Another scream from the room behind them told Court that the newcomers were really working this guy over.

So, Court recognized now, this was not a simple rescue of a man held by the CIA. These people wanted something from this banker just as much as the Agency and MI6 did.

Sucks for him.

Court tuned into the conversation, desperate to pick up more intel about what was going on. A man with a thick British accent said, “Look, Kent. It’s not that we don’t trust you, it’s that we don’t even know you. You might have been pegged as the man to run the crew if Martin and Mickey weren’t around, but none of us know this Fox bloke, either. I don’t trust him.”

The man being addressed said, “Same as you lot, I was sent by my boss to do this job. And now he’s fuckin’ furious at whoever set this shite up. I either get this sorted, or I end up buried in a bleedin’ ditch somewhere. I don’t know Fox, just met him when he climbed off the heli. I do what I’m told, and I was told to run things if the first two men went down. Hopefully these sharp-dressed fucks will take that Dutch geezer in there and we’ll be done with this. You can go back to Southampton, Bristol, London, wherever, spend your money, and try and forget this ever happened.”

Court lifted his phone, activated the camera, and zoomed it in all the way, centering on the group of men. He stabilized his arm against the door frame and took two dozen pictures in just a few seconds, using a light-enhancing mode.

He hoped Brewer would use facial recognition analysis to identify some or all of the men, but what he really needed now was to find a way to get to the prisoner.

No, Court thought. I can’t extract the banker until I know more about my opposition.

He cursed Brewer in silence, although he knew this wasn’t her fault.

* * *

• • •

Jon Hines smacked Dirk Visser across the face for a third time, and this time the Dutchman fell to the floor. The big man grabbed him by the throat and slammed him back down on the chair without a word or a sound.

Hines enjoyed beating people up. As a kid he’d been the biggest and strongest, but his overbearing mother called him a “clumsy oaf” and tried to put him in ballet. He made it five minutes in his first class till the stares and snickers got to him—he was twelve and six-one. He left and went straight to the boxing gym next door.

He had no money on him, and his mum wasn’t returning to pick him up for an hour, but when the trainers set eyes on the massive child, they smiled at one another and put him in the ring for a free session.

He told himself that if he could move like the American champ Mike Tyson, then his mum wouldn’t pick on him. And if he could fight like Mike Tyson, then no one would pick on him.

He was a star at the gym from day one; his mum relented and paid for his lessons, and he became a fixture there, a pet project for the trainers.

Throughout his teen years he grew even bigger and continued with his boxing. He also studied judo and karate, but when he was eighteen he joined the Army, serving as a light machine gunner in the Royal Anglian Regiment.

He boxed in the infantry, of course, but he fought dirty, always. After three years, he left to try his hand as a prizefighter in the robust boxing system in the UK.

His career never took off, as he remained hampered by his inability to follow the rules of the sport. There was no one who could go toe-to-toe for long with the quick and skilled giant of a man, but Hines was constantly having points deducted for rabbit punches, low blows, stepping on his opponent’s feet, and hitting them after the bell. He either won his matches quickly with knockouts or lost them on point deductions or outright disqualification.

Eventually his untamed aggression became too much, even in a sport where men were scored on their ability to hit one another in the face.

Since he failed as a boxer, he began working for a loan shark in Portsmouth. Here, there were no rules about low blows or rabbit punches, but even in this work he managed to step out of bounds. He accidentally beat a man to death and then was promptly arrested and convicted.

He was sent to HM Prison Wakefield, the toughest correctional facility in the nation. The complex was known as the Monster Mansion for all of the high-profile lowlifes incarcerated there.

Hines was sentenced to six years behind the fence, and with only five months remaining in his sentence, he ran afoul of a pair of young, muscular Russian inmates over a prime seat in the TV room. The six-nine Hines had taken a chair in the front of the room to watch a heavyweight fight, and the two brothers complained that they couldn’t see the screen. Hines ignored them for the entire two-hour run of the program, then quietly stood and walked into the bathroom.

The brothers followed, with a young Russian entering behind.

Everyone in the prison knew Artyom Primakov, and they knew that he was a member of the Vory, a made man in the Russian mafia. He’d been arrested for possession of forged documents and sentenced to four years, and was set to be deported back to Russia upon his release.

When Hines saw the dangerous Primakov, he said, “You’ve got fuck-all to do with this, mate. I know who you are, but I don’t give a toss. I will beat you down, just the same.”

Primakov just smiled, then motioned to the two young toughs to get to work on the big blond Englishman.

Hines then proceeded to dismantle both of the hard men, barely breaking a sweat as he cracked orbital bones, jaws, and ribs, and left them on the floor covered in blood.

Then Jon Hines looked up at Primakov, his red swollen knuckles still tightened into fists.

Primakov began to clap. “Marvelous. Well done. But what now, friend? The five remaining months of your sentence just turned into another ten years for your actions of the last ninety seconds.”

Hines moved forward, raising his fists.

“Unless,” Primakov continued, backpedaling while he talked. “Unless I get you out of it. I could have one of my other men take the blame for this.”

Hines slowed. His rage and adrenaline were in control, but his brain had, at least, heard what the Russian gangster said.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Two reasons. One, the obvious. So you don’t break my neck. And two . . . you were attacked, you were only defending yourself, but the guards won’t see that. The British legal system will condemn you. I don’t think that is fair, do you?”

* * *

• • •

The truth was that Primakov realized he couldn’t let an asset like Jon Hines get away, so he ordered one of his men, a lifer in prison for a homicide in London, to confess to administering the beatdown.

Jon Hines was released from prison five months later.

Primakov was still on the inside, but he made contact with some associates in his organization, the London brigade of the Russian multinational criminal organization known as the Solntsevskaya Bratva. Soon, the big former boxer was employed as a security officer for senior members.