The Swords of Babylon

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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.