The Swords of Babylon (Matt Drake 6)

by Leadbeater, David

  Men stood up. Zanko came to a stop and motioned Drake onward. “Go on! Meet your new cellmates. This is where we leave you. We have a great deal of business to attend.” The big man’s muscles flexed as if eager to get started.

  Razin eyed Drake one last time. “You made a mistake, killing my men, shutting down my operation. You see, even a small abduction ring like that has its benefits. Some of these men though—” he gestured at the packed mess hall. “They broke bread with Kovalenko. Others – they were his comrades.”

  The two Russians turned and walked away along the corridor between two rows of cells. An arched heavily-barred gate lay at the far end. Guards were stationed outside, watching.

  Drake turned back to the mess hall. The tumult had certainly lessened, most of the inmates craning their necks to get a glimpse of the fresh meat. Drake decided standing alone in the middle of nowhere like the new kid in school probably wasn’t the cleverest approach, so he made for the food bays. A big clock, set high above the mess hall, told him that the time was 1800 hours Russian time. That puts it at what? he thought, 1000 hours, Washington time? Of course, he didn’t actually know how long he had been out. Could have been hours. Could have been days. Still . . . the team would hopefully be on their way.

  A great bulk blocked his path, craggy sweat-streaked face leaning in until their noses were inches apart. A hand was laid deliberately on his chest and shoved him backward. The man spoke in Russian; harsh, guttural, vicious Russian.

  Drake shook his head. “No speakee da Russkie.”

  He had processed this scenario already. There was no winning option. If this were an American or English jail he would take this man down and then the next, at least try to stave off any further challenges. But here? There were about five hundred men watching him, at least half of them probably wanted to take his head off.

  Playing for time remained his only option.

  The man stood up, making himself look big. Drake was treated to the sight of his six pack and rippling arm muscles. When the haymaker came Drake evaded it, slipping out of reach.

  “Look. I don’t want to fight you. Your boss – he needs information from me.” Drake tapped his head. “Important. Information. Dah?”

  The prisoner roared and steamed forward. Drake met him head on with an elbow that whipped the man’s head back hard, then sent him crashing to the ground. Immediately he skipped away, holding both his hands up.

  The prisoner struggled to his knees. Now, behind him, Drake saw a row of men approaching from the gym area, dumbbells still clutched in sweaty hands, nostrils flaring, and eyes wide with anger. He backed away, circumventing the mess area and angling toward a far wall where he saw a series of open doors. As he slowly sidestepped, the group of men kept pace. Drake saw a trio of guards, positioned around the eating prisoners, watching with interest. They carried batons. Other guards, situated in sealed-off balconies above, carried automatic weapons. He wondered if he might be able to reach one of them.

  The first room he reached was empty save for a bolted-down table. The second room led to what looked like a visitor’s room, the third led to the showers. Maybe not. It was the second room that interested him most. It had other doors leading off it. Maybe they led to the kitchens and laundry room. Maybe there was a place he could hole up.

  Then a hooter sounded and the mess hall began to empty out. Even so, several more interested parties drifted toward Drake. One of them shouted at him in English, another scooted across the floor like a monkey. Yet another started to literally rip his vest away in shreds and pound at his chest, bellowing until spittle flew from his lips. The hostile environment lay heavy with the intent of violence. Faced by over a dozen enraged Russian inmates, Drake had reached the end of the line.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mai Kitano struggled through a storm of emotion as the fast jet touched down just outside Moscow. Would the adversities of her life never let up? Having fought clear of her conflict-laden past and her demanding government employers, she had now rediscovered the man she had once loved, only to lose him again.

  The life of a . . . she paused her thought. What the hell was she anyway? Ex-ninja. Ex-member of one of the most notorious clans in Japanese history. Trained assassin. Yakuza infiltrator and destroyer. Cosplay champion. Sprite.

  That last description entered her head when the face of Alicia Myles popped around the corner of the open airplane door. Myles didn’t look happy.

  “What the fuck, guys? I’m gone two days. In Alicia-time, that’s eight shags. And you can’t even hang on to my favorite team member? Fuck!”

  Dahl approached her. “We have a few bits and pieces to catch up on.” He motioned her back down the steps. “Shall we?”

  “Oh, we shall,” Alicia mimicked the Swede’s accent. “But it’s a bitch of a day out here, Torsty. Better bring your long johns.”

  Mai rose from her seat and grabbed her pack. Kinimaka lumbered along before her, barely able to squeeze down the aisle, following in Hayden’s footsteps as ever. She drifted patiently in their wake. Once outside, the sharp air whipped her face and stung her eyes. The group wasted no time in hurrying inside, traversing a drafty corridor before Hayden led them into an enormous hanger. A gleaming black Chevrolet minivan stood before them, doors flung wide.

  “This is it,” Hayden said. “We have the timber yard’s address. We go in hard, fast and without mercy. This is not an exploratory mission, guys, this is search and destroy. Are we ready?”

  Everyone nodded. Alicia quickly suited up. Dahl had one last thing to say, “And when we grab one of these bastards, you do anything necessary to make them talk. Anything.”

  Hayden pocketed two Glocks and hefted a bigger gun. “That’s one of our own out there. Let’s go send these assholes straight to hell.”

  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 breat
hed. “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.”

  “God, Yorgi. How long have you been in here?”

  A heavy silence followed. Then Yorgi sniffed. “I don’t know.”

  Drake abruptly closed his mouth, the words he was about to speak lost forever, as they heard voices below. Two men conversing equably in Russian. Drake listened until they went away and then stretched his aching joints.

  “Yorgi. If you can, I’d like to hear about the swords.”

  “I know a little. Razin is looking for the seven Swords of Babylon in the old ruins. Once he finds them they will make him leader of the world, or something.” Yorgi laughed quietly. “He’s a nutcase. But he’s our nutcase.”

  “Where did he come across this information?”

  “Well, I suppose it must be from that professor guy. The one he abducted.”

  “Abducted?”

  “Story goes that one of Razin’s lieutenants, Maxim I think, got the call that some American professor was digging around the old site of ancient Babylon and asking some very leading questions. He would go into the bigger towns and cities and talk about Alexander the Great and his golden swords, about some powerful towers, and ramble on about earth energy. He was looking for any information he could get. Now anyone who knows about Alexander also knows there’s a great deal yet to find relating to him, including his body, his tomb. Anything relating to him could be worth a fortune. So when the Russians got wind of the professor’s investigations, they nabbed him.”

  Drake whistled. “He stood out further than Posh Spice’s ribs. And he’s American?”

  “They say.”

  “Do you know where they’re keeping him?”

  Yorgi stayed quiet. Drake sensed a trade coming on. “Yorgi?”

  “Why are you so interested? I have heard a little more, yes. But I do not want to spend the rest of my life rotting away in this place.”

  “You have my word, matey. If I escape, I’ll take you with me.”

  “Okay. I heard them complaining that they have to escort him daily through Red Square. So it must be close by. I will try to trade for more information.”

  “Good. But be careful—” Drake managed to stop himself by gritting his teeth hard. Why the hell was he telling a Russian thief to be careful in prison? Old habits die hard, he thought. Even in this hellhole.

  “I will. I do have plenty to trade.” Yorgi laughed. “But you have to go back now. If you’re quiet you’ll make it back to your cell. It’s after lockdown. Tomorrow—” Yorgi shrugged. “I may not be able to help you.”
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  Drake frowned. “Won’t they have missed me at roll call?”

  Yorgi grinned. “You really think they care about that kind of thing in this prison?”

  Drake shrugged and looked around. “I can’t stay here?”

  “Razin would tear this place apart looking for you. There are more men than me who use this rat hole as a haven. And at least some of them are worth saving.” Yorgi sighed heavily. “I am sorry. You must go.”

  Drake nodded. “I think we’ll need another day, Yorgi. But be ready. Be ready when it all kicks off.”

  “How will I know?”

  “Oh. You’ll certainly know when my friends arrive.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mai held on tight as Dahl swung the minivan around a final corner and powered hard toward the battered gates that fronted the Russian timber yard.

  “Bastards!” he cried as he burst through, hyped up to the max, as they all were at the thought of one of their friends being held behind enemy lines. There would be no respite, no quarter given, until Drake was safe.

  The gates smashed apart, crashing against the side walls of the building and buckling. These were most likely the same gates that Drake and Romero had breached, bent and damaged even before Dahl sent them to a rusty heaven.

  The minivan screeched to a halt in the middle of the yard. Dusk was setting behind the high overladen timber racks, but there was still enough light for the strike team to see their way. A cabin stood in front of them, spilling bright light, the only door at the top of a set of concrete steps. Dahl raced ahead, gun held high. Even Mai and Alicia had to hurry to keep up with him.

  The door was flung open. Dahl didn’t hesitate. He shot the man who stepped through in the stomach and waited a moment as he tumbled down the steps and hit the yard, face first. His groans of agony told them he was out of the fight, but still useful for torturing information out of. Dahl stepped over him, Mai now at his back. She had experienced no after-effects from the tasing, at least not physically. The actual knowledge of being beaten and losing Drake had hurt far more than any electrical charge or bullet.