Roanapur, a sin city in the Gulf of Thailand. I was supposed to come here for a simple delivery job. In, get the package to the Bouganvilla Trading Company, get out. Simple job. I've done it a dozen times before. I knew Boris, I knew Cecilia at the front desk, I knew they were a front, but I didn't ask questions.
This time around, I stepped off the boat and got ten minutes down the road before I was black bagged and dragged into the trunk of a car.
That was three days ago.
They got me locked in some hotel room, talking in Spanish. They were talking about something to deal with Hotel Moscow, some kind of beef. They must've thought I had the package on me. This time was a pick up.
" Pinche cabron didn't have shit on him." One of the thugs muttered, not caring that I could still hear him. "He's not worth anything as a hostage. Better to just Ice him and be done with it."
"He's been bring that ruskie bitch something, and I want to know what."
"It's the Russians, Abrego. It could be anything from porno tapes to bullets." the first thug spoke,
"Using the same guy, small packages? Blackmail has my money."
"If it's blackmail the guy isn't going to know what he was delivering, boss. 'Least if he's worth his salt. Did you see what he did to Raul?" Thug one must've not wanted the blood. Or at least not that kind of blood. I had fought back the first time they opened up the trunk, swinging at them in a mad fervor. I busted up one of them rather nicely, busting teeth.
There's a moment before Abrego lets out a sigh.
"You get a name on this pendejo?" He asks, and I slump a bit in my chair when the thug who's remained unnamed responds.
"Boyka."
" Boyka huh…What's the lineup for the fights tonight, Jorge?"
I got black bagged again, driven someplace I couldn't figure out. They gave me a meal, some cheap noodles and water.
There's a pulsing sound, music, and a bunch of cheering, crowds screaming for blood and violence.
A fight ring. My father warned me about these when I first got involved in doing 'courier work'. He'd spent most of his life in prison, in illegal prison fighting reans. It's how he earned his freedom.
Sins of the Father will be laid upon the son, it seems.
It also seems that Pa downplayed how well known he was, because after the announcer let them know who was coming out, the chanting started.
" BOY-KA! BOY-KA! BOY-KA!"
I was stripped down to a pair of boxing trunks, and shoved into a cage ring. The cheering quieted as instead of my Pa, I wound up in the ring. My opponent, who I really didn't want to fight, was a smaller fella, with his arms wrapped in Muay Thai ropes.
"You're not Yuri Boyka." He speaks, English slightly broken.
"Jericho Yuriyevich Boyka." I introduced myself , reluctantly getting myself ready for pain.
"You have big shoes to fill." and with that, the bell was rung.
I got my ass kicked. It's happened before, but here, caged in, with a man who's trying to rip my head off, it's to be expected.
The initial flurry I had to deflect but I hadn't been in a fight or even a spar in over three years, I managed his first two but his shin sideswiped my head before I could adjust my guard. It sent me down to the dirt and I had to roll to stay on my feet.
I went on the offensive, set out a few punches, landed a few, even drew blood. I got hit with a few more blows, an elbow to the side of my head, a cross to my gut, and a kick to my calf that sent my leg throbbing and shaky. I spit out a bloody wad of phlegm and got back in.
I'm bleeding, pissed off, and my opponent is barely slowing down. I grit my teeth and get my guard up for the Thai man's own offensive. More blows impact my gut, a foot hits the side of my face and I hit the floor. The man gets on top of me and is raining blows down on me with his fists and elbows.
Have you ever felt your skull bounce off of a floorboard? The sound of an elbow cracking off of your forehead? It's nauseating. The pain in and of itself is driving me mad.
He draws his arm back to bring a further hell upon me.
I decided fuck that.
I snarled and lunged, I was bigger than him, and he was muscled, but lean. I caught his right arm in my left hand and began pummeling him with my right fist. Think I lifted him with me as I let out a roar that got the crowd screaming again.
" BOY-KA! BOY-KA! BOY-KA!"
I couldn't hear them properly at the time, I was too busy trying to beat my opponent into the dirt. I could feel him impacting my sides with his free hand and he got me good with a swipe to the side of my face, but I kept fighting.
I swung, and swung, and swung. No thought to technique, no thought to finesse. If I didn't beat this man into the dirt, I knew that Abrego would kill me. Chances are he'd kill me anyway, but I decided here and now that if I was going to go down, I'd go down swinging. I only stopped punching when my opponent's arms fell slack. He dropped to the floor insensate.
I learned later he survived, but at this time, I didn't care. I stood there, bruised, chest aching, bleeding.
But standing.
I was guided out of the ring by a rather pretty but nearly nude woman and put in a waiting room. A dirty facsimile of a fighter's locker room. One of the Colombians, the thug who was standing guard at the hotel, was here. He had a revolver on his hip, but wasn't going for it yet.
I thought about going for him, but someone beat me to it.
Suppressed Gunfire isn't as quiet as you'd think from hollywood. It's still a jarring POP and a crack that can still send your ears ringing. Hollow Points dump all their energy into the target, even at subsonic velocities. As such, the left side of the Thug's head splattered across the wall, and he slumped to the ground.
Boris, tall, broad-shouldered, and goddamn is it good to see that scarred face.
"You were late for our rendezvous, Jericho. You're normally quite prompt." He spoke, and I gave a wheezing laugh.
"I got hung up on a few things, if you can't tell, Boris." I laughed, even though I felt sick to my stomach at the smell of the dead colombian. I could feel my body aching, the bruises and fatigue catching up to me. Boris, seeing this, looped my arm over his shoulder and guided me out.
"Come, my friend, let's get you to the good doctor." -
A few hours later I'm covered in bandages, hooked to an IV, and confined to a cot inside the Bouganvilla Trading Company office.
I was fading in and out of consciousness due to the drugs and lack of food. There's a couple people walking in and out, the doctor, who turned out to be Cecilia at the front desk, Boris himself, and when I finally got my head screwed on straight and could talk, it's Ms. Pavlovna herself. The sun had set, the only light in the room being her cigar as she puffed on it, the embers lighting up her face and the scars that stretched up from under her clothing to claw at the right side of her face.
She wore a skirt suit the color of a full-bodied wine, she was pale skinned, tall, and wore her long blonde hair in a ponytail that hung over the back of her chair with bangs framing her face.
Her eyes were cobalt blue, hard as steel and locked with mine as I pulled myself up into a sitting position.
"Ms. Pavlovna." I greeted her, wincing slightly as my bruises stung at the movement.
"Jericho. How are you feeling after your foray into pit fights?" She asks, and I feel a laugh that stings my ribs pull its way out of my lungs.
"I feel my father's ghost judging my form, Ma'am." I chuckled out, earning a nod from the smoking woman.
"You never told us your family name." There's a weight in her words as she taps the ashes into a tray at her side. "We had an inkling. You're a slightly darker skinned clone of your father, but you never confirmed."
"Giving my information to a front for the Russian Mob seemed to be a bad idea." I replied, shifting slightly, only to get a stern glare that had me sinking back down into the cot.
"Hiding information from us is an even worse one. Especially here. You listen to me and you listen well, Yuriyevich. You've done good work for us, quick, efficient, and confidential. But lie to me again, and I will destroy you. Am I understood?" The cigar bathed her face in a macabre glow but it was her eyes that got me nodding rapidly like a child being scolded by his grandmother.
"Yes Ma'am, Ms. Pavlovna."
"Balalaika, Jericho. Call me Balalaika. Now, let's go over your performance in the ring today." The steel in her tone is gone, and there's a smirk on her face. A TV that had been placed at the foot of my cot that I hadn't noticed until the white light blasting from it burned my retinas.
"Ma'am? I wasn't exactly in there willingly…wasn't I here to pick up a package?" I asked, and her eyebrow raised.
"Why yes, four days ago. That package has since been picked up by another courier, and we had to expend resources to pull your ass out of the fire. You owe me, Jericho. Besides, I saw your father in the ring in his day, your performance was pitiful."
She wasn't wrong. Three quarters of the fight I was getting beat like a sick dog. I flinched as I saw that kick that knocked me into the dirt came. I saw blood spurting out of my mouth.
"I haven't been in a spar since my father died. I haven't been in a proper fight since before then."
"You were also starved for three days before you were thrown in that ring to die." Balalaika spoke, before the video got to the point where I decided not to die yesterday.
"Adrenaline can do amazing things to a man pushed to the edge. You're going to be working for me for quite a while, Yuriyevich. You'd best be getting yourself back into shape. Boris will be helping you." She takes a long draw of her cigar.
"I expect to see a much better showing of what the son of Yuri Boyka can do, Jericho."