Extreme Faction by Trevor Scott

realized that Petra’s room would be the last one on the right. As he got closer, he thought about Tully. He had seemed extremely strange, or nervous. Jake didn’t really know him well enough to understand which.
    As he reached the door, he could hear movement inside. It wasn’t just a woman’s feet crossing wooden floors, though. Things were flying and ripping, and now he thought about Tvchenko’s apartment. Had the Kurds beat him to the place?
    He slid his hand to the Makarov and started to draw it, when the door burst open and a startled figure smashed into him, knocking him back across the hallway to the door on the opposite side.
    Jake scrambled to recover. Pulled the gun.
    Two men had passed him and were sprinting down the hall.
    Jake took aim in the darkness and hesitated. He didn’t know who they were. They hadn’t tried to shoot him.
    By now the men were around the corner and taking the steps downstairs by twos or threes.
    He peered toward the opened door, but couldn’t see much. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his gun still drawn. The light switch didn’t work.
    Thinking about Tvchenko’s place again, he sniffed the air. Nothing.
    He bumped into something. A sofa? Now he suspected he was in the middle of the living room. The windows were covered with shades that let in tiny strips of light between them.
    Suddenly, there was movement and the gun flew from his hand. Then a kick to his stomach.
    Jake swung around in the darkness with a high roundhouse kick, connecting on some body part. A face? There was a thud to the floor, and Jake was immediately on top of a body. He grabbed for the neck with his left hand and punched twice at the face rapidly with the right.
    The man below him settled.
    Jake crawled across the floor to a small table, groped around, found a small lamp, and clicked it on. Then he found the Makarov on the floor by the sofa leg.
    Lying on the floor behind him was a man in his early thirties, perhaps younger. He had dark hair just off his shoulders and he needed a shave, much like Jake. He wore faded blue jeans and a black sweatshirt. The man seemed around five-ten, medium build, but it was hard to tell with him sprawled across the carpet. Then Jake noticed the Nike basketball shoes.
    He searched the man for I.D. Nothing. He rolled him over, checked him for weapons, and found an empty leather holster under his left arm, but no gun. The jeans were Levis, hard to come by in Odessa. Shit. He had to be an American or a Brit. Jake rolled him back. He had blood coming from both nostrils and a reddened left ear, probably from his kick.
    Jake slapped the man a few times and he started to come around.
    In a moment, the man raised himself to his elbows. He was having a hard time breathing. He blew out through his nose and dislodged a blood clot into his hand.
    â€œWho the fuck are you?” the man asked in Russian.
    Jake realized he had the Makarov pointed at the man. He aimed it away. “I thought I’d ask you that question,” he said in English. “Since you hit me first.”
    The man rose to a sitting position and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “You’re American. You don’t look it.”
    â€œYou do,” Jake said. “Who are you?”
    The man hesitated.
    Jake pointed the gun at him again.
    â€œQuinn Armstrong.”
    â€œShit.” Jake reached down for the man’s hand. “I’m Jake Adams. Tully sent me.”
    The man looked at him reluctantly, and finally took Jake’s hand and pulled himself up. He was still a bit shaky, so he took a seat on the sofa. “I thought you were a lot older.”
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œI don’t know. The way Tully talked, you were some legend. He spoke highly of you. Now I know why.” He rubbed the side of his head.
    Jake didn’t know what to say. Finally he asked, “Where’s Petra?”
    Quinn shook his head. “I have