Ten Million

By Tony McFadden

After the events of "Unprotected Sax", Russian Mob leader Vladimir Petrovski goes through some things.

This short story serves as a bridge between "Unprotected Sax" and the May, 2023 release "Dead Tomorrow"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beach Nut Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005045739

Tony McFadden

Since Tony McFadden left Canada almost three decades ago he and his wife and two children have lived in the US Virgin Islands, various American cities (LA, Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta, Fairfax), Singapore, Malaysia, Taiwan and now, finally (and for good), Australia.

Book preview

Ten Million

Tony McFadden

Copyright Beach Nut Press 2022

Smashwords Edition

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Actually, you know what? It’s free. Pass it around.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

DEDICATION

For that guy on the train laughing his arse off at something he was reading.

More of you, please.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination.

Also, this was initially just the backstory for my next book. It’s a bridge between Unprotected Sax (Read it – It’s good!) and

DEAD TOMORROW (coming in early 2023)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks for the tunes, Sophie Milman and Zoe Keating. They kept me writing when my fingers wanted to quit.

Florida.

November 2012

Chapter One

Rain hammered on Vladimir Petrovski’s back as he crawled out of the muddy Everglades water onto the equally muddy Gator Hammock. He choked on the acrid smoke from the burning sawgrass and rolled onto his back. The driving rain stung his eyes and the left side of his face. He felt nothing on the right. His right eye felt like it was encrusted with blood.

He lifted his right hand to his face and passed out.

The rain had stopped. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but it was still night. Or maybe night again. His left eye looked up at the stars while he tried to recall what had happened. He couldn’t open his right eye, and everything hurt.

He shot somebody. Or at somebody. He couldn’t remember if he connected. Some fucking saxophone player who stuck his nose in where he shouldn’t have.

He shook his head. That didn’t make sense. It was the drummer he had to kill. A wave of nausea rose in his throat, and he rolled over and pushed himself up and screamed in pain as he put weight on his right hand. Vomit bubbled through the scream as he collapsed face-first in a pool of his bile.

Petrovski tried calming his shuddering breath. The pain bloomed, flooding his right hand and arm, the right side of his torso, and the right side of his face. He held his right hand close to his left eye. It was too dark to see.

But he could smell it. Like if a burnt leather wallet and a rain-drenched dog had a baby. He gingerly touched his right hand with his left and screamed.

And passed out again.

The sun had risen before Petrovski regained consciousness. His mouth tasted like the ass end of a sheepdog. His right eye was still stuck shut. Pain consumed his body, but at least that proved he was still alive. And now he could see what was causing it.

He slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position with his left hand, cradling his right arm across his chest. It was horribly burned, his hand a claw. He tried straightening his fingers and immediately stopped as pain threatened to overwhelm him again.

He inhaled through his nose and slowly let out his breath. He took stock.

His shirt was burned. Mosquitos were making a meal of him, but he didn’t notice. The skin on his arm was a