Those old instincts never quite left Pyotr, no matter the time, the place, or his peace of mind. Seated in a diner in the middle of ass-fuck nowhere, Pyotr watched waitresses and patrons from the corner of his eye while his hands focused on portioning his food to feed his mouth. An easy life was no life for Pyotr. He missed the chaos. The danger. The camaraderie. The Brosnya could thrive in the States, if only Anatoly found it in himself to put everyone in a room and make a plan. That man hadn't gone soft. He couldn't go soft. He had taken too much pleasure in crushing others, and maybe if Pyotr just gave him a little nudge-

"Refill, sweetheart?" the waitress drawled, the very same who had seated him and brought his order, a younger woman who really had no business calling a man his age "sweetheart." She had slender fingers, perfecting for picking pockets.

"Nyet. It okay," Pyotr replied, giving her a wave of his hand. He wasn't sure how much more of this sugar water this place called "tea" he could take. He should have just gotten coffee. She walked away, he watched her go, then his attention was back on the diner at large. The food was awful, too. Greasy. Flavorless (unless "grease" was considered a flavor.) He should have just kept driving homeward so he could enjoy his week off. He was ready to sleep in his bed rather than his Great Heron Transport branded rig, and ready to eat food that was familiar and tasted like something other than sodium.