Kasakov wasn’t used to backing down in the ring or outside of it and he stayed toe-to-toe, throwing punches and taking them. The adrenalin surge was huge. Some of his ringside underlings were shouting instructions, but the arms dealer ignored them. When it came to boxing, Kasakov ignored everyone.
He’d listened to his old amateur coach, but he was long dead and Kasakov had never felt the need to seek another. He had been boxing since he was six years old, and after forty years’ worth of experience in the ring there was little anyone could tell him that he didn’t already know. He’d had an extensive and successful amateur career, winning regional and national titles but missing out on the Olympics due to an elbow injury during trials.
That amateur career had been cut short when he was drafted into the Soviet army and sent to fight in Afghanistan. He was assigned to logistics, and by the time of the withdrawal had made the rank of major. When the empire fell apart Kasakov was in a perfect position to acquire and sell the redundant munitions he had helped transport and manage. The market in small arms was already too strong to compete with but Kasakov saw an opening for heavier armaments. His first customers were his old enemies in the Islamic State of Afghanistan. He made a killing selling off Red Army T-55 and T-62 tanks, and when the Taliban took over the country he continued delivering weapons to his old customers in what became the Northern Alliance. But recognising a good opportunity when he saw it, Kasakov began trading with the Taliban at the same time, selling them rockets to defeat the tanks, and then mortars to the Northern Alliance to defeat the antitank teams. When one faction was gaining the upper hand, he held off on resupplies, and cut his prices to the other to prolong the conflict and keep his business thriving.
He soon expanded into Africa, and using aircraft from the grounded Soviet Air Force flew in arms to nations under UN embargoes. Before long he had customers in south-east Asia and South America too and was coming to the attention of the international community. To stay operating he reduced his hands-on involvement in the trafficking business, employing others to take the biggest risks for him. He made sure his name was never on anyone’s paperwork nor on any computer file. He wasn’t sure how many companies he had, but it had to be close to a hundred registered in a dozen different countries. By the time any agency started to get a handle on what one was up to, Kasakov closed it down and moved its operations to one of his other companies in another nation. The web of ownership was so complicated even Kasakov had difficulty keeping track.
The day the Twin Towers fell he was smart enough to cut all ties with the Taliban and anyone connected to Islamic terrorists, but the damage had already been done and international pressure for his arrest was escalating, regardless of his preventative measures. Acutely aware of the growing momentum against him, Kasakov moved from his native Ukraine to Russia. Having made the Russian government billions by brokering arms sales he had no trouble gaining Russian citizen ship. As Moscow never extradited nationals, he was safe.
That safety didn’t extend into the ring, where the Russian giant found an opening in Kasakov’s defences through which to send another hammer right hand. Kasakov saw it coming, but it still snapped his head back and momentarily buckled his knees. He’d never sparred the Russian giant before and now knew why his people had tried to keep them apart. The fight was tougher than expected. Much tougher. Kasakov wished he’d put in more time training in the preceding weeks, but with the assassination attempt in Bucharest and the slowdown in the business requiring his complete attention, he had drastically reduced his hours in the gym. He shook off the thought. So it wouldn’t be a walkover today for a change.
Though training and fighting were now very much a solitary pursuit for Kasakov, he had, for many years, trained alongside his nephew, Illarion. Although the kid didn’t have Kasakov’s passion for the sport, he always trained and fought hard. As he matured out of adolescence they sparred together, and despite being far smaller than his uncle, Illarion’s speed, youth and natural athleticism always made such bouts close enough that Kasakov did not have to fully pull his punches. He wondered what Illarion would say about how he was faring against the Russian. Kasakov was sure it wouldn’t have been complimentary.
He managed to dodge away from the ropes and back to the centre of the ring to set about turning the fight around. The Ukrainian kept no official scorecard for his fights, knowing that his underlings would score even the most one-sided beating against as a victory for their boss, but Kasakov scored the fight privately, for his own satisfaction. Neither man had landed anything significant in the opening round so he would have given that round even, but the last two had gone to the Russian, who had landed the bigger shots in both. Making it 30–28 against. Still three rounds to go. He would need to take them all to win the six-round contest. He might be able to jab his way to a draw, but Kasakov fought to win.
He attacked cautiously, throwing the jab, and landing flush, but doing little damage save for keeping the Russian giant at range. The giant’s face shimmered with sweat, and the bridge of his nose was red from the jabs, but otherwise he was unmarked. Kasakov couldn’t say the same about himself.
The Russian surprised Kasakov by jabbing back and Kasakov was happy to continue the jabbing contest, knowing he had the better technique. The arms dealer punched his opponent with four more to the face and one to the gut. Maybe this was going to be a walkover after all. The big overhand right that slammed into his left eye socket erased any thoughts of an easy fight in one humiliating instant. He’d been set up, tricked by a modicum of success, and timed to perfection. The punch hurt like hell and made the strength leave Kasakov’s legs.
His vision blurred and he stumbled, but stayed standing and covered up while he tried to shake off the effects of the big punch. The Russian unloaded on him and every second that passed meant more and more stinging blows to Kasakov’s arms, shoulders and head.
The Russian exploited Kasakov’s high guard by throwing some hard body shots that struck unprotected ribs. In response, Kasakov lurched forward, wrapping his arms around his opponent’s, tying him up so he couldn’t punch, trying to buy the time until his sight returned and his head cleared.
He leaned into the Russian so that his opponent had to support his weight as well as his own. Kasakov was extremely fit for his forty-seven years and was a master of pacing himself during a fight. He knew he should be fresher than this at the current stage of the fight, but the body shots had stolen his stamina. Wrestling with the Russian, who was the bigger man in the ring by twenty pounds, was wasting even more energy. This wasn’t working, Kasakov told himself.
The crowd shouted their encouragement but their mirth was being beaten out of them as surely as the will to fight had been beaten out of Kasakov. The Russian wriggled his arms free and shoved Kasakov away. His head still swam from the big overhand right, and his legs had no strength. The next flush shot that landed would put him on the canvas. Even if he managed to get up again he wouldn’t make up the additional lost point. His opponent pawed with a jab, and followed with another overhand right that Kasakov managed to deflect with his left glove. He doubted he would be so lucky next time. The arms dealer tilted his body to the right as he stepped forward and threw a short left uppercut.
The Russian groaned as the gloved fist hit him square in the crotch. Like Kasakov he wore a groin protector, but the metal cup and padding were never enough to stop the agony. The Russian sank down to one knee, face red and contorted. From outside the ring a chorus of cheers erupted and one of the underlings began shouted a count.