63
Actually, I do have a few words for Pavel. But with his hand on my windpipe, they come out as cough and splutter.
Pavel seems amused. "Sorry Charlie, what was—" He wheezes mid-sentence.
Probably 'cause I'm crushing his ribcage between my thighs. He gives up on choking me and struggles to get free—both hands attempting to prise himself out.
I clear my throat. "I said, Pavel, you talk too much."
I nut the bastard hard in the mouth. His lips stain with blood. I push him off. As I get to my feet, he spins on the floor and sweeps my legs from under me. I hit the deck and roll away.
Pavel darts past me and grabs a scalpel off the tray. He backs off with it, twisting it in his hand.
I look at the tray. There's another scalpel. I dunno how good Pavel is in a knife fight, but I’m betting
