Shatter

by Lola Taylor

  Scott silently fumed in the corner of the ring parallel to Jeremy’s. Ghost made it sound like the crowd was a bunch of kids waiting for a cotton candy at the fair instead of about to witness a fight to the death.

  “Don’t forget to place your final bids in the pot before the bell strikes.” Ghost smiled. “Enjoy tonight’s entertainment!”

  The crowd applauded and whistled as he handed the mic back to the announcer. He walked over to Scott. “Don’t disappoint me,” he said, a knife-like edge to his voice.

  Scott smiled tightly, thinking of what the look on Ghost’s face would be when the feds busted this place. Oh, I won’t.

  “Fighters, ready!”

  Ghost pushed past Scott and exited the ring as Scott reluctantly stepped forward. Jeremy did the same, head hung low like a beaten animal.

  Scott’s heart rate picked up, as did his breathing. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he stared at Jeremy, who refused to look at him. His heart sank. Before the bell even rang, he knew what Jeremy was going to do.

  Or rather, not do.

  “FIGHT!”

  The bell sang, and the announcer quickly stepped out of the way of the two fighters. Neither of them moved.

  The crowd waited in silence, watching for a minute before they grew restless.

  Scott shifted his weight, flexing his fingers before he curled them back into fists. “Jeremy,” he hissed.

  His friend’s eyes remained lowered onto the stage.

  People began to boo.

  Scott remembered Ghost’s warning. He took a step closer to Jeremy. “Dammit, man, fight me!”

  “No.”

  Scott froze.

  Jeremy’s answer had been near inaudible and yet seemed to carry across the ring. Ghost cursed and snapped his fingers, fury on his face.

  The biggest man Scott had ever seen stepped into the ring, a leather whip curled in one hand. Scott’s heart pitched into his stomach.

  “Jeremy—” he started, but with snake-like speed, the man unfurled the whip and cracked it against Jeremy’s back. He cried out and staggered forward.

  “Fight,” the man commanded in a deep voice.

  Jeremy regained his footing; his nostrils flared as he sucked in tight breaths. He turned to face the man, glaring defiantly at him. “No.”

  The whip arched through the air and snapped downward in an arc across Jeremy’s chest. A bright-red welt rose where the whip had bitten him. He clamped down on his lip to keep from crying out, and his knees trembled.

  Scott rushed forward, putting himself between the man and Jeremy. “Stop it!”

  “I’ll stop when he fights,” the man bellowed. He raised his hand again, prepared to strike.

  Frantic, Scott whirled and grasped Jeremy by the arms. “You have to fight me.”

  Jeremy shook his head. Pain gathered in his eyes. “No.”

  “Yes, dammit, you can! You don’t have a choice! Neither of us has a choice!”

  The whip cracked. Nothing could have prepared Scott for the blinding pain that seared into his back. His back arched, and a strangled cry climbed up his throat as he stumbled, bumping into Jeremy.

  “Son of a bitch!” Scott spat, feeling the burning mark on his back. If they didn’t do something, they’d be whipped to death.

  Reining in the pain, Scott formed a fist and cracked his knuckles across Jeremy’s jawline. The feel of flesh pummeling flesh was familiar to him. Jeremy’s head jerked to the side, but other than that, he didn’t budge.

  “Fight me!” Scott screamed. “Come on!” He hit Jeremy again and again. Temple. Chest. Abs. It didn’t matter where he hit; Jeremy remained standing, looking away as Scott drove his fists into what felt like solid rock.

  The backs of his hands burned, making his joints ache. Scott racked his mind. It was cruel, but it might be the only chance he had at saving them both. “This is pathetic,” Scott snarled as he stalked around Jeremy. “No wonder your family couldn’t depend on you.”

  Jeremy’s head jerked around, disbelief in his widened eyes.

  “You heard me.” Scott felt like shit for being such a dick. “You couldn’t save your wife because you were too much of a pussy to fight!”

  Something in Jeremy’s eyes snapped. With a roar, he swung for Scott’s head. The crowd cheered as Scott narrowly missed the punch by an inch.

  “That the best you got?” he sneered.

  It was like pitching gasoline on a fire. Jeremy snapped, lunging at Scott with a roar that cut through the growing noise from the crowd. People cheered and shouted as Jeremy and Scott danced around the ring, fists and feet flying in a flurry of punches and kicks. It was all Scott could do to keep from getting his face smashed in. Jeremy might be bulky, but God was he quick.

  With every barely evaded punch, every last-minute step to the side, Scott felt his energy draining. That, or Jeremy’s punches were growing more accurate.

  Shit.

  BOOM!

  It felt as if someone had whapped him upside the head with a sledgehammer. Stars fired before his eyes, and his vision blacked out for a terrifying second. The world spun, and he crashed into the rope. By the time his vision corrected, someone had thrown him back into the ring and directly into the arms of a very pissed-off Jeremy. Well, more like in the way of another helluva punch that sent him sprawling across the floor.

  God, his face hurt. His jaw squealed in pain when he tried to open his mouth. Probably broken.

  A kick landed in his side; he swore he felt a rib crack. Excruciating pain tore through his torso, and he nearly screamed. All right, maybe pissing Jeremy off wasn’t the brightest idea, but he’d been desperate. He couldn’t let him get whipped to death simply because he was too stubborn to throw a punch or defend himself.

  Another kick sent Scott flying into the rope so hard the air left his lungs. He collapsed onto the mat and spit up blood. That can’t be a good sign.

  Every bone and muscle in his body hurt. He’d suffered some beatings in the ring before, but never like this. Then again, he’d never fought the Destroyer before, either.

  Two hands clasped him and hauled him up. Before he could regain his senses, he was flung across the other side of the ring. His nose hit the railing, taking the brunt of the fall. Hot blood poured down his face. Great. Now that was broken.

  “Jeremy,” Scott rasped, trying to get up as heavy footsteps thudded closer.

  Scott managed to lift his head high enough to glance at Jeremy’s eyes. What he saw made his blood freeze.

  Rage. Nothing but pure, unbridled bloodlust and anger.

  Jeremy was going to kill him.

  He knew his friend had anger problems. Hell, it’d been one of their bonding points, a familiar pain to both of them. Why, oh, why didn’t Scott think this through before?

  “Don’t.” Scott scrambled to get up. The blood from his nose had slicked the mat, making it harder to find his footing. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Don’t I?” Jeremy picked him up and hoisted him above his head. Scott flailed, trying to break free. Jeremy raised his knee.

  Oh God. Scott’s heart stopped. He’d seen this move before, when Jeremy had killed that one fighter. The moment that spawned a lifetime of regret and sleepless nights for him.

  He was going to break Scott’s back.

  “Don’t!” Scott shouted. “Jeremy, snap out of it!”

  His friend blinked several times. His heavily muscled arms remained locked above his head. Scott’s fate hung in the balance.

  Though he was hanging upside down, he caught several dark, armed figures moving in from the exits. The guards. Something had them in a flurry.

  They shouted to one another, bellowing commands into their headpieces. The spectators were too enthralled with what was happening in the ring to pay attention to the exits.

  That is, until gunfire erupted.

  Screams broke out, and patrons ducked as black-armored figures stormed the room. Scott caught flashes of white FBI letters
stamped to the backs of their vests.

  Oh, praise Jesus!

  The guards were quickly overpowered. There had to be three feds to every goon Ghost had under his employment.

  “What the…?” Jeremy sounded more like himself as he looked around, baffled.

  “Hey!” Scott shouted, writhing. “Set me down!”

  “Oh shit! Sorry, man!” Jeremy gently lowered Scott.

  Scott swore as his full weight went to his feet. It seemed like with every pulse, his body throbbed.

  “Whoa.” Jeremy’s eyes, widening, scanned Scott from head to toe. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. I am so sorry!”

  “There’s no time for that! We have to find Ghost, now!” Thank God for adrenaline; otherwise, Scott might not be able to withstand the pain.

  He looked around, as did Jeremy. People were trying to escape, but by now, the feds had the crowd contained. Everyone’s hands were raised in the air; hundreds of wide, frightened eyes stared back at the guns pointed at their faces.

  Jeremy helped Scott out of the ring, just in time to greet a tall, lanky man with graying hair and steely eyes—Agent White. “We got him.”

  Scott stared. “Ghost?”

  Agent White’s answering grin made Scott’s heart skip for joy. “Trying to sneak out the back, through one of the more secluded emergency exits. Cocky son of a bitch.” He looked around, amused. The mayor scowled as he was cuffed and led off by federal agents. “I see we have a lot of paperwork to do.”

  “You sorry?” Scott asked wryly.

  Agent White shook his head, eyes twinkling. “Nah. Just happy.” He frowned as he looked Scott over. “Jesus, you look like shit.”

  “You can blame this guy.” Scott elbowed Jeremy in the abs. Jeremy’s shameful look had him adding quickly, “Not that it was his fault. He was forced to fight me. Ghost all but threatened to kill us if we didn’t put on a good show.”

  “All to line that son of a bitch’s pockets, I’ll bet.” Agent White sighed. “Come on. Let’s get you both checked out by a paramedic.”

  They followed him out to the main hallway, where two feds were barely holding on to a livid Ghost. His face was bright red, and it was the first time Scott had ever seen a hair out of place on his perfectly styled head.

  He looked like a man possessed, his teeth baring at Scott when his wild eyes landed on him. “You! I know it was you! What the hell did you do?”

  Scott innocently raised his brows. Well, as much as his sore-as-fuck face would allow for, anyways. “I’m just a peon. What could I possibly do?”

  It looked as if Ghost’s head might explode. “Gah!” He lunged for him, snapping his teeth like a piranha. Agent White stepped forward and clocked him across the temple. Ghost’s eyes rolled back, and he immediately slumped, unconscious.

  Agent White gave the two men a curt nod as he rubbed his reddening hand. “Get that disgusting piece of filth out of my sight. Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his hand. “His head’s a lot harder than it looks.”

  “Always the case,” Scott said.

  “You were working with them?” Jeremy pointed between him and Agent White.

  Scott figured it couldn’t hurt. Jeremy had been a victim as well. Reaching up, he pulled out a tiny hearing aid from his ear. “When he brought me here, Ghost took my cell phone.”

  “As we knew he would,” Agent White chimed in.

  “But what he didn’t count on was this.” Scott held out the tiny skin-colored piece of technology. “It’s a transmitter, emitting a homing signal for up to a twenty-mile radius.” He squished his nose at the broken hardware. “Or, at least, it was. Must have taken a beating, too, during the fight.”

  “Sorry,” Jeremy mumbled, looking guilty as hell.

  Scott gave him his best attempt at a smile. It was hard to make his mouth move when he was pretty sure his jaw was broken, or, at least, bruised like hell. It was getting harder and harder to talk by the second. “Don’t worry about it. Anyway, the feds were waiting near my apartment building for Ghost to come for me. They followed us to the location, and once there, used the homing signal to pinpoint where we’d gone inside the building.”

  “Ghost tried using the fundraiser as a cover, which would have worked had we not had Scott helping us out.” He slapped him on the shoulder, making Scott groan in pain.

  Agent White rescinded his hand and winced. “Sorry. Forgot.”

  Scott raised a brow. “You forgot I was covered in bruises and cuts?”

  Agent White shifted his weight. “Anyway,” he said pointedly, “about that paramedic.”

  “Actually”—Scott grabbed his arm to stop him from walking off—“can they treat me in the ambulance?”

  “Well, yeah, I suppose. Why?”

  “I want to get back to my girlfriend.” Nerves twisted his gut as he said it. Hopefully, Nathan hadn’t had a chance to get to her in the time he’d been gone. It felt like an eternity, even though it had only been a few hours. “She’s being stalked, and I don’t like leaving her alone.”

  Agent White frowned. “Stalked? By whom?”

  “Can I explain on the drive home?” Scott asked, impatient.

  “Sure, sure. I’ll get our ride arranged.”

  On the drive to Amy’s apartment, Scott could barely sit still. Jeremy stayed behind to be checked out, considering his injuries didn’t nearly match Scott’s in severity. The paramedics poked, prodded, and tested until he thought he’d turn blue in the face. Some things were obvious, like the broken nose, the gash on his back, and other apparent injuries. Others, not so much, though they suspected he’d earned at least a bruised rib and jaw. They wouldn’t know until they got to the hospital. They kept insisting they take him there immediately, but Scott flat-out refused. He wasn’t going anywhere else until he made sure his Amy was okay.

  Before the ambulance even drew to a complete stop, he’d opened the door, rushed inside the building just as someone was coming out, and loped up the stairs at as fast a pace as he could manage.

  I’m coming, baby. I’m home.

  He couldn’t get to Amy’s fast enough, injuries be damned. Nothing else mattered except making sure his beloved was safe. Lifting his fist, he went to knock. The door opened the second his knuckles brushed the door.

  Scott tensed.

  Why was the door unlocked?

  Dread whispered horrible things in the back of his head as he tentatively stepped inside. “Amy?” he called out. God, it hurt to move his mouth.

  Silence.

  Braveheart greeted him. “Hey, buddy.” Scott stepped around him. He was trying hard not to move his jaw much, which made his words sound smeared. “Where’s your mommy?”

  The kitten purred and then batted around something shiny on the kitchen floor.

  Scott bent to retrieve the object. “Ouch!” He swore, nearly dropping the glinting material. It was sharp, like glass.

  His eyes scanned the rest of the floor, where Braveheart was happily playing. A large chunk of a mostly shattered wineglass lay on the floor, along with several tinier pieces.

  He checked the countertop and the sink, but there were no other glasses.

  Scott’s heart sank deeper in his chest.

  A knock came from the door. Agent White stepped inside. “Everything all right?”

  “No.” Scott still stared at the broken wineglass. “Amy’s missing.”

  A grave look overcame Agent White’s face. “Any signs of a struggle?”

  “I haven’t been able to check the rest of the apartment, but I found this.” He pointed to the broken glass.

  Agent White walked over and knelt, slowly examining the immediate area with a critical eye.

  “The door was open, too, when I came in,” Scott added. “She wouldn’t just run off and leave the door unlocked. Nor would she leave all this broken glass here for Braveheart to get into.”

  “Braveheart?”

  “Her cat,” he said, not without irritation. Scott pressed his lips together, th
inking. “Hey, do you think one of your guys could ping her cell phone?”

  “It’s worth a shot.” Agent White stood and whipped out his own cell. Less than two minutes later, he said, “We got an address. Monroe and 8th?”

  “Monroe and 8th?” Scott repeated, startled.

  “Sound familiar?” Agent White’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yeah.” Scott nodded. His brows furrowed. “It’s her best friend’s place. Rebecca Dawson. But I don’t know why she’d be over there.”

  “Only one way to find out. You up for playing detective?”

  “I’m up for finding the love of my life,” Scott said, steel in his voice.

  Agent White smirked. “That’s the spirit.” He started toward the door. “Come on, killer. Night’s not over yet.”

  WHEN AMY FIRST came to and opened her eyes, she thought she might still be dreaming. The memory of hitting the floor, her body so heavy and her vision so blurry, while Becca stood and watched, doing nothing, had to be a dream—or a nightmare.

  Amy groaned and blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. From what she could tell, she was in a basement. Stairs led up to the next floor, and an old washer and dryer stood against one cement wall. Dancing yellow light flickered from beneath a closed door to her right. The floor was concrete and cool. Amy shivered. Her head pounded from whatever Becca had drugged her with.

  Why? Why would she do that?

  Her skin tingled from the coolness of the air. Her clothes were missing, leaving her bare, save for her panties and bra.

  The air smelled funny. It had a metallic tinge to it.

  Amy tried to sit up but flopped against the floor. She winced. Her shoulder was sore from landing on it earlier in her apartment. Thankfully, it didn’t feel displaced or broken.

  Her wrists scraped against something rough when she tried to bring her hands in front of her. It had to be rope. Judging from her inability to move her legs apart, she was also bound at the ankles.

  Tears pricked her eyes. Why was Becca doing this? Was this some kind of sick joke?

  Panic began to set in. Ropes. Basement. Kidnapping.