To a person, they were plotting escape.
Saint no doubt knew that too. He was careful, clever. He positioned men away from the line and every four meters or so, always with line of sight. He put other men with automatic weapons at the front and rear of the line. He made sure every member of the SPEAR team knew there was a personal sight lined up on them.
“Go.”
As one they shuffled off, arms already aching from the tight restraints. The passage led deeper into the cave system inside the mountain—or hill as it may be—they hadn’t seen it clearly from the outside. Every meter a dull torch glowed. Ahead, Alicia saw nothing but an arched passage leading somewhere unknown. The guards were all around them.
They passed an internal cave, a niche in the wall, where Crouch surely had to be, but saw nothing of the man. Alicia saw blood on the floor though and her old boss’s watch lying on a table.
Saint shouted out. “Keep the line going. Nothing to see there.”
Alicia stopped, peering closer. A guard flew at her face and she headbutted him away. She saw blood pooling around Michael’s watch, and dripping to the floor. She saw a mound of something thrown into a corner but, in truth, it could have been anything.
A heavy club came down on her back, staggering her. She moved on, still being beaten. The cave passed by. Ahead, after a while, and through a haze of pain, she saw light. Bright light. The passage started to lean in a downward direction as it headed straight for the unsettling glare.
Alicia stopped walking right at the edge of the light, a guard’s hand held upright and palm outward in the recognized gesture. It gave her a moment to study what was on the other side.
Saint came alongside. “Welcome to our inferno, boys and girls. They might not treat you well here, but I doubt you’ll complain overmuch.”
Alicia was awestruck. The cave system branched off here to a vast, stepped hole set in its very center. An inverted dome, open to the skies, but surrounded by the mountain so that nobody ever knew it existed.
Nobody except FrameHub, maybe.
The walls were uneven, offering seating, and the almost perfectly round floor was flat. Pure, undiluted sunshine flooded the entire inverted dome, making it fry. Alicia saw hundreds of men already seated around the sides, stripped to the waist, bottles of beer held in their hands, an assortment of guns and other weapons lying casually across their laps. When one of them saw Alicia at the entrance he pointed, and caught the attention of others, and soon all eyes were looking upward.
A cheer went up, almost a roar.
Saint propped an elbow on her shoulder. “Show us your mettle, Alicia,” he said. “It’s time to shine.”
He pushed her forward and the whole chained-together line started off once more, shuffling along at a steady pace. Just as slowly, the arena they were entering took greater shape. The large, round ring of sky; the sun starting to rise over the eastern tip of the bowl. More and more mercenaries sat waiting, eager and animated. Threats were called out, issued as fast as junk mail. Saint pointed Alicia to a narrow channel that had been hewn into the rock.
“You want me to walk down that? Chained together like this we’ll all be skating.”
“I don’t care how you do it or what happens to you. Just get down before I push you down.”
Alicia clenched her fists, barely able to stop herself launching an attack at Saint right now. It was the presence of her friends chained at her back and the unpredictability of the outcome that poured ice-water on her fury. When she regarded the channel again she saw it had a large amount of uneven footing which, in this instance, would help.
“You coming?” she asked Saint.
Their jailer grinned. “All the way.”
They inched down the slope, urged on by the beer-swilling mercs, all the way to the bottom. It was much hotter down here. Alicia recalling seeing people frying eggs in this kind of heat.
Saint mopped his brow as they came to a halt, scooped up a bottle of water from a completely incongruous cool-bag resting on the floor by his feet. It was bright blue and sported a pattern of stars around the top.
“You’re fighting for water,” Saint said, then swigged half the bottle. He threw the other half into Alicia’s face which, in truth, was a blessing.
Saint turned to a guard. “Untie Myles. She’s up first.”
Alicia felt her chains loosened and then she was free of the restraints and the chain. Instantly she lunged at Saint, but the man stepped back fast and a guard with a gun nipped in at her side. His weapon was pointed at her legs.
“Your choice.” Saint smirked. “Either way, you’re gonna fight.”
Alicia saw sense and backed off. Guards were everywhere and stationed around the floor of the bowl in a rough circle. Guns were held ready, not easily. Saint made it clear he would only unchain one person at a time.
She saw no way out of this.
She wiped her face, getting the last droplets of water and transferring them into her mouth. Since they had taken her Kevlar and jacket, she was left with a white T-shirt and combat trousers. The direct sun burned her exposed skin.
Saint raised his hands and stilled the crowd. He turned three hundred and sixty degrees, grin flashing, stubble gleaming with sweat.
“First bout,” he said. “Alicia Myles versus the MMC.”
A cheer went up. Men and women in the crowd stamped their feet and tapped their rifle butts against the floor. Some whistled. Many more called for blood.
“You killed some of their friends,” Saint whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “Our bosses thought this a good way for you to go out. We did too.”
He backed away, the eternal laugh piping out of his mouth. Alicia didn’t take her eyes from him. “What’s the MMC?”
“Oh, just a pet name. It stands for massive meaty chap. There’s always one in every fight. Enjoy!”
Alicia stood on the floor of the arena, vision full of blinding sunlight. Grit scraped beneath her boots as she shifted stance. Sweat coated her entire body and dripped off her face. She was ready to fight, focused, determined to help her friends by winning; by always looking ahead and never back.
From an alcove across the other side of the ring a shadow moved. It came around the corner—large, bulky, moving at a slow pace. Alicia waited for it to emerge, then saw a man the size of Kinimaka, but with added muscle and a little more height. His face was hard and crisscrossed with scars. When he set eyes on Alicia he boomed out a peal of laughter.
“This?” he bellowed. “All you bring me is this?”
Alicia harnessed her rage. Here, finally, was a target she could unleash on. And size had never bothered her. Truth be told, she mused. In some instances it had its advantages. Or so experience told her.
Saint shrugged. “She is the first. She did us all wrong. Do not make it quick.”
The MMC slapped his bare chest. “It will be hard with such a twig, but I will do my best.”
Alicia stalked to the center of the arena. “Twig? What . . . are ya trying to date me?”
“Date?” The MMC looked startled. “Never, I prefer my women with more meat on their bones.”
“Really? To me, you look like you prefer men.”
The MMC roared. Saint held up a long, bloodied machete, ready to start proceedings. “Maybe don’t talk to her,” he suggested calmly. “This ain’t Jimmy fucking Fallon.”
The machete carved a slice of air.
Alicia planted her feet in the center of the arena.
Her adversary charged.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Alicia skipped aside, using her pace. The MMC lumbered by, an arm outstretched which Alicia saw coming a mile off. Easily, she ducked past that and came back around. Beyond the slobbering monster she saw her team, all watching with worry, agonizing over the outcome, heavily guarded. It was also dreadfully clear that the arena was going to be the place they died, one by one, on this day or another.
Alicia darted one way, then the other, upsetti
ng her big opponent, and managed to leave a trailing leg as she passed him by. She hoped he’d trip, but all he did was bark her shin with his huge ankle bone, making her curse aloud.
The crowd laughed, enjoying her pain. Alicia looked up into the bright sky for a moment then immediately wished she hadn’t.
The MMC charged and her retina was just pure white light. She skipped back, stumbled on a rock and fell. The MMC was over her. He roared and kicked out, the blow glancing off her ribs as she twisted away. She rolled, kept her eyes shut to help clear her vision, then snapped them open and leapt to her feet.
The MMC was right in front of her.
“Strike one!” Saint shouted.
His feet struck her stomach, doubling her over. Alicia felt pain; but where normally she would summon a surge of power and agility to get her the hell out of there, today the lack of food and water was taking its toll.
She fell to her knees. The MMC placed a hand on top of her head and mimed something at the crowd, to which they all burst out laughing. Alicia heard it and the callous hatred that surrounded her, found the inner fury and embraced it.
She rose fast, a fist clenched and punching up right into the MMC’s scrotum. The man howled and then staggered, cupping the area and blowing hard. Alicia saw her only opportunity.
She struck out with lightning blows, each a devastating strike. The MMC took them all, barely flinching. Red marks crossed his chest, neck and face. The pain in his groin made him throw up into the dust. The crowd jeered and Saint couldn’t stop the laughter. She heard encouragement from Dahl and Drake. She worked her way around to the back of the enormous slab of beef, wondering where the sweet spot was.
Having already tried most of the nerve clusters, she was slightly at a loss. But she was sprightly and unharmed, apart from a deep pain in her stomach. The MMC lashed out, an elbow catching her waist. Pain exploded. Alicia backed off. He lashed out again, this time striking only hot air.
He panted, rose to his feet, head hanging. Liquid poured off him in torrents and his black hair hung lankly. He came forward. Alicia bent, grabbed two handfuls of dust and flung them into his eyes. He stood there, rubbing them, blind for a moment.
Alicia ran in, leaped and landed a stunning front kick to his kidneys, followed it with multiple strikes. The MMC groaned and finally flinched. The effort had drained her though, drained her considerably.
She moved back, panting, exhausted.
Saint kicked her in the small of the black, sending her sprawling into the dirt. Drake and Dahl cried out in anger and rushed forward, but warning gunshots into the air stopped their advance. It hardly mattered for now. The MMC was still clearing the dust from his eyes and Alicia used the time to take a breather.
“I guess it’s time for some blood,” Saint said.
He threw a club into the arena, a club studded with nails on every side. The weapon bounced across the ground and came to a rest at the MMC’s feet.
He grinned down at it.
“Old friend.”
Alicia unleashed it all; every ounce of rage she’d stored up over the last twenty four hours. She sprinted like a cheetah chasing lunch, threw herself feet first through the dirt, straight toward the club, but ignoring the actual weapon. Dust and gravel spun up to both sides of her, marking the path of her slide. Her momentum saw her through and as the MMC reached down to grab the club her boots were in perfect line with the top of his skull. She kicked out, still sliding, saw him rear back and passed between his legs.
On the way through she snagged the club with her left hand.
She came up on his rear side, planted her feet and rose. Spun with the club now in both hands, and brought it crashing down onto the MMC’s exposed back. The nails struck and lodged. The MMC arched his back and howled. Alicia kicked him down into the dirt.
She looked over to the Saint as the man fell.
“Finish it.”
“No.”
“Your funeral. He will be back.”
She skirted the groaning figure, now prone and alien-like—the club with its nails sprouting from his back. Blood ran freely into the dirt as men ran on to help him away.
Saint threw Alicia a bottle of water and then turned to the rest of the SPEAR team.
“Guess who’s next?”
*
Matt Drake took a small swig from the water bottle that Alicia handed round to everyone. Saint watched him walk to the center of the arena as several mercs took aim and cocked their weapons.
Saint held up a hand. “It appears they know you?”
Drake looked up into the stands. “We probably attend the same Yorkshire Pride conventions.”
A shot rang out; the bullet kicked dirt up at Drake’s feet. Saint laughed and gave the stands an indulgent look. “Go on then. Take your shot. Just one, mind.”
Several gunshots rang out. Bullets hammered all around Drake, glancing off the floor, traveling across the arena. He stood immobile, without flinching. Even the slightest show of fear would tell them they’d won.
Saint bellowed for quiet. “Here we go then. Fight number two.”
Drake watched the alcove as a shadow moved. A man came out, dressed in a dark blue suit and wearing a red tie and white shirt. He carried a briefcase, which he laid carefully on the ground, unzipped and then pulled out a meat cleaver.
Drake couldn’t help but shake his head at Saint. “What the fu—”
“The Gentleman.” Saint grinned. “Now Drake, whatever else you do remember what your mom used to say.” He backed off. “Enjoy yourself!”
Drake sidestepped around the arena. The Gentleman kept a light grip on the cleaver, rotating it occasionally in his hand, allowing the bright, clean blade to catch the light. The briefcase lay where he’d left it. Drake was less than three feet from it when The Gentleman attacked.
Blade slashing in downward arcs, left and right and left, he came fast. Drake side-stepped and backed away and then darted past, coming up to the briefcase now and darting a look inside.
The Gentleman stopped, reached a hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small black device with one large yellow button. He pressed it immediately, catching Drake cold as the small explosive he’d left in the briefcase detonated.
The blast knocked Drake off his feet, and sent sharp fragments flying into his body. He landed hard, on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The Gentleman loomed through the smoke, tall and dark and swinging the cleaver.
Drake thrust up his hands, catching the cleaver as it came slicing down. He managed to grab The Gentleman’s wrist just as the blade reached his nose. A sliver of blood was drawn, trickling across his face.
“Fool.”
Drake heard the words and feared the worst. This guy was some kind of trickster. He struggled to push the blade away, rolled to force the man off. His head spun from the blast, his body struggled to work. The Gentleman broke away, reached into the suit and came out with a short stick with two prongs on the end.
Pressed another yellow button and the prongs sizzled.
Gotta get moving . . .
Drake scrambled clear, but not before the cattle prod came down on his trailing leg. Instant high-voltage ran through his body, making him shake and sending him back to the ground. For a moment it all vanished—the heat, the sunlight, the arena and the stands full of jeering maniacs. Even the one corner of support receded fully from consciousness, the spot where his friends stood.
They were shouting encouragement now, spurred on by Dahl and Alicia. At first they’d been reluctant to take any part in this—but it was happening anyway and Drake needed something to shear away the veneer of agony.
He heard them. The terrible jolting had stopped but there was a pain in his lower rear calf. When he managed to twist a little and look down there his eyes met a horrific sight.
The Gentleman was slicing at his flesh with the edge of the cleaver; carefully, gently, as if stripping meat tenderly from the bone.
That’s exactly wh
at he’s doing!
“Hey,” Drake shouted.
The Gentleman looked up, inquisitive. Blood dripped from the edge of the cleaver.
“You missed a bit.” He pointed where the strip of his flesh was still attached.
The Gentleman looked down.
Drake smashed him in the side of the head with his other foot, the boot slamming point blank in his ear. He fell over, the prod skittering away. Drake crawled back, realizing this was the best chance he’d get but unable to act quickly.
His body was still recovering and, like Alicia, his energy was already sapped.
Breathing deeply, he rose to his feet, allowing The Gentleman to do the same. Drake’s head still rang from the blast; his vision slightly blurry. The harsh glare of the sun, beating down, didn’t help.
“Hey,” he shouted to gain a few more seconds of recovery. “You got any paracetamol in that inside pocket?”
The Gentleman looked unsure, reached inside, and came out with a grenade.
Drake ignored the rush of anxiety, as his body knew it could not take another explosion. Calling on every moment of experience, he watched The Gentleman’s arm, saw the flick of the finger when the pin was released, followed the arc of the throw.
Ran toward the grenade and met it bluntly. With his foot. He kicked the small round object away, then threw himself to the side. It was a good kick, the grenade curving up out of the arena and heading for the stands. Curses split the air and men scrambled out of the way. The grenade bounced down once and exploded.
Drake rolled and looked up.
A man was flung back by the blast, bounding off the rock-face and falling limply; another was cut by sharp fragments. Rubble flew indiscriminately and a minor cloud rolled into the air. Men rubbed and tried to repair nasty injuries, most of them sending deathly looks straight at Drake.
The Yorkshireman had other things on his mind. The Gentleman was already attacking again, slashing with the cleaver. Drake guarded the blows by blocking wrist against wrist, hoping one of the impacts might slam the cleaver out of the other’s grip. He was pushed back, boots slipping in the grit.
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