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I knew Alek on the outside. Vassi shares my cell.
I’ve built a small crew in prison. Not as big as the gangs amassed by those who have been locked up in here five, ten, twenty years. Still, a half-dozen men answer to me: those I’ve identified as intelligent, loyal, and useful.
The Ukrainian could be all those things.
“What’s your name?” Vassi demands.
“Moroz,” the giant says. “Marko Moroz.”
“I’ve never heard of you,” Alek says.
“Well you won’t forget me now, will you, boy?” Marko grins, pointing his spoon at Alek, its handle completely enveloped by his massive fist and only the battered top protruding.
“How did you end up in Stark?” Vassi inquires.
“Got in a brawl in Tosno. Broke somebody’s arm.”
“They put you in Stark for that?”
“Well.” Marko shrugs. “It was a cop’s arm.”
“How long did they give you?” I ask him.
“Only six months.”
I nod. We’ll be out around the same time.
Molotok waitsthree days to enact his revenge.
He sends four men, this time armed with shanks made from sharpened scrap smuggled out of the metal processing shop.
They come for Marko in the showers.
The guards retreat first, and as soon as they do, the most observant prisoners likewise melt away, having no interest in being present for the bloodbath.
I see Yamerin, Bolski, Alenin, and Dubov striding into the shower room, fully dressed. Yamerin, Bolski, and Alenin clutch their gunmetal gray, wickedly-edged blades, and Dubov a sock with a padlock in the toe that he can swing like a mace.
I’m naked myself, save for a towel. I have no weapon on me. I ought to leave with the others.
And yet, when I see Marko standing under the shower spray, his vast body thick with muscle, I think to myself it would be a waste for him to bleed out on these filthy tiles, stabbed a hundred times by these scavenging rats who could never hope to best him on their own.
They circle around Marko.
He turns off the water, the steam still thick in the air like a poisonous mist. I notice he hasn’t rinsed the soap from his skin, and I think I know the reason why.
He takes his towel from the hook. Instead of wrapping it around his waist, he twists the rough material in his hands, forming a rope.
As Yamerin slashes at him with his blade, Marko deftly wraps the towel around the shank and twists hard, jerking it out of Yamerin’s grip. Bolski and Dubov lunge at Marko, Bolski slashing him down the arm from shoulder to elbow, Dubov swinging his cosh.
I seize the nearest towel rack and wrench it out of the tile, the metal coming free from the wall with a screeching groan. Before Alenin can even turn, I hit him in the back of the head with the steel bar. He goes down like a felled tree, blood leaking out from under his head onto the wet tiles.
Meanwhile, Marko is wrestling Bolski, his soapy body so slippery that Bolski can’t get purchase. Marko flings Bolski against the wall, skull hitting tile with a sound like a dropped melon.
Dubov swings his cosh at me, howling threats for my interference. Marko dives at him from behind, taking out his knees. I bring the metal bar down on Dubov’s head.
The fight is over in a matter of minutes. The water running down the drain is as bloody as a biblical plague. And yet, Marko’s only injury is the slash on his arm.
He stands, turning the shower head on once more. He has to duck his head to stand beneath the spray, rinsing the last of the soap off his back.
