Chapter Sixty-Three #2
From the corner he could hear Shane straining to catch his breath. Then, in a raspy voice he mumbled, “Sambo.”
Sambo was a Russian martial art characterized by powerful takedowns and throws, brutal strikes, and sheer aggression.
Shane had recognized the technique and was trying to inform him, and Nate picked up on his friend’s meaning.
He would need to match his opponent’s aggression while waiting for him to slip up.
As Nate regained his feet, Novikov came in hard and fast, throwing a flurry of straight punches, which caused Nate to throw his arms up to block direct strikes from getting through.
He knew with Sambo a flood of direct hits would likely be followed by an aggressive takedown and needed to deny his opponent that opening.
With his arms up blocking his head and midsection, he was perfectly primed to deliver a strike of his own that would interrupt Novikov’s maneuver.
He stepped into the punches, closing the distance and making his opponent’s strikes ineffective, before delivering several elbow strikes that caught the Russian in the face.
Blood poured from Novikov’s nostrils, but he didn’t stop, and instead swept in for a takedown.
Nate sprawled and then rolled away and got to his feet just as Novikov charged him again and wrapped his arms around his torso. Nate attempted to control the man’s neck with a Muay Thai clinch, but the Spetsnaz soldier was ready for it and kept his head up.
Novikov’s powerful arms lifted him off the ground, and Nate felt himself being turned for what would be a vicious body slam onto the stone floor.
He grabbed the Russian’s wrist in his left hand and sprawled his legs out as he landed face up, putting pressure from his right elbow onto Novikov’s shoulder, softening his own impact and causing a great deal of pain to his opponent.
“Guillotine.” The word was spat between blood-flecked coughs. As Wally was busy attempting to save Shane’s life, the former UFC fighter was doing the same for Nate, watching the fight intently and providing guidance like a ringside trainer.
Nate saw the opening he was talking about and maneuvered to pin the Russian’s arm and neck between his own arms. Once he had it, he squeezed and rolled Novikov over, stretching the Russian out on top of him so the former Spetsnaz soldier was staring at the ceiling, and giving Nate access to his back.
He immediately hooked his feet around the other man’s ankles and went for a rear choke.
Wrapping his bicep around Novikov’s neck, Nate began squeezing as hard as he could.
Novikov squirmed and tried to find purchase on Nate’s face where he could jam a finger into but found nothing.
Next, he delivered a backward headbutt that caught Nate in the temple, right where the Al Qaeda terrorist had hit him with the butt of a rifle.
It hurt like hell and Nate felt his grip slipping.
“Extend… the hips,” Shane rasped before going into another coughing spell.
“Easy,” he heard Wally say to Shane. “Stop talking, you mad bastard!”
Nate took the ringside advice and lifted his butt off the ground, the effect an extension of Novikov’s spine. He pulled with all his might as the Russian made gurgling noises. Finally, Nate felt a pop in the mercenary’s neck, and his whole body went limp.
He lay there for several moments, not trusting that it wasn’t some kind of ruse. Finally, he slowly released Novikov and the lifeless body slumped to the floor. Nate slowly rolled over and saw the Russian’s eyes frozen wide in an unwavering death stare. He felt for a carotid pulse. There was none.
“Fucking hell…” he said as he climbed to his feet and dusted himself off, exhausted. He gingerly walked back over to Wally, his body sore all over. “How’s Shane?”
The British medic looked up with concern in his eyes. “I’ve controlled the bleeding and I’m managing his airway, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
Shane lifted a weak hand and made a fist. Nate gently bumped it and smiled.
“Good match,” Shane said, before lowering his hand back to the ground.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Nate responded.
He walked over to where Ana lay unconscious and gently shook her awake. She stirred but seemed fairly out of it. He propped her up against a wall, retrieved a water bottle from the medical bag, and offered it to her.
Ana stared blankly ahead for a few moments before the events that had transpired came back to her. She stared at Novikov’s corpse.
“You killed him?” she asked. Nate nodded. “Good” was all she said. She was no longer crying, but coolly detached as she worked to come to grips with the news that her father was dead.
Nate’s mind began to register the fact that gunshots continued to ring out in the distance, though less frequently than before.
He limped across the room, holding his bleeding flank, and retrieved his Yarborough knife and the Glock 19.
He reloaded the weapon and glanced over at Wally, who yanked his head toward the sound of gunfire.
“Go get him,” Wally said, and returned to his battlefield surgery.
Nate took one last look at Ana and Shane, then turned and began making his way back down the hallway toward Tim’s position.
As he approached the main hall, the gunshots stopped, which he took to be a bad sign.
He raised the pistol, holding it solidly in both hands in a good shooting stance, and slowly moved forward, tracking for hostile targets.
When he reached the main entranceway to the palace, he carefully pied off the doorway, exposing a little of himself at a time while simultaneously giving himself incremental sectors to cover as he moved.
In the doorway was a silhouette and he nearly squeezed the trigger but checked his fire, target discrimination instilled into him through years of training.
And he was thankful that he did, because standing in the doorway, covered in dirt and gunpowder, was Tim.
He had the AK-47 slung on his back and was holding the Mosin-Nagant in his hand.
He looked up at Nate and smiled, his white teeth flashing brightly under his dirty red beard.
“So, this is archaeology, then?” Tim asked.
Nate laughed and the two men hugged.
“I thought you were dead,” Nate said.
Tim waved the thought away. “Nah, they should have sent twice the men if they wanted to kill Tim McBride. As it stands, none of them will be making it home for borscht.” He paused and looked Nate over, examining his battered face and his blood-soaked shirt. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Shane is the one we need to worry about right now. Come on.”
Nate led him down the hallway to the rest of the group. It appeared Ana had come around and she was assisting Wally, her hands covered in blood. The former medic said something to her, and Ana remained by Shane’s side as Wally walked over to them.
“It’s not good,” he said softly, ensuring he was out of earshot from Shane. “I’ve stabilized him, but he needs blood. We’ve got a few hours at best. If he doesn’t get to a hospital by then…” Wally left the sentiment hanging in the air.
“Shit,” Tim said. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, and we’ve got no transport. We can’t even get out of this stupid fucking cave! We’re low on options here.”
“Not entirely,” Nate said. He walked over to Wally’s medic bag and unzipped the bottom where they had stored one of the satellite phones in a waterproof container. He pressed the power button and thankfully the Thuraya powered on. He walked back over to Tim and Wally, phone in hand.
“We’ve got one more card to play.”