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.
Primakov was sent back to Russia, but he made his way back into the UK on a new, improved set of forged papers, claiming his name to be Roger Fox, a subject of the United Kingdom. Unlike his last visit to the UK, when he posed as a Russian immigrant, now his English was flawless and spoken in the common multicultural London dialect.
And Jon Hines became his bodyguard, a permanent fixture at his side.
* * *
• • •
Visser’s nose snapped with a crack during Hines’s next hit. This time the big Brit used a closed fist and, although it wasn’t a very hard punch, it was perfectly placed and an exceedingly efficient application of force.
The banker’s head went down, and he continued mumbling something about his innocence in all this, but Fox was not listening. Instead he looked to Hines. “Put him in the helicopter. Mars can decide what to do with him.”
“Yes, sir,” Hines replied, and then he hoisted the man up and onto his shoulder, carrying him like a sack of flour.
* * *
• • •
Court remained on the filthy floor, his eyes just past the door frame into the hallway so he could observe the men he’d been listening to. He remained confident they wouldn’t be able to see him in the darkness some hundred feet away, not with the tiny profile he’d given them.
He watched as several men stepped out of the doorway next to Kent and his three subordinates. In the middle of the group was a huge figure—Court thought the man must have been at least six-six—and he carried a smaller man who was clearly either dead or unconscious over his shoulder.
Court assumed him to be the prisoner he’d last seen on the Gulfstream a few hours earlier.
There were nearly a dozen men plus the prisoner at the other end of the hall, but the group immediately turned to the left, away from Court, and they began walking towards a doorway that Court assumed led to the western side of the property.
The four who’d been in the hallway turned to follow them.
The sound of the helicopter spinning up again filled Court’s earplugs, forcing him to shut them off.
Court decided to get a look at the tail number of the helo. To do so he could either pursue the men