.
“It was a miscalculation on his end, I’m afraid. Though Czekovski had been instrumental during the wars, he was still a cossack by blood, and so he found himself entwined with his brethren when the ethnic cleansings came. ‘Decossackization’, the Bolsheviks called it – a vain attempt to socially engineer their newly formed country. Everything that Czekovski owned was seized, and he was sentenced to death, a hero of the Revolution who became one of its first victims.”
Mr Finch pointed to the rifle mounted above the fireplace. “I managed to purchase Czekovski’s gun at a gala in Prague some years ago. It was said to be unloaded when the Bolsheviks came, an error I quickly corrected. I now keep it here, above the fireplace, as a reminder of what can come…”
He stared at his prize, lost in thought.
Dixon looked to the gun as well, hoping to crack the riddle he’d been presented, but finding himself only looking at a gun instead. “I’m sorry, Mr Finch, but I don’t quite take your meanin’.”
Mr Finch took another sip of coffee. “I’ve come to find that my own decossackization has come, Mr Dixon. There were five men who developed the financial mechanism to which the Forum managed to crash Venezuela’s economy, and I was one of them. Now the other four are dead, and were I to die, there would be no one left alive to know how the Forum had pilfered their country.”
“So you think the Forum will kill you just to cover their tracks?”
“I know they will.” Mr Finch narrowed his gaze back on him, the sweat building on his forehead. “After all, you are here, Mr Dixon, aren’t you?”
Dixon shifted in his seat, not liking the way he said the word “you”. You’re walking on egg-shells here. This guy means business. He cleared his throat, weighing his words carefully. “Of course, Mr Finch. Whatever you say. This does beg the question though… Most men in your spot try to find a hole and hide, but by putting out the notice and hiring me, you’ve exposed yourself. Why?”
“I know I may appear another weak-willed aristocrat to the likes of you, but I wouldn’t have made it half as far without knowing when and how to get my hands dirty. If the Forum wants a fight, I’ll be damned if they don’t get it!”
“Pardon my candor, Mr Finch, but is that really it? You want to draw the biggest crime syndicate the world’s ever seen out into the open, all because you don’t like the way some Russian died a hundred years ago?” He grimaced. “Do you even have a plan?
“Of course. I will put a bullet in the would-be assassin when he comes, burn this place down, and use his dead body as a substitute for my own. By the time the Forum discovers that their attempt failed, I’ll be long gone, and preparing a counter-offensive of my own.”
“That isn’t a plan. That’s just a way to get the two of us killed.”
Now it was Mr Finch’s turn to grin. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Mr Dixon. I’ve already set my plan in motion.”
There it was again. That tone. That glint in his eyes. Was it the narcissism that came from a lifetime of breaking the rules? Delirium from knowing it was all coming apart? Or some combination of the two?
Dixon leaned forward, ready to stop beating around the bush. “You really think your assassin will just walk through the front door?”
“He already has,” Mr Finch said, matching his poise. “After all, as I said before, you are here, aren’t you? Just as the Forum ordered.”
That settled that. The truth was out, once and for all. Dixon’s heart skipped a beat, but the muscles in his face refused to buckle an inch. He didn’t like to be played, especially when it’d paid off for the other guy.
“Mr Finch, if this is some kinda game–”
“It’s always a game, Mr Dixon,” he beamed, his face a shade brighter. “The kind that you either play to win, or you lose and die. It was that way for the cossacks and the Bolsheviks, and it will be again for me and you today. But unlike Viktor Czekovski, I won’t go willing into the night.”
Mr Finch focused on the fireplace, his eyes burning in megalomania. “So now we will test your true meddle, Mr Dixon.”
No reason to pretend anymore. “What gave me away?”
He smiled. “Our “mutual” associate in Hungary was always more mine than yours.”
“Figures. Trust is more rare than honest work, these days.”
“To that, I can agree, Mr Dixon.”
Dixon shook his head. “All this hassle just to fight to the death. Could’ve spared us both the monologue.”
“There’s no fun in that.”
Dixon raised an eyebrow. “Feeling nervous?”
“Not at all, Mr Dixon.” He chuckled. “Why, I’ve never felt half as composed as now!”
It was then that Dixon realized the trap he’d wandered into. Mr Finch might’ve talked a big game, but he’d done everything he could to stack the deck in his favor. Both men were without accessible armament, save for Czekovski’s gun, and with the way Finch had positioned himself, he held the edge. The rifle was closer to his side of the table, and there was a small, but imposing stool blocking Dixon’s path. In a race where milliseconds made the difference, there was no denying the advantage that Mr Finch held.
The stage had been set, and there was no turning back now. Each man stared into the other, knowing the stakes that they had created for themselves. Whatever happened next, only one of them was walking out of here alive.
Both men surged to their feet.
Mr Finch let out an immediate gasp, his legs frozen in place. His brow had gone fully red, and his cheeks swelled in perspiration. Seconds later, and he flopped onto the carpeted floor, his hands clutching his chest.
Dixon exhaled in relief.
“‘Digitalis Ephedra,’ my own personal blend,” he explained, grabbing his untouched cup of coffee from the table and swirling it around. “The trick’s to balance the morphine splice as a relaxant. That keeps your heartbeat constant as the cocktail settles in your system, while giving my herb some breathin’ room to raise your blood pressure. After enough time, even the slightest exertion will force a heart attack, though you’d still swear that you’d never felt more relaxed in your whole life.” He poured the spiked coffee onto the floor. “Told you that poison’s my specialty.”
Mr Finch wheezed, but no words came free, his face damn near crimson as his body failed. He clawed forth in a futile attempt to reach the fireplace, one last time.
Dixon glanced over his shoulder at Czekovski’s gun, still mounted above, where it had been the whole time. He smirked. “Thought I’d use the gun, didn’t you?”
