Derrik’s cane echoed off the alleyway’s walls. The random drips and plops of the dank water were amplified in his ears as he took the detour to his motel. Suddenly a new sound joined the ranks of dank alleywater.

“How long have you been following me?” Derrik asked.

“В виду того что вы уÑ?тановили ногу в городе,” the man grunted. Derrik could hear his smile.

“Why would I come quietly?”

“Вы инвалидным! Можете вы Ñ?делать к нам?” You’re an invalid! What can you do to us?

Derrik followed the sound of his voice and calculated the distance between the Russian mobster’s face and Derrik’s foot. “I could not hurt you if I wanted to. The CIA used me only for intelligence, not for action,” he lied. Of course he was trained in seven forms of martial arts. In some ways, blindness helped him locate his enemies better.

Even so, he knew there were too many mobsters; he could feel a storm of bodies. They swarmed him, immediately binding him and stowing him in the back of their rancid getaway van.