“And you think this is?” Drake indicated the yard, the inmates, the lack of guards. He stood with his hands on his knees as Zanko moaned, recovering slowly from the immense stomach blow.
“You pack a punch like a fuckin’ jackhammer on acid, Zanko.”
The Russian’s face twisted into a feral grin. “I know, little man. You should meet my grandmother, Zoya.”
“Maybe next time.” Drake launched a knee-strike, slamming into his opponent’s forehead. Zanko tumbled back, losing balance, and crashed to the ground. The inmates, raucous until now, went quiet, some of them staring at Drake with sudden awe.
Drake spied Yorgi still attached to the side fence. The thief was watching carefully, chin resting in his hands.
Zanko struggled to one knee. Drake decided against the top of the skull attack this time, not wanting to break an elbow, but moved to the Russian’s back. The thick neck looked like a corded tree trunk. He moved in to deliver a swift punch, but at that moment Zanko swiveled and caught the blow in a huge fist. With a burst of strength, he yanked Drake off his feet and brought him sprawling into a face-plant. Drake’s head exploded for the second time in five minutes.
But this time Zanko didn’t give Drake any respite. A double blow to the stomach sent the Yorkshireman to his knees, head hanging; a punch to the side of the skull sent him toppling on to his side. Drake’s head grew fuzzy as the concrete came up to meet him.
Then Zanko’s mouth was at his ear, even as the Russian delivered more blows to his body. “Every day, Drake. You get this every single day.”
Pain seared from Drake’s abdomen to his brain, more pain than he could stand.
“Until you die.”
The last thing Drake saw was the much promised armpit, dripping with sweat, a tangled mess of matted black hair, and then the putrid stink as the foul mass closed over his face.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Several hours later, Drake came to. A heavy stench hung in the air and it took him a moment to realize it was Zanko’s stink, plastered across his own face. With that knowledge, Drake gagged, jumped down from his bunk and ran over to the sink. SAS training had never included being smothered into unconsciousness beneath a crazy Russian’s armpit. Though it had included similar, he mused, splashing his face and scrubbing it with a bar of old soap. Luckily, his breakfast stayed down. He began to wonder what time it was. The bastards had taken his watch when they first threw him in here. That was twenty quid’s worth of Casio he’d probably never see again.
He walked to the front of the cell, grabbing the bars. If he leaned far enough to the left he could see the door that led to the yard. It was closed. He glanced up then, toward one of the guard perches. Above that was a grimy window. Drake saw daylight, but of the waning variety. It was near sundown.
Good. Wouldn’t be long now.
He needed another chat with Yorgi. There were still unasked questions and, since he couldn’t absolutely guarantee taking the inmate with him if he managed to escape, he wanted every ounce of information he could glean. Drake stepped back and stretched warily. His stomach felt like it had been hit by a pile driver, his limbs throbbed in time to the flow of his blood. He had been taught to compartmentalize pain, but this was a whole new level.
Nevertheless, he stepped out of his open cell door and moved to the railing, peering down at the level below. He was wondering how he might find Yorgi, when the man drifted into view, catching his eye. All the other prisoners were occupied, playing cards, or wrestling, pumping iron or maybe discussing who might be worth shanking that day. The gangs all had their heads together. Drake tried to peer into every corner, but saw no sign of Razin or Zanko.
Ignoring the pain, he darted for the steps and walked fast across the dining hall, entering the meeting room and the corridor beyond a few seconds after Yorgi. Even though there were no sounds of pursuit, the two didn’t slow down or talk until they were hidden again inside the roof space.
“A good fight,” Yorgi said first. “Earlier. You put up a good fight against Zanko. I’ve never seen him even bleed before, let alone be knocked down.”
“Fat lot of good that did me.”
“Eh?” Yorgi didn’t understand the saying.
Drake rubbed his ribs. “I still lost.”
“Ah, but now the gangs respect you. They won’t harm you again, not unless Razin orders them to.”
“Small mercy.”
“The American professor,” Yorgi said. “I have not yet found him. But I know another way.”
Drake half smiled. “Let me guess. It involves you being on the outside?”
Yorgi shifted. “You see how the world works quite well, my new friend.”
Drake said nothing. Chances were, Yorgi already knew where this professor was being kept, or at least the street name. Razin’s men weren’t being exactly secretive with their information.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said at last. “But come tomorrow — any time — keep a very close watch on me.”
Yorgi nodded in the dark and offered a bottle of water. Drake drank thirstily. “Damn, that’s good. Have you heard anything new about Razin’s project?”
“The Babylon thing? The swords? No. But if he hasn’t found them yet, he will soon. The man is obsessed and he can throw all his resources at this.”
“That’s what I feared.”
Yorgi went quiet. Drake sipped half the bottle and handed it back. The two of them sat there for a while in silence. With time on his hands, Drake found his thoughts wandering. A question popped into his head — one that burned away at his heart and mind like the searing face of an iron, one that he wished he had the time to fully address.
“Yorgi,” he said, hesitant. “In your travels, during your life, have you ever heard of an agent… or an assassin… called Coyote?”
The Russian thief almost choked on his water, spitting some of it on to the Styrofoam roof tiles. Then he went very still.
Drake waited.
Yorgi cleared his throat. “What kind of name is that?” He laughed nervously.
Drake shrugged. “A memorable one.”
“Well, I don’t know that person. No.”
“Are you sure, Yorgi?”
“Why should I?”
“People in your line of work. They… know many things. They hear everything. It’s part of your job.”
“Why do you say that?”
Drake sighed. “I knew a very good thief once. He… died recently.”
“And did he not know this Coyote?”
“I never got the chance to ask him.”
“I am sorry. The name means nothing to me.” Yorgi’s voice was firm now, resolute. Drake let it drop.
“Fair enough.”
Yorgi held out a bar of chocolate. “Let us hope for a good tomorrow, my friend.”
Drake unwrapped the thick block. “I’m counting on it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It took all day Thursday for the team to prepare. Dahl constantly chomped at the bit. Hayden worked wonders through Jonathan Gates with the Russian government. Having already acquired a chopper and weapons, she further smoothed the path by getting the Russians to admit they would rather see the jail obliterated off the map than not — it would rid them of part of the blight that was Nikolai Razin.
But the chopper had to be American made. The arms had to be American. It was all to guard the Minister of Defense’s back, and it wasted valuable time, but was extremely necessary. Karin kept in touch and watched several areas via satellite feed, all the time fine-tuning her tech from Washington, preparing to be their ‘all-seeing-eyes’ when they assaulted the jail.
Alicia was ready within minutes of their arrival, and spent the next several hours texting Lomas and keeping herself upbeat by insulting almost everyone who came within three feet of her. The only person she gave a pass to was Mai — the Japanese woman seemed uncharacteristically anxious not only about Drake, but about something from her past too. She mentioned it briefly to Alicia — the Clan is looking for me — but Alicia didn’t know enough about Mai’s life to heed the first signs of onrushing calamity.