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Half a mile away, Zak paused to catch his breath after having carried Gorev more than four blocks. By some miracle, the doctor was still alive, so Zak laid him gently on the landing of a three-story office building. The landing was set back in the face of the building and would hide them in the shadows.
He had chosen to get off the main street where Gorev had been thrown, not only because of Sofia, but also because the police had been given orders to shoot them on sight. The directive had been issued specifically against Alex, but because the police had seen him and Talanov loading Gorev and Noya in the patrol car, he did not want to take the risk of getting shot. That meant he would stick to the darkened side streets that ran parallel with the Mediterranean Highway. In another three blocks, he would then turn right and head toward the hospital. Gorev not only needed blood from having been shot, but he had also been thrown from a moving car by Sofia. No telling what internal damage that might have caused.
Looking right toward the intersection, Zak saw two police cars speed past with their lights flashing. They were a reminder that he needed to keep moving.
He had heard gunshots earlier and hoped Alex was not on the receiving end of those shots. Normally, he would not be worried. Alex was more than capable of taking care of himself. But Alex was wounded and Sofia was not a normal adversary. In fact, he had never encountered an enemy like Sofia. Not only did her training match theirs, but she possessed a quality neither of them possessed: hatred. And the hatred she possessed was deeply personal for Talanov. And that made her unimaginatively dangerous.
From what he had seen, it had not always been that way. Following them around the Gran Casino del Sol as he had, he remembered the way Sofia looked at Talanov. Remembered the way they had worked together seamlessly, as one, as if on stage, with the eyes of the world watching their every move. He had seen many teams operate in the field, paired as couples, but never with the flawless precision of Talanov and Sofia. It was the little things that created a convincing façade: the flirtations, the manners, the bickering and bantering, the affection, and the sex. All of it was an act, of course, although perhaps therein lay the explanation. Perhaps it had become more than an act for Sofia, so that when the charade ended and Talanov withdrew, Sofia felt betrayed and vulnerable.
And from what he had observed thus far, Sofia was not a person to betray.
After ducking into the shadows of a doorway to let a car pass, Zak looked both ways before dashing across the street with Gorev in his arms. Thankfully, Gorev was not that heavy.
One more block, he thought, trotting in the deeper shadows of a line of storefronts. Between him the street was the added protection of a row of evenly spaced palm trees. Between each tree was a tiled concrete bench that no doubt allowed the old men of Marbella to watch the young women of Marbella. It was a time-honored tradition.
Headlights approached them from the rear and Zak stepped into the recessed doorway of a gift shop. He did not think they had been seen, thanks to the row of palm trees, but moving targets were visible targets, even in the darkness, so remaining low and motionless was important, in case the approaching vehicle was a police car.
Sitting with his back against the angled window with Gorev in his lap, Zak could hear the car making a metallic scraping noise, as if a bent wheel rim was rubbing against a fender well. Russia had many old cars that sounded that way, but most of the cars he had seen thus far in Spain were fairly new. In fact, the only car he had seen recently that sounded like this was—
Alex, thought Zak just as Talanov’s sputtering police car sped past. He let out a shout but it was a weak one because he was tired and Gorev was in his lap weighing against his diaphragm. Zak struggled to his feet and ran with Gorev out into the middle of the street, where he began shouting for Talanov to stop. He shouted in Russian and used Talanov’s name several times, but Talanov didn’t hear him or see him because the street was dark and Talanov was already turning the corner in a car that was making all kinds of noise. With Gorev still in his arms, Zak ran to the corner, hoping to stand in the middle of the street, waving his arms. With luck, Talanov would look in his rearview mirror.
Zak’s mouth was dry and he was breathing hard when he rounded the corner and ran smack into a group of fourteen ETA protesters. All of them were young men and all of them were pressurized with testosterone.
“Sorry,” said Zak in Spanish, shifting Gorev in his arms. When Zak attempted to step around the group, two of the young men stopped him.
“What happened to your Russian?” one of them asked.
Zak did not reply.
“We heard you shouting . . . in Russian . . . for Talanov!” the young man said as the group began forming a circle around Zak. “You are his friend.”
“I’m trying to save this man’s life,” Zak replied. “Please, let us go.”
The next three seconds let Zak know that was not going to happen. No one said anything, but no one moved. It was the quiet before the storm.
The attack came from Zak’s rear, as he knew it would. Most mobs of violent protestors were cowardly, which meant they would first try to jump him from behind before attacking him from all sides, like hyenas. Bringing a knee up, Zak bent forward and mule-kicked the man closing in on him from behind. Zak’s boot caught the man in the chin, snapped his head back and dropped him to the pavement. Turning to his left, Zak log-rolled Gorev toward the group of three men standing there. They comprised one-fourth of the circle of protestors encompassing him. Zak knew a limp body would not roll very far, but he needed both a distraction and an unencumbered ability to fight if he hoped to get him and Gorev out of this alive.
As expected, the men jumped back just as Zak hopped to his right and did a tumbling shoulder roll toward the three men standing there. They comprised the second one-fourth of the circle of men encompassing him.
Zak came surging up toward them, his hands loose and ready to grab the first man, who weighed about the same as Gorev. Zak spun him in a complete circle as if he were throwing a discus or hammer. Zak released the screaming man, who flew horizontally into the other two men, who toppled backward to the pavement in a tangled heap of arms and legs. This placed Zak on the perimeter of the group, which is where he wanted to be. The mob was stunned and disoriented, and he was no longer surrounded.
His first objective was to take out the next quadrant of three men, which he did by moving from man to man with punches to the solar plexus, elbows to chins, and a spinning side kick to the third man’s knee. Four men down. Seven men standing, which would soon be ten once the three men on the pavement untangled themselves.
At this point, Zak knew time was his enemy, not only because he was already tired from carrying Gorev, but because the longer it took him to defeat his opponents, the longer they had to mount a counterattack. So far, things were going according to plan. As he had hoped, most of the others had been mesmerized by his martial-arts ballet and were merely standing where they were, watching.
But not all of them responded as he had hoped.
Scrambling to his feet after having been knocked down, one of the men rammed Zak from his blind side and tackled him to the ground. Zak flipped the man off and rolled on top of him. But before Zak could crack one of his giant fists across the man’s jaw, another man grabbed Zak by the neck and yanked him off. The group then set upon Zak with their feet. Zak was able to deflect their blows for a while, but they were soon hammering him from all directions. Vicious kicks to his head, back, kidneys, groin and face. Zak tried seizing a foot to drag one of the men down on top of him for protection, but his hands were stomped and kicked away. Before long, all Zak could do was curl up in a ball.
Zak was starting to lose consciousness when he heard the brief yelp of a siren and the kicking suddenly stopped. Through his closed eyelids, he saw flashing blue lights and heard a car door slam. Boot steps hurried toward him.
“What’s going on?” a policeman demanded in Spanish.
I’m going to survive, thought Zak as the boots stopped near his head.
“This man is a Russian . . . a friend of Talanov,” a voice answered.
“How do you know this?” asked the policeman.
“He was yelling in Russian for Talanov to stop when Talanov drove by in a police car.”
“Did you see him drive by?”
“Yes.”
“Which way did he go?”
“That way,” answered one of the protestors, pointing down the street.
The policeman used his boot to roll Zak onto his back. “Talanov had someone helping at the café,” the policeman said, “and this man fits his description.” He looked over at Gorev lying on the pavement. “Who is that?” he asked.
“We don’t know. The Russian was carrying him.”
“Who shot him?”
“We don’t know.”
“And you heard this Russian yelling for Talanov? You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. But Talanov didn’t hear him and sped off down the street.”
“Call this in,” the policeman shouted to his partner in the car. “Tell them where we are, that we have apprehended Talanov’s colleague, and that Talanov is heading toward the hospital.”
“Is there a reward for this man?” one of the protesters asked. “You should give us a reward.”
There was no reward and the policeman said so. The protesters objected and an argument ensued. The argument actually lasted several minutes but the policeman held firm. “There is no reward!” the policeman finally shouted. “Now, stand back! I have orders to shoot Talanov and his colleague on sight, and if you continue provoking me, one of you may also get shot. Do you understand?”
In the hushed moment of silence that followed, Zak could hear the policeman’s gun slide out of its holster. And he realized, I’m going to die.
