Caribbean Gold

CHAPTER SIX

Rob Russo was a big man, a broad, chunky muscle-bound figure with a rock-hard presence and a head like a boulder. The physical presence couldn’t be altered, but the man beneath was entirely interchangeable. Russo was a first-class soldier, through and through, but had a deep, caring heart and a personable nature.

Once you got to know him.

The container that was his jail cell echoed to a chorus of malicious cheering.

Russo’s captives, instead of questioning him, had each decided to fight him. Russo stood at the center of the container, a large man covered in tattoos snuffling in his face like a fierce bull. A haymaker missed him by an inch. Russo backed away. Men cheered and laughed around him, eight of them. Russo wished the number was a little less, he could probably have taken them out. But eight in such a tight space? No chance. The bull came in again, roaring this time. Russo took a blow to the chest so the man opened himself up, then came down hard with elbows and a knee to the stomach. Bull-Face fell to one knee.

Russo hesitated.

A mistake he rarely made, but worry for his fellow captives and their unknown fates played havoc with his senses. Bull-Face drove up off one knee, striking Russo under the chin and sending him reeling. Russo struck the back of the container with a loud bang, but the attack brought some clarity. Russo saw the bull charging again, sidestepped rather niftily for a man his size and helped the running bulk on its way. The bull struck the metal solidly, face-first, and slithered slowly to the floor.

Russo turned to face the man who’d been talking. “There’s no point to this. Nobody wins.”

“Are you not having fun, big lad? We are. It’s not often we get a big lad to play with. This is what we do. Day an’ night. Don’t worry ’bout hittin’ hard.”

The next in line stepped up, a scrawny rake with hard knots for muscles. Stripped to the waist, his body bore bruises both new and old, attesting heavily to these men’s pastimes. He came at Russo instantly and hard, not caring about taking a hit and trying to bring the big man down with some well-placed nerve-cluster shots. Russo was aware of them all, striking back in a similar manner. The two circled each other like wary animals until the sound of a phone ringing distracted the leader.

“Shit, that’ll be Jensen.”

Men grinned as if admitting they’d gotten a little distracted, but the leader was clearly worried. “Just keep it down. Hello?”

“What have you got?”

“Umm, nothing yet, boss. Guy’s tighter than a zip tie.” A grin at his men for thinking fast.

“Then what’s all the noise for?”

“Ah…”

Russo chose that moment to roar loudly and take the scrawny man down, using the element of surprise without guilt, knocking him out with a single punch to the right temple. As if in answer, Jensen’s voice roared out of the open cell.

“Stop fucking around, Holmes, and get me some answers!”

Holmes spent another few minutes apologizing and then turned a red face to Russo. “Get him tied down. We have to go to work.”

Russo evaluated the situation. Seven against one. Was it worth a shot? Was it worth risking potential broken bones now or waiting for a better chance later? It was always hard to pass an opportunity by when your life might depend on it.

Fight now? Or later?

He heard noises outside the container and wondered if anyone else might be abroad tonight. There was always that chance. He might not see eye to eye with the inimitable Alicia Myles, but he’d follow her into any battle. She would always have his back.

There was just a chance that she might make it.

Russo sat himself down in the chair.