CHAPTER SEVEN
Drake ran at them, trying to utilize the dining hall’s vast space for his own ends. He leapt as he approached the first man, sending him sprawling with a heavy kick to the chest. He spun immediately on landing, catching the next with a flying spin kick. The third hit the next kick as Drake doubled up the spin. As the horde got too close, Drake stepped back and leapt on to one of the mess tables. He picked up a plastic plate and sent it skimming at a prisoner’s head, then grabbed the tray it had rested on. When another man came forward, Drake smashed him across the head with it, leaving a deep imprint in the hard plastic.
“It ain’t worth it, guys.”
But they were grinning, even the ones with blood dripping from their mouths and noses. They loved this. It was what most of them lived for. The one who thought he was a monkey alternatively squatted and leaped into the air, screeching like a banshee. The rest formed an ever decreasing circle and tried to hem him in.
Drake saw the move instantly. Trouble was there was nowhere to go. He jumped back on to a mess table, conscious now of the nearby guards and seriously considering relieving one of them of their batons. He ran the length of the table, jumped across to another, now nearing the food bays. Maybe there was something he could use as a weapon behind the counter.
It shouldn’t have surprised him, but when the three guards suddenly raced at him he blinked in shock. He was caught between them, a mouse in a very severe trap, and they were on him before he could even think.
Drake went down, the three men above him. He did his best to block their kicks and punches, but several found a way through to the backs of his legs and spine. When the first baton strike landed, he squirmed in reflexive pain, making a slight gap for himself between one of the guard’s wide-open legs. Quickly, he scrambled through, rising instantly. The guards turned fast, but not nearly fast enough.
Drake throat-punched the baton wielder, grabbed the weapon as it fell and smashed it across the next man’s face. Then, with the ease born of a lifetime’s training, he killed the third whilst making sure the first two were incapacitated forever. A baton in each hand, he faced the oncoming prisoners.
“You might get me,” he breathed. “But you’ll pay fuckin’ dearly for it.”
The prisoners came in a group. The first ended up with a broken wrist, staring at it stupidly as it dangled before him, clearly unable to process what had happened so fast. The next lost teeth, but pushed on anyway, spitting them to the ground in a spray of blood. Drake slipped to his left, wielding the batons in both hands, a constant scything flurry of pain. A Russian dropped to his knees, holding the top of his head, blood welling up between his fingers. Drake sent a baton spinning at his jawbone, broke it and moved quickly on.
He sensed another at his back. The safe-zone was shrinking by the second. He spun and took the man out, but the forced action gave the others time to move in closer. When he spun back again, they were just feet away.
Drake dropped the batons, resorting to hand-to-hand combat. As the inmates struck at him, he reared up, and saw a strange sight at the other side of the room.
Another inmate, waving at him, beckoning that he follow. He mouthed the words I can help you. Drake knew it might be a trap, but it could hardly get any worse. He nodded and used the great burst of strength he was saving for a last stand to smash through the surrounding men. The inmate disappeared into what Drake remembered as the second room, the one with several exit doors. Drake leapt into space and ran hard, legs feeling as though they were on fire. Angry grunts filled the air behind him. How dare he spoil their fun?
Drake swerved around the doorframe and into the room. The inmate stood across from him, peeking out from behind another door.
“This way,” the man said in English, only slightly accented, and vanished. The second door led to a storage room, left open for the inmates presumably with Razin’s consent, piled high and racked out with spare blankets, overalls, boots and even coats. Drake followed his savior through the small room and out into a white-washed corridor.
“Quick!”
Several doors lay ahead. The inmate ran straight for the third on the right, slipping in without breaking stride. Drake hightailed it after him, ready for anything. But when he entered, all he saw was a pair of boots disappearing up into the ceiling.
A face popped out. “Come on! Crazy Russians aren’t as slow as you think.”
Drake took the proffered hands and allowed the man to pull him up into a narrow space. Then he crouched in the dark as a ceiling tile was replaced. Close together, they could barely see each other’s features.
“Don’t move.”
After only a few minutes, Drake heard the sound of pursuit. He saw nothing, but heard men shambling about below, searching the room. After a minute they moved on.
“I think we’re safe now.”
“Thank you. Why did you save my arse?”
“Let us say I seized an opportunity when I saw one. I know your name. Mine is Yorgi.”
Drake could make out little of the man in the gloom, but knew he was tall, thin and rangy. Most probably a lot stronger than he looked, and certainly a lot more resourceful. Drake sensed something small being pushed toward him. “Take this. But use it only as a last resort, my friend.”
He took the improvised shiv, knowing full well that Yorgi could have gutted him in the dark with it. “Cheers.”
“Hide it in your sock. Razin and Zanko will not search you again.”
“Okay. Do you know how long I’ve been here?”
“Not long. Razin brought you in today.”
“So is it Wednesday?” Drake counted off the hours. “Bollocks. I’d hoped I might have been out longer.”
“That Zanko,” Yorgi breathed. “He don’t like you. Not one bit. And that man’s a very bad enemy to have.”
Drake just nodded. He didn’t need to be reminded. “And why are you hiding in the dark, Yorgi?”
“Out there.” Yorgi’s body moved, signifying a nod. “They don’t like thieves. They think you’re going to steal their toothbrush or their mama’s picture or something. It’s easier to get lost in a rat hole like this. Plus, I’m still relatively young and very good looking. It’s best to stay hidden.”
“So you’re a thief? And Russian? You speak good English, Yorgi.” Drake didn’t know the man well enough yet to wonder aloud where his small bristle-ended shank had come from.
“I studied when I was young. I was made to study.” A loaded sigh, full of regrets. “Wealthy parents.”
Drake wanted to ask how he had ended up in here, in Razin’s prison, but again it was too soon to risk upsetting his new friend. Instead, he switched the conversation to something he needed.
“Razin and Zanko,” he said. “Who the hell are they?”
“Nothing,” Yorgi said. “They’re just bullies with money. Razin runs a big organisation that is into almost everything illegal you can think of. His lieutenants, Zanko, Maxim and Victoriyah enforce his rules and watch his back. They’re ruthless, totally ruthless.”
“Are they in to some kind of mystery?” Drake pressed. “They were asking me about some swords when they came into my cell.”
“It’s no mystery. Razin’s men are always coming and going through here. They talk. I listen.” Yorgi appeared to motion past Drake. Maybe there was a network of ceiling space around here. “It’s how I knew you were here. And why I took a chance.”
“You’re hoping that when I escape I’ll take you with me. I figured that. What I haven’t figured yet is how you eat.”
“I have friends out there. I do favors for them, they bring me food and water. It is the way of our prison.”