Then King moved like a striking cobra, swinging his other arm up and inside the outstretched arm that held him in the air. The pineapple grenade in his fist, King launched the metal upward and bent his wrist back at the last second, so the grenade crunched into Alexander’s already broken nose, and King’s fingers were spared from being mashed.
Alexander stumbled back and dropped King. King landed in a crouch on his feet, then sprang back up, catching a sharp breath from the broken glass feeling in his side as he did so. His arm swung out like a baseball pitcher’s and the fist clutching the grenade came down on top of Alexander’s head at the apex of King’s jump, once again, the metal connecting with bone.
Alexander staggered back, unsteady on his feet, his arms swinging around like a wild brawler in a bar-room fight, punching at invisible enemies. Then his eyes cleared. They were dark and full of rage.
Oh shit, King just had time to think.
Then the legendary Hercules — healed of all his injuries — was running for him.
King backed up to the wall, and waited for a blink, then dove to the side. Alexander — barreling at King at full speed like the fabled minotaur — mashed into the wall of the cavern. He brought his arms in front of him at the last second, his forearms crossed at the wrists to help cushion the blow. But his speed and strength were no match for centuries old stone. When Alexander hit the wall, the stone exploded outward, spewing large hunks of rubble and the powerhouse of a man out into the carpeted corridor. He tumbled and sprawled into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway before he hit the floor.
King was stunned. He knew he needed his weapon and he needed it fast. He quickly scanned the floor of the room. Where is the damn AK? But then he spotted his Sig Sauer, tucked under the front of a desk with a computer monitor, and a stack of papers on it. He raced across the room and leapt onto the floor, the polished surface gliding him right to the weapon. The jolt to his ribs when his hip hit the floor made him wince, but this fight would soon be over.
King reached out to grasp the gun, but it was struck and knocked out of reach. A cloud of red dust shot out from under the table and small chunks of stone scattered everywhere, several pieces pinging into King. He turned and stood, to see Alexander was standing in the giant hole he had torn in the wall. He held a slab of rubble twice the size of a human skull in his right hand, and the intention was clear.
The man had deadly aim. He had thrown a stone across the room that had smashed into the Sig and probably launched it far under the computer desk. The next shot would be to King’s skull.
Still holding the grenade in his left hand, King sneered at Alexander and reached the fingers of his right hand for the safety pin. Alexander pulled his arm back with the stone and let it fly.
EIGHTEEN
A scream rang out through the room as Alexander threw the large stone and started to charge toward King.
“Ostanovit!” Asya’s Russian shout was punctuated with a rapid burst of 7.92 mm bullets blasting into the stone ceiling, one of which made a wild ricochet noise, when it bounced off. “Stop! Both of you!” The sharp tang of gunpowder filled the space.
King flinched at the sound of gunfire in the confined space. The thrown stone whistled harmlessly overhead and shattered against the wall behind the computer desk. Rocky debris sprayed to the floor in a clatter that echoed in the abject silence after the gunshots. Alexander halted his most recent charge and turned to look at Asya. She stood in another doorway that led from the cavern into what appeared to be a small sitting room.
Asya had the AK-47 trained on Alexander. No one spoke for a minute.
“I’ll ask you kindly, dear lady, not to fire that in here again. This room is full of very delicate scientific equipment.” Alexander stood up straight and began swatting dust and dirt off his torn suit jacket. A flap of fabric that should have been on his chest hung down nearly to his knee. He picked up the flap and looked at it in disgust, then stripped out of the jacket and let it drop to the floor. The front of his white dress shirt had a spatter of blood down the neck and chest, from when King had broken his nose.
King reached under the computer desk and retrieved his Sig. It was scratched and coated in red dust, but it appeared mostly undamaged. He slipped the grenade — its pin still intact — in his pocket again, then stood and trained the pistol on Alexander with his right hand, while clutching his broken rib with his left.
“Morons, come!” Asya turned her back and began walking into the adjoining room.
“Morons?” King asked, his voice rising and a fight still in him.
Asya wheeled back on the men. “Yes!” she shouted. “Morons!” She pointed at Alexander. “You are idiot for letting us think you had kidnapped our parents! How did you think it would end?”
Alexander was about to reply, but Asya whirled to face King. “And you! You had pistol and rifle. You had a grenade! But you chased after him and tried to stop him with your fists? Yeban ko maloletneye.” She turned and stalked off into the adjoining room.
King looked at Alexander. “What did she just say?”
Alexander shrugged. “My Russian is a little rusty, but I think she called you an ‘adolescent jerk.’ It might have been something about a donkey, though.”
King motioned for Alexander to follow Asya with his Sig. His rib hurt like a bastard, but he didn’t want Alexander to see. He followed the large man into a lounge, which was separated by a thick metal door.
The lounge was lushly appointed with overstuffed comfortable-looking sofas, and armchairs. Off to the side of the room was a wet bar where a man was pouring a drink of single malt scotch for himself. King recognized the man instantly.
“Dad?”
Peter Machtchenko was clean shaven in a pinstripe gray suit that complimented his salt and pepper hair. The wrinkles around his eyes revealed his age to be in the fifties, but his level of fitness and posture suggested a much younger man. King glanced to a chair on the opposite side of the room and saw his mother. Lynn Machtchenko wore a tan pair of slacks and a long-sleeved white cotton blouse with a culturally appropriate scarf around her neck that she would cover her head with, when she went out. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating her facial similarity to Asya. Her eyes were kind, with a hint of a smile in them. Neither seemed concerned about the battle that had been fought in the room next door. The thick door and walls must have dampened the sound.
“You’re both here… You’re okay?” King’s voice was quiet. Stunned.
“Why don’t you have a drink, son?” Peter said from across the room, dropping ice cubes into a crystal glass with a loud clink. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Actually, if you’ll all excuse me, I’d like to go change my clothes first,” Alexander said.
King raised his Sig at the man. “I don’t think so. You’re the one with the most explaining to do. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Alexander turned to face King. “Look, Jack, the scientific equipment in the next room represents the last fifty years of my hard work, and several hundred years of planning. I’m not going anywhere. I just want to put on a clean shirt. Then I’ll answer all of your questions.” He looked King in the eye, and raised his eyebrows. “All of them. Okay?”
King squinted at the man, still not fully trusting him. “Fine.”