Private Moscow (Private 15)

I couldn’t understand what he’d said to Dinara and Leonid, but I sensed menace in his words. Equally, he hadn’t understood my true purpose. I’d played up being an arrogant, loud-mouth American because I’d suspected it would provoke a reaction, and it had. We now knew beyond any doubt that Erik Utkin and some or all the men in the room were involved in serious criminality they were willing to kill for.

I sensed movement to my right. One of the boxers came for me, a fit, muscular man about an inch shorter than me. He’d been on a heavy bag when we’d entered, and was marked with the dagger and serpent tattoo Dinara had recalled seeing during her abduction.

He was quick, but I dodged his first swing and pushed him past me, so he stumbled into some of his buddies. I took off my coat as he turned to face me.

A shaved head, narrow, hostile eyes, muscles that glistened with sweat, the guy wore shorts and an old Lokomotiv Moscow T-shirt. His hands were protected by light training mitts.

“Jack,” Dinara said anxiously.

I looked at her and Leonid and signaled them to stay out of this.

“OK,” I said, adopting the thinking man’s pose. “Let’s do this.” My opponent sneered and said something in Russian that made the other fighters laugh. Erik Utkin and an older, larger man, who I guessed was Makar Koslov, didn’t find any humor in the remark and remained stony-faced. Maybe they were sufficiently experienced to know that my unconventional stance might look strange to a trained boxer, but that it was very effective in a street brawl.

My opponent assumed a southpaw stance and came forward. He threw a probing jab, and I taught him a swift lesson about the difference between boxing and street fighting. I deflected the punch by raising my left hand to meet his forearm with my elbow. My right hand, which had been balled in a fist beneath my chin, whipped out and went crashing into the man’s nose.

He staggered back, dazed, and I felt the other fighters close in on us. Those to his rear pushed him forward and as he came toward me, I lashed out with a heel kick to his shin that made him yelp. Natural pain response sent his hands darting toward the injury, and I had my opening. I hit him with a jab that disorientated him, and followed up with a hammer blow to his clavicle. The fragile collarbone only requires about nine pounds of pressure to break, and my fist must have delivered over thirty.

The man went down, groaning and clutching his shoulder, and his companions, who’d been so full of laughs and jeers only moments ago, were silent. Brimming with anger and humiliation, they clustered around me and a couple grabbed my arms.

“You come in my place,” Utkin said. “And you do this?”

He gestured at the injured fighter, who was being led away by Koslov and another boxer.

“I’ll do it again and again, until we get through all the men involved in what happened,” I said. “So take a number.”

Utkin snarled and barked a command in Russian. There was a flurry of movement, and the other fighters swarmed toward Leonid and Dinara.

They stopped the moment Leonid produced his pistol, and a second later, Dinara was brandishing hers.

They both yelled in Russian and the fighters backed up. The three men who had hold of me released their grip. All ten of the hard-faced, lean fighters moved away and formed up around Utkin, who glared at us.

“You and your friends made a big mistake coming here, American,” Utkin said. “The best thing a man can do when he meets a bear is run. Only a fool goes to its cave and bothers it with a stick.”

“I don’t see any bears here,” I replied, backing away. “Just little cubs.”

“Come on,” Dinara said, tugging at my arm.

I held Erik Utkin’s gaze until the last possible moment, and once we were through the double doors, we turned and ran for the car.

CHAPTER 52

ADRENALIN WAS STILL surging through my system when we joined the highway and headed toward the city center.

“That was unexpected,” Leonid said.

“It was your idea to go there,” Dinara responded.

“To ask questions. Maybe encourage one of them to talk,” Leonid said. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “V tihom omute cherti vodyatsa.”

I looked at Dinara, who smiled.

“In quiet lagoons, devils dwell,” she translated. “He thinks you’re dangerous. Unpredictable.”

“They strike you as the kind of people who talk?” I asked Leonid.

He shrugged. “I guess not. So what now? The soft approach is dead.”

“This is about much more than fixing fights,” I replied. “Erik Utkin looked like I’d hit him with a cattle prod when I said they were covering up something big. I want you to stay on the gym,” I said to Leonid. “Follow Utkin. See if you can find out where he goes, what he does.”