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6
Lyon was ready. The screw was clutched in his left hand, ready to impale the eye of the guard closest to him. After that, he would have only seconds to get to the other two before they recovered their wits — but he would get to them, in spite of his most recent injuries, which now included a dislocated right shoulder.
It wasn’t ideal. He was in excruciating pain and didn’t have the freedom of movement to fix it himself. It meant he would only have one hand available for his attack on the first guard, but there was nothing to be done about it.
One way or another, he’d endured his final round of torture at the hands of Vadim’s men.
But as he listened to the footsteps approaching the metal door, he immediately knew something was different.
He’d expected more than two guards. By his count, it was time for his daily meal, which meant three guards.
But no, he wasn’t imagining it. There were four sets of footsteps, maybe even five.
Fuck.
Taking on three guards with all his injuries was one thing.
Four? A stretch.
Five? Not likely.
He was a fighter, but as much as he hated to admit it, he was also a human being, and human beings had limits.
Even the Lion.
He gripped the screw tighter, hoped he hadn’t been wrong about the meal, that they weren’t going to give him another round of beatings while screaming questions about his operations. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hang on to the screw through more torture, which was why he’d timed his attainment of it with mealtime.
He watched as the metal door screeched open. The two regulars entered — he called them Chuckles and Psycho, one had a face like stone and the other enjoyed his torture a little too much — but when it came time for the third guard to step in, the one who also watched while he wolfed down his food unrestrained, another man entered instead.
And this was no guard.
The man was younger than Lyon by a decade, and from the cut of his trousers, custom-made shirt, and the handiwork on his leather shoes — not to mention the $50,000 Piaget Skeleton watch — he was very high up on the food chain.
He approached Lyon slowly, but Lyon caught the air of hubris in his swagger. His dark hair was fashionably styled, and he wore the hint of a goatee that did nothing to hide his youth and inexperience.
Still, something cruel shadowed his dark eyes. It wouldn’t have bothered Lyon by itself — Lyon had known many cruel men and understood that many thought him to be one — but there was a manic shine there too, something that spoke of instability, and even worse, insecurity.
“Well, well, well,” the man said. “If it isn’t the Lion.”
He exaggerated Lyon’s nickname, said it in a kind of comical hush as he circled Lyon’s chair. Lyon caught an unusual scenton the man, something that felt vaguely familiar but that Lyon couldn’t place.
He clenched his fists tighter, made sure the screw wasn’t visible.
“Everyone was so scared of you.” The man laughed. “Even my father. But you don’t look very scary now.”
His father? Was this Vadim’s son?
Lyon tried to shake loose the details Damian Cavallo had uncovered on Vadim. It was difficult. He’d been in this room with only occasional trips to the bathroom for weeks (months?). He’d lost track of time, of many of his memories except for the ones involving Kira that he replayed over and over again.
But yes, he thought he remembered one child, an illegitimate son born late in Vadim’s life, although he couldn’t recall the man’s name.
Samuel? Spartak?
No, it was Sergei. That was right. Lyon was almost sure of it, and he remembered reading that Sergei was beloved by Vadim in spite his illegitimacy.
“What’s the matter?” Sergei Ivanov had circled back to the front of Lyon’s chair. “Cat got your tongue?”
Lyon stared up at him without speaking.
