The Swords of Babylon

CHAPTER FIVE

Drake was led along the walkway and toward a set of stairs. The tumult below grew louder as he approached. Zanko padded along at his side, a gleeful gorilla, promising even worse endings to Drake than the dreaded unwashed armpit smothering. The boss, Nikolai Razin, came last, saying nothing. Drake wondered what the man had been fishing for. His only hope here in this bleak and hopeless place was to play for time until the team arrived, which he had no doubt would happen. It was just a question of when.

“So how do your seven swords figure in with the history of the Tombs of the Gods?” He paused at the top of the stair.

“Ah, do not worry about that. We will talk again later if you can still function. Eight hours is a long time to be alone in a Russian prison, my friend.”

Zanko patted his head, almost breaking his neck. “Tough man like this? He’ll be giving the orders by tonight.” His guffaw rang out stridently. “Now get moving, little man. Or maybe you need the toilet first?”

Drake felt himself pushed, and flew down three steps before managing to stay his fall. As he descended, the prison mess hall came into view and, closer by, the makeshift gym. Big men sat around on low benches, pumping iron, lifting loaded arm weights, toweling off, or psyching themselves up for the next big lift.

As Drake approached the ground floor, every hooded pair of eyes lifted to take a look at him. A thick wave of loathing arrowed across the spaces between them, drenching him in revulsion. This was so much more than intimidation. Despite all his training, Drake found it almost impossible not to show fear.

Do not look away. He repeated it to himself as a mantra. The trick was to not look directly into their eyes, which would give the impression of a challenge, but also not to let his own eyes turn downcast, which was a sign of weakness and submission. Although here, in this jail, none of that would make a difference.

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.