Page 91 of Savage Reckoning

I do as I’m told. Ivanov and Kislev are stationed behind him, also armed. They bundle me back through the salon and up onto the deck. The wind hits me, and I remember the jacket I abandoned in the storeroom.

“My coat…” I begin.

Ivanov cackles viciously. He has the jacket and flings it over the side into the sea. “You freeze,” he sneers.

In the dim half-light, I make out a harbour. It’s a ramshackle affair, a rough wooden jetty and a handful of single-storey brick-built structures dotted close by. A pair of dark-coloured SUVs are parked at the end of the jetty.

One of the crew secures a gangplank, and I’m shoved towards it. I stumble forward to make my way back onto dry land.

Where Sokolov is waiting.

He smiles at me, his prominent gold upper incisor glittering. “Mr Sawyer. How fortuitous to see you again. I could hardly believe it when my comrades informed me of your capture.”

“Long time no see,” I mutter.

“Indeed. But such a happy reunion, for me at least. I fear you may come to disagree.”

“I was never one for raking over old times,” I spit. “Least of all with a slimy fuck like you.”

He regards me in silence, strokes his chin, then nods to one of the guards. “Take out his knee. The right one.”

The bullet penetrates my kneecap, slicing from front to back. I collapse in agony.

“You need to learn some manners,” Sokolov announces, bending to examine the damage. “That can be a start. Oh, and don’t worry too much about the injury, you won’t be walking again.”

I leave a trail of blood as I’m dragged from the jetty over to one of the SUVs, then heaved into the boot. The lid is slammed shut, and I’m in darkness once more.

I drift in and out of consciousness, so I’ve no idea how long I’m in that boot. Neither do I know where I am, could be anywhere in Northern Europe, I suppose. The pain in my knee is blinding, and my jeans are soaked in blood, though the worst of the bleeding seems to have slowed.

The boot lid opens, and I’m yanked unceremoniously out. It’s still daylight, and I’m lying on tarmac that smells of petrol. I make out the silhouette of an industrial building.

Two men who I’ve not seen before grab me by the ankles and haul me across the ground towards the building. I scream in agony, which amuses them. They’re laughing when they haul me through the raised shutter door and into the hangar-like structure.

I must have passed out again, because the next thing I know, I’m seated on a chair in the middle of the space, my arms tied behind me and my feet secured to the chair legs. I raise my head to look round.

The entire place is empty, save for the SUVs parked at one end. A huddle of men cluster around the vehicles, smoking and chatting. All are armed, all are itching to use their weapons at the least provocation.

One glances my way and spots that I’m conscious. He nudges one of his companions, who leans into one of the SUVs to speak to the occupant. Moments later, Sokolov emerges, a sick grin on his pudgy face.

He saunters over to me and grabs my hair to force my head back. “Nice to see you back with us, Mr Sawyer. Now we can have some fun.”

I spit in his face. It seems like the only reasonable course of action.

He steps back and wipes the spittle from his cheek. His smile never wavers as he beckons one of his men over. The command is issued in Russian, but I can guess what it is. The guard answers with a nod, then jams the butt of his rifle into the side of my head, sending me and the chair flying. That’s followed up by a vicious kicking while I lie helpless on the concrete floor.

“Enough,” Sokolov snaps, in English this time. “It is not time to kill him yet.”

It takes two of them to right the chair. I sag against my bonds, peering at my tormentor through the one eye which still opens.

“Feel better now?” I rasp, swallowing the blood filling my mouth.

“I believe I may be getting there.” Sokolov snaps his fingers, and another chair is produced from somewhere. He extracts a handkerchief from his pocket and makes a show of dusting off any debris before settling his weight on it. “Now, we just have time for a little chat, I think.”

“Fuck you,” I manage. Seconds later, I’m on the floor again with two of them laying into me. It’s clear how this is going to go.

Sokolov evidently thinks so, too. “In our past acquaintance, I had thought you an intelligent man, for an American. I see I was mistaken. You are a fool who does not learn from his mistakes. Still, we must persevere. You will start by explaining to me when you started working for Ethan Savage.”

I close my eyes—correction, eye—and pretend to lose consciousness again. A bucket of ice-cold water over my head puts a sudden end to that escape route.

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