Kinimaka whirled to see Smyth beset by two adversaries, but before he could even begin to race over to help, Karin had stepped up. Without regard for her own safety, she used long-ago learned martial arts skills to get the attention of one of the men. Karin wasn’t stupid, and would know that local dojo learned skills were no match for military training, but she waded in anyway, limbs kicking and punching. The man facing her looked bemused, as if he couldn’t figure out if he was actually being toyed with, but his lollygagging cost him dearly. Smyth dispatched his own opponent, then turned to disable Karin’s, finishing the man with a kick to the nose. Lights out never came so fast.
Komodo smashed both arms down onto a merc’s shoulders. The man staggered under the hefty blow, falling heavily to his knees. Flames lit Komodo’s face as he lifted the man by his own jacket before throwing him into the inferno.
Kinimaka almost cheered. The odds were now four good guys against two bad. His heart soared, but then two new sounds reached his ears; one uplifting, the other terrible. First he heard the sound of raucous American voices, marines coming to their aid. But on the heels of that came the roar of two ascending choppers — the Blood King’s choppers coming to strafe the battlefield.
Drake cried out as Gabriel snapped a quick kick to his right knee, almost breaking it in half. The pain shot through his body like a barbed arrow as he fought to stay upright. Gabriel sought to press his advantage. Drake let the momentum take him, folded, let Gabriel’s flurry strike nothing but thin air, then came up on the other side.
“Not so easy, pal.”
“You fight like a fairy, mon. Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell Drake! Haha.”
Drake was getting pissed off with all the recent aspersions on his good name. First that hairy bastard, Zanko, and now Gabriel. But then Zanko did end up taking a head dive down the deepest, darkest pit on Earth.
“Like the fairies, do ya? I heard jail will do that to a man.”
Gabriel fumed and lunged. Drake danced around the swipe and dealt him a crushing blow to the temple. He had found Gabriel’s first flaw but how could he exploit it? Past the dark man he saw Dahl engaged with Mordant. The albino looked like a ghoul in this vivid half-light: monstrous, a legendary apparition. But this was an apparition made of solid flesh and bone, and one that could fight well. He held Dahl in a bear hug, exerting every ounce of pressure on the Swede. Neither man uttered a word or sound, but the silent struggle was immense. Mordant’s face was set in a demonic rictus, a snarl of exertion.
Drake caught several blows on his elbows, more strikes with his thighs and knees. He stopped bone-breaking jabs with deft flicks of his wrist, glancing them away. But he couldn’t get close to Gabriel, couldn’t break down the man’s defenses. Every new thing he tried, Gabriel countered. The two men were evenly matched.
It was only when Drake heard the arrival of the Americans that his spirits lifted. A wide grin stretched across his face in direct contrast to the crestfallen look that transformed Gabriel’s. A moment later, the sound of ascending choppers turned the tables again. This place was about to go ballistic.
Fuck me, he thought. Our arses are about to be lit up like Times Square and we’ve nowhere to bloody go.
Dahl matched Mordant muscle to muscle, sinew to sinew. The battle of pure strength strained him to breaking point, but he was rewarded by the sight of the albino’s ugly face stretched with agony, the red of his gums and eye sockets standing out like bright-red wounds.
“When you cringe like that,” Dahl whispered. “Your face looks like it’s turned inside out.”
“Fuck.” The albino crushed harder. “You.”
“No,” Dahl growled. “You killed Romero and maybe Hayden. So fuck you!”
With a bellow and an effort that almost burst his heart, Dahl somehow managed to lift Mordant off his feet. The albino gaped around, at a loss for the first time in his life, but even Dahl couldn’t hold him for long. The Swede threw him to the ground and followed up with a colossal blow that would have broken some men in half. The albino gasped, but still managed to roll away. As Dahl lunged after him he spun back, swinging an arm, catching Dahl across the face. Blood poured from a fresh cut over his eyebrow.
“First bloo—” the albino started to say.
Dahl punched him in the mouth. Teeth flew and blood exploded. “You were saying?”
The albino struck again. Dahl took it squarely on the forehead, using the precious seconds to get up close to his enemy.
“Jesus fuck,” the man gasped at him. “You are one mean mother.”
Dahl jabbed him twice, following it up with a punch to the ribs. A sharp crack made him smile tightly. “Stop talking,” he said. “You aren’t good enough.”
Mordant jackknifed his body, squirming far enough away to make a gap. Dahl followed relentlessly. When the albino feinted and suddenly came in close, Dahl knew what was coming. Many prisoners used the forehead to get ahead. When Mordant’s forehead dipped, Dahl’s elbow came up simultaneously, purposely positioned slightly lower.
Mordant’s nose exploded against his sharp bone.
“Aaahhh!”
Dahl sat back. His body was exhausted, screaming for a moment’s respite, which he was smart enough to allow. When Mordant also sat back, the two enemies faced each other in the heat of battle, their own blood and sweat coating the ground between them, and the prison fighter inclined his head.
“Not bad for an Englishman.”
Dahl roared, “I’m not bloody English,” sprang to his feet and leaped forward. His huge hands grabbed hold of Mordant’s jacket and shoved him hard down to the floor. Dahl heaved his tired body on top, pushing his knee against Mordant’s throat and bringing all his weight to bear. The albino struggled weakly, unable to breathe.
When it was over, Dahl cast around. “All right. Who wants to go next?”
Drake pushed Gabriel away and threw himself against a wall as the first chopper thundered overhead. A double line of shells strafed the ground. The bullets passed through the approaching American forces, the castle walls, the burning helicopter, and the Blood King’s own men, but didn’t strike a soul. Kovalenko was on his knees, cowering before Alicia, and, though it was a simple sight, Drake’s soul soared.
“Your boss,” Drake panted. “Is beaten.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Never trust a fookin’ Russkie, mon. Never trust anyone. There ain’t no good men left no more.”
Drake smiled as he felt familiar presences at his back. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “You just have to belong to the right family.”
Kinimaka struck from the left, Komodo from the right. Drake took a breath and allowed Smyth to skip by him and assault Gabriel head on. The wiry African traded the three men blow for blow; he drew blood from Komodo’s nose and Kinimaka’s cheek, but was always on the back foot, always wilting. In minutes he was on his knees, still fighting hard, taking crushing blows and coming back for more. He fell at last when Kovalenko’s second chopper blasted overhead, the stream of bullets actually passing through the middle of his body.
“Shit.” Smyth jumped away. “Thought the bastard was never going down.”
Drake regarded the twitching body with respect. “Truth be told, I don’t think he was. Bloody hell, I feel like one gigantic bruise.”
Smyth squinted at him. “Your lip is puffing up a bit.”