Usher crouched down and studied the tattoo.
“It is. I recognize it. This man fought out of Grendel’s Gym in Bethnal Green.”
Christi furrowed her brow. “I know that name from your mission brief. We’ve had it under surveillance for a while.”
Usher stood up and rolled out his tired shoulders.
“That’s because it’s run by Dmitri Sarkhov. It’s the gym I’ll be infiltrating tomorrow under my cover identity. So the next fighter on this floor could be me.”
13
Usher and Christi pulled up outside the Tufnell Park flat. They sat in their Ford Focus, observing the environment. It was early evening and the sky had a dreamy red hue flecked with streaky blue clouds.
Usher was dressed casually in jeans, hiking boots and sporty showerproof jacket, passing himself off as a regular civilian. It seemed casual, but to someone looking for it, everything was too practical and hard wearing, the jacket had too many functional pockets and there was a multi tool and mini torch looped through the belt of his jeans.
He and Christi were shaken after witnessing today’s crime scene. Humans could be brutal to one another but the level of violence perpetrated by things from the other side never ceased to shock them.
Usher was glad to have Christi with him. Their friendship was based on shared hardship, a respect for each other’s skills, and a dark sense of humour. She had pulled his unconscious body from a burning Humvee in Pakistan, she had field dressed a bullet wound to his shoulder in Somalia, and even rescued him from an aggressively amorous ladyboy in Bangkok. They had helped one another out of a lot of scrapes, ones neither of them should have survived.
They had seen and fought monsters together. He saw the fear in her eyes too, the fear she would hide from everyone else. The war on terror they all fought in their own heads every time they turned up for work.
She took the key from her pocket and slotted it in the front door of the safehouse.
“Right, seems fine, let’s go in and put the kettle on, I need a brew.”
The interior of the flat was as Spartan as they expected, spacious and dry yet possessing only the most basic home comforts.
Usher walked into the sparse bedroom of the flat, put his suitcase down on the bed and unzipped it. He took out the top layer of perfectly folded functional clothing, along with his one allowed luxury, a bag of chocolate coated peanuts. Underneath there was a box containing a compact digital camera, several fibre optic cameras with drill attachment, a number of small concealed listening devices, and an encrypted mobile phone. Next to that was a small laptop which Usher set up on the desk and turned on. He inserted a memory stick and open one of the attached files named Chromium Project. As Usher sat down on the edge of the bed and began to absorb his cover story, Christi appeared at the door with two steaming mugs of hot black coffee.
“Gasping mate are you? Here get this down you.”
Usher yawned and took the mug. Christi sat down on the bed next to him, turned on the TV, and flicked through the channels until they found BBC News 24.
Images of the Canary Wharf attack were being broadcast round the clock. Speculation was rife and all manner of experts were being called in to comment and analyse on the events. Grainy CCTV images of the terrorists had somehow been leaked and gone viral on YouTube. The comments were varied and ranged from God’s punishment on Capitalism to Al Qaeda Werewolves loose in London.
Usher was almost glad at some of the comments the fringe experts were spouting. The soothsayers and quacks actually detracted from the reality of the attack, made it seem like less of a credible event. Many were already speaking of doctored footage and elaborate hoaxes. The grey haired male newsreader was comparing this with eye witness interviews describing giants and ogres with guns, and hospital reports showing the wards filled with horrific casualties.
The two operatives watched the footage with a deep sense of trepidation. Usher was mentally preparing for going deep undercover in the morning. All the background had been prearranged, the contacts made. He knew his stuff but still felt the nerves.
Christi lit up a cigarette and nodded, never taking her eyes from the news footage of the casualties. “You take care of yourself tomorrow.”
Usher opened the file of the mafia boss he would be trying to get close to. Dmitri Sarkhov. Profiteering from the war against the Unseelie. The worst kind of collaborator.
“Aye.”
Late that night Usher woke up in a cold fevered sweat.
He had dreamt of his wife and son, glass breaking, screaming and shadowy creatures prowling through their suburban house. Usher was trying to help them but he couldn’t move, his entire body was paralyzed in the bed. He tried to scream but nothing came out. As his family were carried away like flies wrapped in gossamer, something horribly thin and black staggered up to him in the shadows on sinewy stick-legs. In a foul smelling whisper it spoke into his ear.
Ours now.
Usher sat there on the edge of the bed, catching his breath. It seemed this time he could not compartmentalize his fear, and his instinct told him it was for good reason.
Those huge warriors that had attacked London, they were bred for a purpose and Usher did not think Canary Wharf was it. There was something familiar about the way they moved, their tactics, their drills. They were like some horrible hall of mirrors version of Empire One. He knew that sooner or later he would have to face them. He had a sinking feeling that it wouldn’t be on his terms.
PART TWO: INFILTRATION
14
Usher felt the burn in his calves as the jump rope rhythmically whizzed over his head.
Whooshskitskitskitskitskitwhooshskitskitskit.
For two weeks he had been getting back into shape, his muscle memory remembering the cage fighting days of his youth. Slowly ingratiating himself with the mafia bodyguards and enforcers that frequented the gym, establishing his reputation and criminal credentials. His false background had stood up to questioning and no doubt an investigation. He had been sparring partner to some of the organization’s biggest bruisers and held his own. There was nothing these sorts of people respected more than fighting prowess and that seemed to have gotten Usher into their trust faster than any false ID.
The Mixed Martial Art’s gym smelled of sour sweat, old leather, and Tiger Balm. It wasn’t pleasant, but it comforted Usher in an odd sort of way and reminded him of his younger days, when he had competed in a number of fights in the States.
From his vantage point in the corner Usher was afforded a good view of the comings and goings in the gym. It was a large converted riverside warehouse, with peeling whitewashed walls plastered with numerous posters of previous fight nights and photographs of alumni. Large multifaceted windows allowed plenty of light in, and there was a ring, heavy bags, speedballs, and a weights area with medicine balls and dumbbells. In the background the constant low thrum of skipping could be heard, peppered with rhythmic thup of bag and pad drills, forming an urban symphony of focussed violence.
Usher knew who ran this gym, and who frequented it. That man was standing at the edge of the ring, giving one of the coaches a piece of his mind. The same man he had seen trading with the Unseelie in Egypt. The coach didn’t look the larger man in the eyes as he took whatever criticism was levelled at him. Usher wasn’t surprised.
Sarkhov was a Russian mob boss with a fearsome reputation as an example-maker and prison rapist. He had earned his reputation in Kopeysk, a brutal Siberian penal colony, a place of such poor conditions, abuse and brutality, it was said it could reduce men to beasts within a year. Sarkhov had apparently flourished there.
He had organized pit fights in the prison yard in those days, so that any inmate with a grudge or vendetta had to channel his violence for the entertainment of the rest, with Sarkhov in tight control of the organization and profiteering from each grudge match. When he was released, he continued his passion, setting up a network of illegal boxing matches across Europe.
Ushe
r put down the jump rope and started on the heavy bag. He began slow, putting together a few basic combinations, letting the old muscle memory slowly wake up in the fibres of his flesh. Within a few minutes the blood began to flow, the strikes began to happen out with his conscious control, finding their own broken rhythm.
Two weeks of training here every day, keeping his head down, focussing only on the training and surreptitiously observing the comings and goings of the fight gym.
Usher had been practising for around twenty minutes, the sweat lashing off his face and soaking into the back of his grey hoodie, when he saw someone waving at him from the other side of the gym.
Looking across, the head trainer, Kramer, a wiry fifty something old veteran of many fights, was snapping his fingers and beckoning Usher across to the ringside. Next to him stood two hulking black coated bodyguards, or byki, and Dmitri Sarkhov.
Usher felt his heart beat faster with more than just exertion. He composed himself, ran his cover story through his mind, then threw a towel over his shoulders and walked confidently over to the Russians.
Showtime.
As he got closer Kramer put a hand on Usher’s shoulder. Usher was sure he felt the older man’s hand shaking a little.
“Dmitri, this is the guy I’ve been telling you about, good scrapper, think maybe we could have some use for him?”
Sarkhov did not even look at Usher. He kept staring at Kramer. “You have let me down today Kramer. This fight I have been arranging for three months. You promise me four good fighters, known men, named men. Today you tell me three of them are in prison, for a failed robbery of a bank. The other you tell me has broken his arm in training. Why should I even entertain this stranger who you present to me as if he was a prize?”
Usher raised an eyebrow at the big Russian.
“Because I’m the man that broke the other guy’s arm.”
Usher could feel Kramer’s hand tense on his shoulder as if warning him not to get smart with this man. Usher knew that he had this one chance to prove himself to be a feared man, someone to be reckoned with, if he ever hoped to be allowed to enter into the Russian’s secret fighting circuit.
Sarkhov’s eyes scrolled over towards Usher in what felt like slow motion, eyeing him the way one might inspect a racehorse.
“Hmm, your name is Tom, Kramer tells me. Tom Fool maybe? You have just got out of prison he says. Where were you?”
Usher used the towel to dry the sweat from his hair. He did not break eye contact with Dmitri. “Saughton, in Scotland. Three years.”
“Robbery and assault. I have heard. British prisons, they are not the same as prisons where I am from. Easier. But a violent man amongst violent men is just another man. You are nothing special in this company. And my fights. My fights are not like other fights. No tap out, no rounds, finish means finish. You understand?”
Usher nodded. “I do. I’ve done the circuit, gone toe to toe with the best mankind has to offer. I’m looking for something special.”
Dmitri raised an eyebrow.
“His veil is lifted? He knows, he has seen?”
Usher’s trainer nodded.
“Be careful for what you ask. Once a man has seen what is behind the veil, he is sworn to secrecy on pain of death. But I think you are not made of the right stuff.”
Usher could see he was going to have to prove himself here in another way. He sighed, knew what he had to do. He looked past Dmitri to the hulking bodyguard at his side.
“What do you say Igor? Feel like earning your money today?”
The bodyguard remained impassive, flicked his eyes to his boss, who nodded. This seemed to make the man come alive, and he smiled a broad gap toothed grin at Usher, then took off his great woollen black overcoat and hung it over the ropes. Usher gestured for the man to make his way into the ring, and noticed that for a big man he sprung surprisingly nimbly over the ropes.
He took off his tie and white shirt, revealing a hugely muscled and scarred torso covered in symbolic mafia tattoos. Many of them Usher recognized, killer, robber, assassin for hire, a CV written on his skin. In the centre of his chest, next to what looked like the scar of a horrific animal bite, was a symbol Usher did not recognize. A swirling ornate symbol that reminded him of the demonic symbols he had once seen in the medieval texts he had been forced to study during training. Dmitri smiled a predatory smile at Usher.
“You are no judge of character.”
Usher walked over to the ringside and prepared to enter. Kramer held his arm and whispered to him.
“Tom. I don’t know you well, but what I have seen of you I trust. Don’t get in the ring with this man.”
Usher peered up at the grim faced Russian, who was limbering up and shadow boxing.
“He looks capable Kramer, wouldn’t be any point to be in there if he wasn’t.”
Kramer shook his head.
“It’s more than that. Look, I don’t know how much you understand about the world, how it really is. About the secret world underneath. Usually I can tell if someone has had the veil lifted. There is something in their eyes and I saw it in yours when you first walked in here.”
Usher knew exactly the look Kramer meant. He had seen it in so many people’s eyes over the years. People who had seen things that ought to be impossible, scabbing their minds forever with its ugly truth. A haunted, disillusioned look.
“Do you mean do I know about the boogieman? Yes Kramer, I do.”
Kramer did not let go of Usher’s arm.
“That tattoo on his chest, the strange design. Russians only get a new tattoo when they have performed a task, proven themselves in some way. That one he wears, next to that scar that is no dog bite, means he has fought, proven himself in the Secret Arena.”
He looked up at the bodyguard in the ring. Well, he was scarred, but still standing, so clearly not every human got killed. Still, that did give Usher pause for thought. If this man could survive a fight with whatever monster the Court had thrown at him, what chance did he have?
No time for that kind of thinking now, there was work to be done.
Usher hopped lightly up into the ring.
“Ok Igor, about to give you a new tattoo.” Usher extended his thumb and forefinger and placed it on his forehead. “Big L.”
The big man, whom Usher had Christened Igor, cracked his head to each side, loosening his trapezius muscles, and then without warning ducked his head and prison rushed Usher, aiming to take him off his feet in a crude rugby tackle.
He collided with Usher like a charging bull, knocking the air from his lungs in a guttural cough.
Shit this guy is strong.
Usher didn’t want to end up on the ground with this guy, didn’t know his capabilities yet, but knew if the Russian managed to get on top of him, he would ground and pound him into submission in seconds. So Usher sprawled, an old wrestling move where he shot his legs backwards and fell down onto the back of his opponent, hooking his strong arm under his chin to attempt a headlock. His aim was to scramble behind the big Russian and get him in a rear choke as early as possible, ending the fight by cutting off the blood flow to his brain. That was the sort of technique that would take the other man’s superior strength out of the equation, but Usher never got a chance to find out.
“Igor” lifted Usher clean off his feet over his shoulders and slammed him down onto the ring. Usher felt that waves of impact shuddering through his ribs and lower back, the kind of jarring pain that makes time stand still while it fully registers.
Just as Usher was recovering from this, Igor slammed his full weight down on top of him, his forearm impacting across Usher’s clavicle and sternum. Usher instinctively curled up in a ball to protect his vital organs and shield himself from the pain.
Igor stood up, turned to face his boss, and shrugged his shoulders to say no contest.
Usher opened his eyes half way, trying to focus through the pain, in just enough time to see the shrug. That was what he needed to see. The arrog
ance riled him like nothing he could imagine. His lungs felt like two crumpled brown paper bags, his back like a tenderized steak, but her rolled up onto his knees, then pistoled up onto his feet, shaking out his shoulders and arms. He spat blood out on the ring at the big Russian’s feet.
“Warm enough?”
Usher tried not to show the pain he felt.
The Russian looked to his boss, who gave a small nod of the head, a nod Usher knew he had given a thousand times before, a nod that for a dog owner would have meant go kill.
The mobster closed in on Usher with murder in his eyes. Usher grinned back at him.
Fine, so that’s the rules pal.
Igor threw several sharp jabs at Usher, testing his defences. On the fourth jab Usher brought one arm hard up behind his neck forming a prickle elbow and with the other shot out and grabbed the man behind his sweaty, bull neck. Usher quickly drew the big man in and clasped both his hands behind his head in a tight clinch. As soon as he had him, Usher jerked his body this way and that, keeping him off balance, then shot four fast knee strikes up into his ribcage.
The animal grunts and spittle that issued from the Russian’s mouth, as well as the grinding crepitus Usher felt buckle under his knees, told him that he had cracked a rib with the third strike. Seizing the moment, he drew Igor’s head sharply down and raised his left knee fast and hard to the man’s temple twice, which sent him reeling onto the ropes.
By this time Usher was seeing red and smelling blood, so launched himself over to the corner and began pummelling elbows into Igor’s quickly swelling features.
The crimson haze had risen in Usher, all the fear he had ever felt in every war, the horrific injuries he had witnessed, that he had inflicted on others, flashing before his eyes. The focus that comes with realizing that survival only exists by travelling through this person trying to harm you, like a dark train tunnel he had to travel through to reach the light.
The Last Line Series One Page 12