As Proctor untied the secretary’s gag she groaned loudly. Tom rushed forward, ignoring the Englishman, and picked her up in his arms. He lowered her gently onto the bed pressed against the bare-brick wall, manoeuvring her so that she was in the recovery position. Close up, the extent of her beating looked even worse, and Tom noticed that her irises were a milky-white, the green pupils rolling as if she was drugged. He clenched his teeth. But Proctor was a big guy and trained, no doubt. He told himself to bury the anger. It would slow him down and cause him to make mistakes, just as Lester had said.
Tom walked backwards, joining Lester at the open doorway. As Proctor stepped forward Tom and Lester eased back out of the room. Proctor shut the door, swinging over the metal arm and locking the padlock, leaving the key in place. He led Tom and Lester into the adjacent room, which like the cell had a wooden table, although it was three times the size and had a dozen unwashed dishes on it, together with empty bottles of wine and water. The only other item was a compact DVD player. Proctor walked over to the table and lifted it, using his muscular thighs to take the weight, as he lent back and carried it over against the far wall. Clenching his jaw, Tom watched Proctor kneel down and slide in a DVD. As he pressed a button he said he thought it was a good idea to mask the sound of the fight; the secretary looked a little fragile as it was. With that, the sound of heavy metal basted out.
“Didn’t think it would be Miles Davis,” Lester said, above the din.
“Anything goes wrong, get the secretary outta here.”
Lester nodded and leaned against the whitewashed wall, cupping his injured arm. Tom removed his backpack, the MP7s, his field-scope and SIG. He walked into the centre of the room where Proctor was waiting for him.
They faced one another, a heavy drum beat and a screeching guitar cutting through the air. Proctor cracked his knuckles, threw a right hook. Tom ducked, hit him just below the heart with a stinging jab, and heard the man groan. As he straightened up he punched Proctor in the left eye, temporarily disorientating him.
He waited a second, watched the Englishman raise his guard before kicking him with the instep of his boot, connecting with Proctor’s exposed ribs. Proctor winced, but lunged forward, and, throwing a blur of combinations, brought his right boot up deceptively, catching Tom in the lower stomach. He doubled over.
Proctor unleashed a powerful uppercut, sending Tom reeling back as his teeth crunched together. He rushed at Tom, his face contorted in an ugly glare, and grabbed him around the thighs, lifting him, his momentum sending them backward. They crashed into the table, the DVD missing a few beats before starting up again. As the table rim cut into his back Tom grimaced. Proctor let go of him and weaved upward. He punched Tom on the temple with a vicious hook, which spun him around. Before he could recover, Tom felt his head being grabbed about the ears. A split second later, his forehead was smashed into the table.
Tom felt dazed and nauseous; a rivulet of blood oozed from his lacerated head. As Proctor let go of him he collapsed. Blinking as the blood seeped into his eyes, Tom glimpsed Lester raise his SIG. He just managed to shake his head a fraction, willing his friend to back off.
“Don’t get up,” Proctor said.
“I’m not done,” Tom replied, his voice barely more than a murmur.
But he couldn’t see where the next attack would come from. A swinging boot soon put paid to that disability. It crashed into his mouth, jarring his head. He spat more blood, flayed about with his right arm hopelessly like a blind man. The second kick landed between his open legs. He sucked in air and curled up into a ball, the pain so acute that he wished he’d capped Proctor when he’d had the chance.
“You had enough?” Proctor asked, backing off.
Tom moaned on the floor.
Then he calmed himself as best he could, zoning out. The pain eased a fraction. He struggled up, although his head was still a blur, his breathing reduced to short gasps. He put his arms out to steady himself. But Proctor rushed in once more, hitting Tom with a shoulder barge and grabbing him around the waist. The two men stumbled sideways, Tom vaguely attempting to elbow Proctor in the nape of his neck but failing. As he released the bear hug Proctor flipped his head up and caught Tom with the back of his skull under the chin. Tom fell again, hitting his head on the tiles, the searing pain making him almost retch as his heart rate spiked.
Proctor loomed above him and kicked him in the exposed right kidney. Tom let out an agonized cry. As he felt his head swim Proctor pulled his right leg back to kick him again. Knowing it could be his last chance, Tom galvanized his depleted strength into one action, lashing out with his leg, hitting Proctor squarely on the side of the kneecap with his toecap. Buckling, Proctor screamed out in pain. Tom willed himself up, blood covering his body, as he soaked up a hit of dopamine. Twisting sideways to lessen Proctor’s strike options, he feigned a right. Proctor’s head tilted to avoid it, and Tom hit him in the exposed jugular vein with a hook, swivelling his right side from the foot up, increasing the momentum and power. Proctor crumpled, moaning morbidly.
He hit the tiles hard, his head bouncing. Kneeling down behind him, Tom went for a sleeper hold. He wrapped his arm around the Englishman’s throat, his bicep squeezing against the right side of Proctor’s neck as his forearm pressed against the left.
Simultaneously, he used his free forearm to press the man’s head down.
He began to crush the windpipe. Proctor gasped for air like a beached fish. Bending sideways, Tom saw panic flicking across his pale-blue eyes. He knew he couldn’t find an angle of attack, and that the Englishman’s strength was ebbing fast. Proctor made a mewing sound, and began to tap the floor as best he could with his right hand: I submit. But Tom kept up the pressure. He bent forward again, and, as he saw Proctor’s eyes rolling back, he knew he was seconds away from unconsciousness. A minute or so after that and Proctor would be dead.
But he released the sleeper and rolled off him. He heard Proctor moan and then gasp as the air was drawn into his starved lungs. He watched Lester kill the music before lying flat, feeling as if his body had been crushed in a vice: every bone seemingly on the cusp of fracturing.