The Swords of Babylon (Matt Drake 6) (5 page)

Kinimaka watched as Dahl paced impatiently.

“Are they ready yet, Hayden? We can
’t wait all bloody day.”

Hayden cupped the receiver. “I
’m talking to them now. Gates already made the call. It shouldn’t be long.”

Alicia came up to Kinimaka. “What
’s the deal, big boy? Karin set up that new HQ yet? Ready to watch our backs.”

Kinimaka nodded. “She
’s almost there. The only thing they’ve had time to do is set up the comms and the total surveillance systems. Very high-tech.”

“Don
’t give a fuck. So long as it helps get us an escape route, it can be Captain Jack’s spyglass for all I care.”

“You
’ve
watched Pirates of the Caribbean?”

Alicia gave him a saucy wink. “The first ten minutes.
Then the middle ten. Then the last ten. Besides, ain’t no movie gets by me starring the Deppster.” Alicia moaned. “Should call him Johnny Viagra.”

Kinimaka choked. “That
’s more than I need to know. Jeez.”

“True. But I never disappoint, Mano. You should know that by now.

Kinimaka thought over the heart-to-heart they’d had, what seemed an age ago now. Back in that hotel in Vienna, the night before they had  charged the terrorist battlefield like the veritable Light Brigade. Alicia had revealed a part of her past, a tragic part, and secured a place in his heart forever.

“Of course I know, Alicia. You can say anything you want to me.”

“Well, I did want to check something with a real man.” Alicia leaned in close. “Y’see, Lomas has this problem down below. He keeps on—”

“No!” Kinimaka yelped and danced away. Alicia laughed. Mai had to physically grab hold of Dahl
’s shoulders to stop the man’s frantic pacing.

Hayden replaced the receiver and turned to them. “We
’ve been allocated a chopper from a local base. Plus ammo. But they’re not risking any men. We’re on our own.”

Dahl headed straight for the door. “Not a fucking problem.”

Drake sensed rather than saw the crowd of inmates melt away. His full focus latched firmly on the man-mountain stalking toward him. Zanko flexed enormous chest muscles as he walked, pecs beating away like a base drum. The hands, spread wide, made him think of Mai’s relatively small hands when she placed them in his.

And Mai could probably kick his arse to hell and back.

Drake moved sideways, aiming to give himself space, placing the gym and its well-used equipment at his back. Zanko increased his pace.

“Now we tangle, little man. Let
’s see if the famous Matt Drake is made of the same shit as the rest of them.”

Drake slipped away as the great, growling bear reached for him. A light drizzle began to fall across the exercise yard as the clouds obscured the sun. Zanko lunged. Drake ducked and stepped in
before delivering a stinging blow to the giant’s ribs and then his kidneys. The Yorkshireman ducked under another wild, swinging blow, came back around to Zanko’s front, and delivered a push-kick to the chest with all the strength he could muster.

The Russian coughed and shrugged, but didn
’t waver. “My grandmother can hit harder than that! And I really do mean it. Come on, fight me!”

Drake lunged, struck,
then danced away. Zanko took another blow to the ribs, grinning. He mimicked Drake’s movements stride for stride, slowly pushing him back. Drake caught a flicker in Zanko’s eyes and suddenly realized—

The other inmates had formed a cordon at his back. Half a dozen more steps and he would be close enough for them to fling him straight into Zanko
’s arms! He skipped quickly among the gym equipment, lifting a small set of dumbbells and pacing warily behind a heavy lifting frame. There was only one way this fight was going to end.

Zanko roared and charged, stopping only to heft the big frame and fling it to the side. Drake slammed the dumbbells against the side of his head, arm vibrating with the impact. Zanko staggered and went down on one knee. Drake brought the dumbbells down again, this time aiming for the Russian
’s exposed skull.

Zanko tore his legs away with an arm sweep. Drake suddenly saw sky and landed flat on his back, the air rushing out of his lungs. He held on to the dumbbells, legs already scrambling to get away. But Zanko landed on his lower body like a beached whale, sending jolts of agony shooting around Drake
’s nerve clusters. Quickly, he brought the dumbbells overhead, using every ounce of strength to heave them at Zanko’s head.

The Russian threw up a massive forearm, blocking the blow. But even he grunted in pain when they hit. Drake withdrew the dumbbells and tried to move. Zanko righted himself and sat on Drake
’s legs, practically crushing his knees. With his right arm, Zanko blocked Drake’s next blow and ripped the dumbbells from his hand, then threw them away so they landed hard against a far wall.

Zanko leaned forward, head the size of a rhinoceros suddenly blocking all the light. “It seems you lost.”

Drake struggled, twisting beneath the immense weight. With a speed that surprised Zanko he sat up, striking his forehead against the bridge of the Russian’s nose, then struck with both elbows, twisting his torso each time to deliver a more brutal blow. Zanko grunted again and appeared to flinch. Blood streamed from his nose and over his lips. Drake heard the inmates’ collective gasp.

The hammer blow came out of nowhere, stunning Drake, causing so much instant pain his whole body froze upright for a second as it tried to process. Stars exploded in his brain. Clouds obscured his vision.

Zanko had smashed a fist into his stomach. Drake found himself holding on to the Russian’s shoulders as he gasped for air, even the barest slither of breath eluding him.

Zanko laughed, blood spattering everywhere. Drake wheezed in his face, still unable to breathe. Zanko jumped up, then hefted Drake above his shoulders, holding him like a powerlifter grips a barbell.

Drake wheezed in an ounce of breath, stomach convulsing, then hit the ground hard as Zanko threw him across the yard. Still conscious enough to tuck and roll, Drake lay still for a few precious seconds as Zanko stalked up to him. He thought about using the shank in his sock, but decided that might put the fight on a whole new level. Zanko moved in closer.

“Time to—”

Drake came up groggy, but with an aim born of experience. His left fist swung hard into Zanko’s groin.

“
Dahhhhhhh!”

Zanko doubled over, hands clasping, eyes bulging. “Not . . . fair,” he managed to gasp.

“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.

Several hours later, Drake came to. A heavy stench hung in the air and it took him a moment to reali
ze 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.”