by Wilde, Kati
But this is real life. And in the Cage, when two good guys square off, they both lose.
And they don’t have much time. The clock’s counting down.
Crash glances over at it. “Two minutes, fucker! I’m not going easy.”
Handlebar shouts, “No! Stone, don’t you—”
Unleash whatever he’d been holding back. Like he does now. With sobbing breaths, I watch as everything changes, as Crash goes on the defense. But he’s still laughing, grinning. Egging Stone on.
The other man isn’t hurting him. There’s not a single bruise on Crash. Stone’s just...moving him around. Getting him into position. I don’t even realize it until Stone whips forward so fast, almost like he’s going for a head butt, but there’s no connection. Even as Crash is recovering his balance, Stone darts around behind him and locks his arm around Crash’s throat.
Then Stone just holds him. Almost sweetly. Stone’s eyes are closed, his jaw against the side of the other man’s head. His lips move, but I don’t hear what he says. Just see Crash’s slight nod. Just hear Handlebar roaring a denial as the muscles in Stone’s arm flex.
Compressing the arteries. It’s the same thing my brother does. Makes it quick and painless.
Crash’s body goes limp. Agony contorts Stone’s face as he slowly, slowly lowers him to the ground—going to his knees, holding Crash against his chest, never letting up on that choke. He presses his lips to Crash’s temple and says something else. Maybe he’s sorry.
“Let him go, brother.” Handlebar’s voice is broken and pierces the quiet that’s fallen. “You can still let him go.”
Stone could. It isn’t too late. Crash could wake up now and be okay. Or maybe Victor will have a sudden change of heart, or the fighters will suddenly revolt and break their chains. Or the FBI will bust in to save the day.
In movies, that’s what would happen. A last minute twist and a happy ending.
“Fifteen seconds,” Victor announces.
Stone’s teeth clench. Then a sound rips from him. The agonized scream of a man’s soul tearing away.
He wrenches Crash’s head to the side.
Handlebar’s roar of denial echoes the silent scream that fills my head and my heart. This can’t be real.
But it is. I know it is.
Sobs hitch painfully in my chest as Stone rises to his feet with his arms wrapped around Crash’s torso, his heavy muscles straining under the weight. The Cage unlocks and two of the guards head in.
“Back off,” Stone snarls and carries Crash’s body to the exit—toward Handlebar, who’s raging against his chains. “Take him, brother. Take him.”
A keening sound comes from the bearded man as Stone lays Crash in his hands. Then Handlebar’s hoarse, “You’re no brother to me. I’ll kill you. First fucking chance, I kill you.”
Jaw set, Stone nods and backs up a step. When the guards start closing in, Victor at the lead, he tells them, “You’re not throwing Crash’s body away like trash. You’re going to let this man bury his brother. Or about five of you are going into the ground tonight, too. You’ll eventually get me down, but not before I can do a lot of fucking damage.”
Victor stares at him a long second before nodding. “We’ll bury him back at the compound.”
When Stone gets that agreement, all the aggressive fire and steel seems to vanish. He moves back to the bench like a man still carrying a heavy body with him. With silent sobs tearing at my chest and throat, I pick up my first aid kit and head over. He didn’t put a mark on Crash, but Crash got in quite a few hits on him. Blood streams from a cut in his scalp, his left eyebrow, his mouth.
I can’t help Crash. But I can do this. It’s one of the few things I can do for any of these guys. Keep them healthy. Patch them up.
“Don’t you fucking touch me. Don’t you ever fucking touch me.” His harsh voice freezes me in place and he snatches the antiseptic pad from my hand. When he looks up at me, his gaze isn’t cold and lethal. Not tormented or grieving. Just dark and empty. Soulless. “And don’t you dare cry. Not when you’re the reason I was in that Cage with him. Your skin is safe.”
Grief and anger lock my throat. The urge to shout that Crash was my friend, too. But it wasn’t the same as Stone’s bond with him. I know it wasn’t. And whatever blame he places on me, it can’t be close to what he’s putting on himself.
I nod and back off, but his next question stops me.
“What was the plan?”
Renewed grief stabs through my heart. My plan to slip the guards chocolate laxatives and get them out of the control booth. I’d filled in Crash tonight for the first time—and he’d loved discovering why I’d had him playing along and pretending to be constipated for days.
But he’s gone. And I can’t just switch the symptoms over to someone else.
“It’s impossible now,” I tell him in a thick voice.
“Then you’re useless to me, aren’t you?” His empty gaze moves back to Handlebar, who’s clutching Crash close. “So get the fuck out of my face.”
I do, and the tears that keep falling aren’t elegant or pretty. Because this isn’t the movies.
And there won’t be any happy ending here.
12
Stone
It’s a silent ride back to the barns. No congratulations come from the other fighters in the van, though most say something to Log Cabin. But to me, nothing. Probably because of what they see in my face.
Or don’t see. Because I’ve got a big fucking hole inside me. Where the man I was used to be.
And right now, something my mom once said is echoing around inside that hollow space. She’s a high school counselor now, but wasn’t always. Back in the day, she was some hotshot psychiatrist up in Portland. That was before Anna got sick with childhood leukemia, before the long cure and recovery meant my mom wasn’t putting in as many hours in at the office, before our family moved to a little town in Central Oregon. My mom gave up the flashy job, but didn’t give up her calling. Growing up, Anna and I got all kinds of shit drilled into our heads, my mom teaching us all kinds of lesson—sometimes so subtly we didn’t know what she was doing until it was done.
But most stuff, she just said flat out. One of those things was that some people have big fucking holes inside them. So they fill them up with something else. Drugs, sex, violence, television, kale—whatever makes them feel like less of a big, empty piece of shit. And some go overboard and it ends up killing them.
A lot of people don’t end up choosing what fills them up. They just fall into it. A drink here, a puff there. But sometimes, she said, they choose what fills them up. Knowing it can’t get them through forever. But it can get them through long enough that they can make it out the other side.
I’m choosing mine. Two goals to focus on.
Killing Tusk. Burning down the Cage.
And if I don’t come out on the other side… Fuck. I don’t really give a shit.
As long as I get those two things done.
* * *
We get back to the barns, and it’s the same routine as before. The guards lead us out of the vans one at a time under Victor’s supervision. Except this time they leave the van’s back doors open and facing the other vehicles, and I can see what’s going on while I’m waiting for my turn. Handlebar comes out of one, carrying Crash, and that hole inside me goes so ragged and bloody that I can’t fucking breathe again.
The guards don’t escort Handlebar to the barn. Instead they head around it. Where he’ll bury Crash.
I lost two brothers tonight. And if Handlebar still wants to kill me for it…I’ll let him. After Anna’s safe.
They lead Tusk in, and watching him helps that ragged hole start filling up. Not going to be killing him tonight. But I will. I would have anyway, for what he did to Draft—and what I suspect he did to a hell of a lot of other fighters, considering the way Crash knew some ugly sick shit was about to happen.
But also because Crash made that promise to Cherry. He can�
�t follow through now. So it’s one thing I’ll do for him.
She comes out of the van, hovering over Airbag as he limps toward the barn. I don’t know what plan she and Crash cooked up to get out of here. Something she needed him for, a plan that won’t work anymore.
But Cherry might have given all of us another way out.
It’s just Abyss and me left in the van when the guards come for me.
“I want my phone call,” I tell the guard unlocking my wrist shackles.
He laughs. “This ain’t a jail, new guy. You don’t get a lawyer.”
Yeah, and this asshole is useless to me. To Victor, I call out, “That bastard on the video with my sister said I’d be able to call her after winning a fight. I won a fucking fight. I want my call.”
Victor’s eyes narrow. “That promise didn’t come from Papa.”
“Then who runs this fucking place? The Iron Blood? They can go around making deals for Papa that he doesn’t have to follow through on? That’s who you’re working for, too?”
His jaw clenches. Well, that’s real damn interesting. Not a fan of the Blood? To the guard he says, “Leave him there a minute. Take number seven.”
Abyss. Calling him by his stall number. And leaving me here with my wrists unshackled, and only my ankles still locked down. But two more guards stand by ready with the stun guns.
So I’ll take my chances with Papa right now. Victor sends a text. Everything’s quiet. Out here in the middle of goddamn nowhere. The cold’s settling in through the open doors. Sweatpants aren’t shit in the desert in November. The guards who took Abyss in are heading back to the van when the phone rings.
“Victor.” A pause. “Yes, sir. I heard Chef make the promise. After every win.”
Chef. So Cherry was right. The Iron Blood’s enforcer.
One more asshole to kill.
By the way Victor’s nodding along to whatever Papa’s saying now, the boss must not be too happy with the deal that fucker made. Probably Chef should have stopped at promising to kill Anna...but I wouldn’t be surprised if she had something to do with that promise, too. Because without it, I’d never have fought. I’d have assumed Chef killed her after that, anyway. She probably saved herself by saying that the only way to make me fight is by giving me proof that she’s still alive after.
Saved herself. Just like Cherry is.
My gut fills up with rot. Then satisfaction rushes in when Victor nods and says into the phone, “Yes, sir. You are always a man of your word.”
Papa is a man of his word? What a fucking asshole. There’s nothing worse than a self-righteous bad guy. He’s a goddamn flesh-peddler, trading in death and entertainment. But keeping his promises makes him an honorable man?
More likely, he’s just rich. And rich fuckers have a habit of justifying all the ways they crush the little guys under their boots. I keep my word, you keep yours, and we’re all equal and in this together—and we’ll just ignore the fact that I didn’t give you much of a choice when we made our deal.
Yeah, it’s bullshit.
But this time, I’ll take it. And use it.
With the phone still against his ear, Victor glances over at me. “I would say that Mr. Wall proved himself a valuable addition to your stable.”
And I would say they’re all dead men walking. I’m not a valuable asset. Instead I’m the liability that’ll bring them down.
“Yes, sir.” Victor gestures to one of the other guards, who moves in and begins locking my wrists up again. “And the girl? She hasn’t yet been punished for her disobedience.”
What girl? Cherry?
Did they know about the plan she cooked up with Crash? Or that she lied about his earache?
Whatever it is, the reply is so short that Papa must not care too much about whatever rebellion it was. Probably because whatever she was doing didn’t mean a damn thing in the end. Crash is dead.
“Yes, sir. I’ll see that he gets his reward.” Victor ends the call, looks to me. “You’ll get your call.”
That’s one reward I’ll take. Though I wish to fuck it had come at a lower cost.
“Get us out onto the 395 and start driving. I’ll tell you when to stop,” Victor tells the guard as he steps into the van’s cargo hold. Not bothering to hide the name of the highway, even though I’ll be making a call and might leak the location—probably because he knows any trace on the phone might give away the general area, anyway. “I’ll ride back here and make sure Mr. Wall behaves.”
Yeah, probably better do that.
No fool, Victor double checks my shackles before sitting across from me, like he knows the sight of his drill sergeant face will make this drive feel a million fucking times longer. “Papa asked me to convey his congratulations to you. He was pleased to see that you are a man of considerable skill.”
Congratulations. For killing a friend. Papa can go fuck himself.
And that hole goes ragged again. Because now I get it. A demonstration. That wasn’t just about teaching the Devil’s Hangmen a lesson. Though it was probably that, too. But most of their money comes from gambling—and I’m the new guy, an unknown and more of a risk. But they’ve got a baseline on what I can do now.
But they knew Crash couldn’t fight again. So they sacrificed him to get that baseline. Sacrificed one of the best men I know. In a demonstration.
My chest is real fucking tight as I ask him, “Who’d you serve with, Vic? Army, I figure.”
Victor doesn’t answer.
I don’t need him to. I know a soldier when I see one. “That man Handlebar is burying now was a sergeant with Second Reconnaissance Battalion, Second Marine Division, a team leader, and a real fucking good man, too. Has a whole fucking collection of bronze stars. Don’t give me your congratulations. A decorated Marine died in your Cage today.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “He wasn’t a Marine when he died.”
Oorah, he’s begging for me to beat his ass. “Once a Marine, always a fucking Marine.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps back. “You stopped being anything when you put on that vest you were wearing, declaring loyalty to your club instead of your country. You put yourself above the law and betrayed every goddamn thing you fought for. So did he.”
That’s real fucking rich. “You’re a militia boy now, aren’t you? That’s the same fucking thing as a motorcycle club. A bunch of brothers who just want to live free and to take care of our own. But instead of protecting a man’s freedom, you’re helping to put them in cages.”
“You should be in cages. You bikers have no respect for the laws of this country. Your clubs are running drugs, selling girls, bringing illegals across the border. We’re just doing what the law can’t. Or won’t.”
Christ. The only thing worse than a self-righteous rich fucker is a self-righteous hypocrite. “You think the Iron Blood and all their associates aren’t running girls? The roads to the Cage are paved with all the needles your boys stuck in their arms to keep them on their backs. The people you’re working for are telling them to come to the promised land and then turning them into whores.”
“They should have known that if they come here illegally, they’ll get into trouble. Just like you and your clubs. You break the law, you pay for it.”
“Since when did the courts say that the proper punishment for a woman coming over the border is rape? Since when does a judge tell some asshole selling dope to get in a cage and beat another prisoner to death? And you talk about respect for the law?” A hard laugh escapes me. “You don’t stand for a goddamn thing. You’re just a fucking traitor to anyone who ever wore a uniform.”
That got to him. His jaw clenches and he stares at me for a long minute. Then quietly, “I suggest you sleep, Mr. Wall. We’ve got a long ride ahead, and if you open your mouth again, I might change my mind about letting you make that call.”
Bullshit he will. He’s already proved himself to be Papa’s little lap dog. But since I’ve got no interest in conversing with a goddamn tr
aitor, I close my eyes.
Only one thing’s in my head. Burning this place down. And I’ll do it with one word to Anna. Because the Hellfire Riders haven’t shown up yet, so that means they need a lead. A link to the Cage. And Cherry gave it to me.
Strawman.
* * *
Problem is, I can’t just say the name. Not because of Anna. I say “Strawman” to my sister, and she’ll wonder what the fuck I’m talking about—but then she’ll tell either the Prez or Gunner or Zoomie. And the name will do the job it needs to do. It’ll give them that link.
But if I say it and Victor hears it, then it’ll blow that link apart. Everyone who set this shit up—Gunner’s family and whoever they know in the Iron Blood—must believe that there’s no damn way the Riders or anyone else will ever track down the Cage or find this barn. They must think they’ve covered their asses that well.
And they have. Because after Zoomie was taken, the Hellfire Riders were looking hard for the Cage and we didn’t see a damn thing until I tripped right over it.
So if I expose that link, it’ll get covered up again quick. And then this phone call won’t be worth shit.
The trick will be saying “Strawman” without saying it. And without saying anything close to it. I’m pretty sure that Gunner’s brother being called “Strawman” has something to do with a scarecrow. But that won’t help, either, because Victor’s no idiot.
But “strawman” has another meaning—one Anna will put together. Because that’s another thing our mom drilled into our heads.
Look out for strawmen.
It’s a shitty tactic people use when they’re in an argument they can’t win. Instead they build up a strawman that resembles the other person’s argument, then they knock it down and claim a victory. But the strawman is just empty bullshit that lets the person avoid addressing the real argument.
But I have to word it just right. And be quick, because Victor’s not going to let me have a conversation with Anna. And make sure she tells Gunner—not the Prez and not Zoomie—because even if she figures out what I’m getting at, it won’t mean anything beyond that to anyone except him.
