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Sergey was sick of always being the outsider, always the one trying to claw his way up from the bottom. He’d been in this country for ten years, and what did he have to show for it? Beyond a poked-out left eye, not much. A small-time drug dealer with a side business selling arms to low-level criminals and would-be militias isn’t exactly an esteemed member of society.
And then he had Arseni to worry about. A half-wit, over-muscled little brother with a penchant for violence — a human pressure cooker with bad intentions just waiting for an excuse to blow. Sure, he came in handy when needed. The problem was he had had become very difficult to control. Zero to a hundred in the blink of an eye, and an amped-up Arseni wasn’t an easy genie to get back in the box.
And now he had this fucking guy to deal with. Oh well, what are you gonna do? Sergey smiled.
Americans — can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em, he thought. Or something like that.