Christina’s Mulberry Bayswater — classic English understatement, big enough to hold a SIG.
Chatter
…
Both men raise pistols.
But before a trigger could be pulled, the room filled with a low metallic chatter. Two seconds of controlled fury. Quieter, deeper than I’d expected. Both gunmen reel back, blood blooming dark on their jackets.
Two of his heavies freeze, then shoot their hands into the air.
“Нет проблемы! Не нам!” one shouts. No problem, not us!
Charlie ghosts between chairs, weapon ready, corralling the room.
Christina stood calm, smoke curling from the barrel of a copper-coloured Sig Sauer submachine gun.
“Are we done?” she asks, her voice almost casual. “Anyone else?”
No one moves. Even the hard men place hands on their heads.
Our host exhales. “You were right, Christina.He wanted to disrupt us. Not in this way. You saved my life.” He looks around the table, regaining composure. “Gentlemen, ladies, we adjourn for an hour. My staff will tidy.”
A phone call. A clean-up team inbound. Gvasalia doesn’t flinch.
“Champagne and Beluga,” is briskly requested. “Please, the cocktail bar.”
Gangland etiquette. A failed hit treated as housekeeping.
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