The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Hey, el gringo es Inglés!’ the man shouted. Immediately there were shouts and calls from across the block. Laughter too.

  The man stuck out his hand. ‘My name is Benito.’

  Ryker shook Benito’s limp and bony hand.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Benito said, ‘no need to tell me your name. In here you will only be gringo, or maybe Inglés. You can’t stop that.’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘So what you do? Drugs? Prostitutes? Guns?’

  ‘I did nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Hey, el gringo es inocente!’ Benito called out to another chorus of amused shouts.

  Ryker remained on the bunk and said nothing as he waited for the noise to die down. Benito was looking over at him with an amused smile.

  ‘Why are you alone in here?’ Ryker asked.

  ‘Privileges,’ Benito answered. ‘Like I say, somebody must like you, to put you in here with me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don't know. But it’s good for you. You will need a lot of friends in here. Maybe I’m the only one to even speak your language. And this cell is like a royal palace in Santa Martha.’

  Ryker looked around the small space. It was clean, at least – as clean as could be expected for a Mexican jail cell anyway. As well as the four bunks, there was a steel bedpan in the corner. No other furniture. Palace would be the last word he’d use to describe it, but Benito had a point. Two men was better than ten. Ryker spotted a variety of leather goods in a back corner of the cell. Leather wallets, handbags, purses. Each had bold images embroidered or painted onto the material. Skulls, snakes, crosses, Jesus, the Virgin Mary.

  ‘My work,’ Benito said, clearly proud of the fact. ‘I’m an artist.’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Hey, I’ll be here a very long time. Just trying to keep myself busy, make some money for my family. I used to... draw ink, tatuaje. You know, on the men.’

  ‘Tattoos.’

  ‘Yes. The guards ask me to make these things too. They sell them, on the outside. They pay me.’

  ‘Hence the privileges.’

  Benito shrugged. ‘I give the men tattoos. I make money for the guards. Everyone is happy.’

  ‘Ecstatic.’

  ‘Ecs what?’

  ‘Happy. Everyone is so damn happy.’

  ‘You’re a strong man, gringo.’

  Ryker said nothing to the statement. He wasn’t sure what Benito’s point was. Then he realised Benito’s words had been more of a question.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Benito said, answering for Ryker. ‘I see it in your face. In your eyes. You’re big, strong. Angry. You look like you fight. A warrior. But forget it. In here they’ll break you. It won’t even take many days. Soon you’ll be wishing you were a child sucking your mother’s milk again. This place will destroy you, if you fight it.’

  Still Ryker didn’t say a word. Exactly who or what Benito was suggesting was a threat, Ryker wasn’t quite sure. The guards? The other inmates? Both? Regardless, Ryker had to do something. But what?

  He’d been imprisoned before. Had been subjected to horrific treatment too – torture, both mental and physical. At least he wasn’t uninitiated in the barbary of man. There were experiences much worse than being stuck in a grimy cell in Mexico. Yet he was still hugely fearful of what lay ahead, if he couldn’t find a way out of this hellhole.

  In the past, Ryker had always had the JIA somewhere behind him when he’d found himself in trouble. This time, Ryker was alone, and he wasn’t yet sure what that would mean.

  There was a loud buzzing noise from out in the corridor. The shouts and calls from the prisoners started up once more. Above the voices, Ryker heard a chorus of footsteps, heavy boots slapping the concrete floor, almost in unison, like an army marching.

  Ryker got up from the bunk and went to the bars to get a look. Army wasn’t far off. Across the length of the corridor, a long line of prison guards stepped into position. Twenty, maybe thirty men. They all wore big black boots and black uniforms with utility belts. Each carried a long baton and riot shield, topped off with a black helmet with plastic riot visor to cover their faces. They stood to attention, shields out, batons raised, waiting.

  ‘What’s this?’ Ryker asked Benito.

  ‘This is playtime,’ Benito said with his ever-present smile.

  ‘Playtime?’

  ‘In the yard. One hour a day.’

  ‘You need a whole army of guards every time you go?’

  Benito winked. ‘You haven’t seen how we play.’

  7

  A manual lock somewhere out of sight was released and each of the cell doors in the corridor clunked open. Ryker stepped out and within a few moments, there were something like a hundred prisoners gathering in the corridor on the ground level. Ryker looked up to the two terraces of cells on the floors above. The cell doors up on those levels were open too, the neat lines of guards outnumbered by convicts.

  Ryker returned his focus to the crowd of inmates in front. The manner of many of the prisoners was upbeat though the overarching mood was tense. Or maybe that was just Ryker.

  A few yards ahead of him Ryker spotted the barrel-chested man who’d stood watch earlier. He was glaring over toward Ryker.

  Benito, behind Ryker in the line, leaned over and whispered into Ryker’s ear. ‘Miguel Lozano. El Jefe.’

  The boss. Ryker had already guessed as much by the look in the guy’s eyes and the way the other men were stood around him – on the one hand protecting him, on the other forever baying for his attention and affection. How much of a boss he really was, Ryker didn’t know. In all likelihood he was just a gang-banger, a heavy-handed brawler who achieved power behind bars through brutality and instilling fear in others.

  It was equally possible, however, that Lozano was connected on the outside too. Mexican gangs, both those in and outside of prison, were inevitably connected to the drug cartels. Was Lozano a cartel leader? That was possible. It wasn’t unusual for the cartel members – head honchos included – to spend time in prison, and even to carry on their businesses profitably while locked away year after year.

  Either way, whoever El Jefe was, Ryker would be wary. He had enough enemies already.

  The guards hustled the prisoners along the corridor with shouted orders, before taking a twisting route that finally led to a double-doorway out into the open-air yard. Ryker had only been in the dingy cell for a short time but the brightness as he stepped out into the fierce sun still caused a stabbing at the front of his head.

  The enclosure was about a forty-yard square, marked out with high walls topped with large runs of barbed wire. A single guard tower sat in one corner with three guards in place, each casually carrying a rifle.

  Inside the yard was a small fitness area with rusted barbells and dumbbells, a basketball hoop fitted with a chain-link basket, and a single metal soccer goal with no net. A small number of prisoners moved over to one of those three activity areas, but the vast majority congregated by a set of worn wooden bleachers. Benito moved off to that area too and Ryker followed a step behind, his eyes working overtime as he scoped out the inmates, looking for threats.

  Before long a ring of people formed, with the bleachers acting as the grand stand for a mini arena. Lozano sat at the centre of the bleachers as around him, the men forming the circle of bodies shouted and called and waved money – US dollars – in the air.

  Ryker simply stared – surprised by the prisoners’ overtness, but in no way showing it. He looked over at the patrol of guards, stood around the perimeter of the yard, at the ready but seemingly unmoved by what was happening in front of them. Then he returned his attention to the group of prisoners.

  From the crowd, two men stepped forward. Both were well built though neither was particularly tall. They were bare chested with ink covering their already dark skin with a whole host of grim and intimid
ating images: snarling animals, bleeding hearts, weapons, skulls. Ryker noticed both men had one tattoo in common, at the base of their necks: a wasp, or a hornet, nearly a foot wide, the black insect’s wings spreading out across their shoulder blades.

  One of the men had a shaved head, beady eyes, and a pointy noise that made him look like a shark. The other had a nose that looked like it had been squashed inwards; the face of a boxer who’d taken one too many hits.

  For a few seconds, the noise around the makeshift ring died down as the crowd waited in anticipation for the fight to begin. Then the shark lunged forward with the intention of sending a roundhouse punch into his opponent’s face. The boxer saw the intended blow coming. He shimmied left and sent a crushing blow to the back of the shark’s head. Roars erupted from the audience as the shark went down in a heap. He was far from finished, though: within seconds he was up on his feet and he threw himself forward and the two men locked horns.

  What followed was nothing more than sheer brutality. The men, well matched in size, strength and speed, pummelled and pulled and twisted each other’s bodies to the point of breaking. Ryker had been witness to bare knuckle fighting before; he knew that even the more organised bouts were brutal affairs. But there was no class or real skill to this fight – it was pure animal.

  Within minutes, blood covered both men’s faces and torsos and the dusty yellow ground around them. Exactly where the blood was coming from it was hard to tell. Both men were injured and running closer to empty. They were slowing down, their movements becoming more pained and clumsy with each blow taken and received. Each had given his all but there had to be a victor, they knew, and the crowd remained raucous, encouraging the fighters onward.

  When the final blow came, it was vicious and absolute. The boxer, fist balled, sent a thunderous uppercut toward the shark’s jaw. A huge crack sounded out at contact. Ryker knew bones on both sides of the fight were shattered in that moment. The shout of pain from the boxer suggested his hand was in pieces, and the silence from the shark as his heavy body plummeted suggested he’d be slurping soup through a straw for several months; that was, if he ever breathed again.

  Half of the crowd erupted in delight. The other half turned away in disgust at having lost their money. None appeared concerned for the fighters.

  One man sat impassively on the bleachers, his eyes no longer on the spectacle in front of him, but on Ryker. El Jefe.

  ‘The guards just let this happen?’ Ryker asked Benito.

  Ryker had spoken quietly enough but the use of his unfamiliar tongue still drew several suspicious glances from around him, as though the inmates had suddenly recalled that they had a gringo in their midst.

  ‘What could they do?’ Benito asked. ‘The guards do what they can, but they have to keep the men happy also. The guards don’t run this place. He does.’

  Ryker locked onto Lozano again. El Jefe didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, just stared. Slowly the noise from the crowd died down. All eyes turned to Ryker.

  Finally, Ryker broke eye contact with Lozano and stared at the faces in front of him. He knew what was coming.

  Someone shoved Ryker hard in the back and he stumbled forward. The men around him shuffled and shifted positions so that Ryker was at the centre of the ring. The men in front of Ryker parted and out stepped a giant of a man. At least he was a giant compared to the mainly diminutive prisoners. He was probably only an inch bigger than Ryker, but more hefty in the frame. He certainly looked like a true warrior with his prison inked tattoos intersected by many raised lines of flesh – scars – that ran across his bare torso.

  The crowd were beside themselves with anticipation. Ryker stood still and sized up the man mountain. Yeah he was big and menacing but Ryker betted he was nothing more than an over-sized thug. Even before he’d become an agent for the JIA Ryker had been a natural brawler. His training for the JIA in all manner of close combat techniques, both armed and unarmed, had made him something of a fighting machine. Ryker fully believed he could put this guy down for good within seconds. It wouldn’t even be a contest. Ryker would deliver a killer blow as quickly as he could, no need to entertain the crowd.

  ‘Don’t do it, gringo,’ Benito called. ‘Don’t fight. Remember what I said.’

  While Ryker wanted nothing more than to send a message to every one of the men in front of him, he heeded Benito’s words. He had nothing to prove to these people. Whatever the reason for his incarceration, fighting the other prisoners wasn’t the answer.

  Some of the inmates chanted in unison; La Bestia. The Beast. Ryker had seen enough. He turned away from his would-be opponent and moved toward the ring of men. As he approached, the looks on their faces changed. Most of them looked somewhat scared with the looming foreigner descending on them.

  Then, from the crowd, two men stepped forward. Each was carrying a large metal pole. Ryker stopped. He turned and looked around the ring again. Five men in total, all armed with iron bars, now provided an inner cordon. Ryker was going nowhere. Not unless he was intent on fighting them all off.

  ‘Don’t do it, gringo,’ Ryker heard Benito call again.

  Ryker turned back and looked over to Lozano once more, who for the first time had the faintest of smiles. He nodded and the Beast moved forward. Ryker stood statue-like as he came within reach. The Beast glanced one last time at his master who showed no reaction. As he turned, Ryker caught a glimpse of the same tattoo on the Beast’s back as he’d seen on the other two fighters.

  Then the Beast threw his fist forward. Ryker didn’t even try to defend himself from the blow. The balled knuckles sunk into Ryker’s belly and even though his muscles had been tensed and ready, the force of the blow still sent him a step back and knocked the wind from him. For a few seconds, Ryker’s vision blurred and his heart raced. Ryker fought through it to stand upright and gaze at El Jefe.

  Not a second later, the Beast attacked again. This time his fist caught Ryker’s jaw, then a second strike crashed into Ryker’s ear. With the blows undefended, Ryker found himself down on one knee, much to the delight of the crowd who were cheering and whooping.

  It took Ryker a few more seconds to recover, but as soon as he could he was back on his feet, standing squarely, eyes on El Jefe.

  ‘Fight him!’ the crowd shouted.

  At least Ryker thought that was what they were saying – some undoubtedly had money on the gringo after all. But many others were calling for the Beast to finish Ryker off.

  The Beast came forward again, he spun in an arc and sent his elbow hurtling toward Ryker’s face. Ryker did nothing but blink as the sharp bone smacked into his cheek and eye, and sent him flying backward. Ryker landed in a heap on the floor. He tried again to get up but this time couldn’t. His brain willed him to fight against impending unconsciousness, but his body felt disconnected. The shouting of the men around him quietened as Ryker drifted.

  But Ryker beat it. Groggily, he pulled himself back to his feet. The Beast looked surprised, but slightly amused too. The crowd was now screaming and shouting even louder than before, many of the men now on Ryker’s side it seemed. The Beast looked over to Lozano who nodded again.

  A second later, an unseen spectator flung an iron bar into the ring. The Beast caught it and glared over at Ryker viciously.

  ‘No, please,’ Ryker heard above the noise of the crowd. He thought it was Benito. He wasn’t sure to whom the words were directed.

  Regardless, Ryker couldn’t stand there any longer. Fists and elbows were one thing, but an iron bar to the skull? Ryker wouldn’t stand and take a potentially fatal blow. He’d wanted to ride over the fight, to provide no satisfaction for El Jefe and his minions, show strength by not fighting. Maybe if he’d just stayed on the ground the last time...

  There was only one thing Ryker could do now.

  With a snarling face, the Beast lunged toward Ryker, the bar arcing through the air, aiming directly for Ryker’s head. Ryker remained passive as long as he could, not wanting to give
away his change of heart. At the last second, Ryker thrust both arms forward and caught the flying bar in his hands. It took all his strength to stop the bar’s momentum, but taking a step back he just managed it.

  He didn’t give the Beast a second. Ryker swivelled and swung out a leg, catching the Beast below the knees and sweeping both his feet from the ground. With the Beast on his way down, Ryker crashed his arm onto the Beast’s chest, and the big man thumped to the ground, letting out a painful exhale. Ryker stood over him, the iron bar now in his hand, wielded above the Beast’s head.

  The crowd was silent for a second. Ryker looked into the angry but defeated eyes of his competitor, then back over to Lozano, whose face was impassive.

  ‘Hazlo!’ The crowd chanted. ‘Acabar con él!’

  Do it. Finish him.

  Ryker’s arms were tensed and twitching; it was a struggle to keep himself from smashing the iron bar into the Beast’s face. The noise from the crowd grew louder and louder...

  No. Ryker dropped the bar. It clattered to the ground next to the Beast’s face.

  Seconds later, all hell broke loose. Ryker could only guess with no clear victor, no money would be paid out. Or maybe this was just how every playtime finished. The ring dispersed as one by one mini-fights broke out within the crowd.

  Within moments, virtually every man in the yard was involved in a grand scuffle. Even the Beast was caught up in the melee, as was Benito. Ryker had to fend off two more swipes from iron-bar-wielding cons before he heard a chorus of whistles. Heavy black boots stampeded across the yard, the guards coming to restore peace and order – if it could be called that. Or maybe they just wanted to have their share of fun.

  Ryker took a baton to the gut as three guards descended on him. He initially resisted their attack, but soon decided it was another fight he didn’t really need.

  Seconds later, he was face down on the ground, sucking in dirt through his bloodied nose, while a guard clasped handcuffs around his wrists.