Swordfall: Fall Trilogy Two

by Olivette Devaux

  “Have you decided to cooperate, Sean? When you stop flailing, I’ll untie you.” Adrian’s voice was grave and patient. Only the gleam in his eye betrayed amusement.

  Incredulous, Asbjorn got just close enough to watch the bundle that was Sean go still. The string of curses stopped.

  Adrian cut the tape around Sean’s ankles and removed the army blanket.

  “Here’s your shoes and your jacket,” Don offered.

  Sean grabbed a pair of lace-up, black leather boots and walked away from the two in a huff, looking for a quiet space where he could put them on.

  It appeared, Asbjorn reflected, Sean had no more desire to be here than he did.

  “HEY, MR. RIOS,” A TALL, lanky gangbanger kid greeted him as he walked through the metal side door. They did one of those complicated handshakes, and Adrian knew it was this kid, and others like him, who made sure that nobody spray-painted the warehouse and the lights didn’t get shot out.

  “Jose. Good to see you.” Adrian met his eyes straight on. “What’s up?”

  His kids – street kids, mostly – never called him by his last name unless they wanted something.

  “You know how there’s been that problem with the other group? And you suggested we make some kind of a truce with them?”

  Adrian nodded, listening. The existence of street gangs was a fact of life in impoverished areas. He couldn’t eliminate them. He could, however, help the younger gangbangers negotiate with their fractious neighbors.

  “I brought one of their guys today. I hope nobody’ll mind.”

  Adrian suppressed a sigh. A new visitor would translate into another babysitting job on top of Sean. There were moments when his job as a psychotherapist and a social worker infused him with a deep longing for the solitude of wilderness. Although, with his luck, his gangbangers would follow him even there. “Where is he?”

  “Outside, with the others.”

  “Well, invite him in. You’re his host. You’re responsible for his comfort now.”

  Jose’s eyes lit up. “Okay. Thanks.” He opened the door, and a group of fifteen more teens in green plaid shirts and black baseball caps trickled in from the cold, stomping their feet to get the snow off their boots. In their midst stood their guest. He stuck out like a sore thumb: Adrian’s age, white, tall, red-haired.

  He met Adrian’s eyes and nodded, recognizing him as an authority figure. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m our group’s liaison. They call me Red.”

  “Red what?” Adrian inquired.

  “Redfish.”

  SEAN JUST FINISHED lacing his combat boots and stood from the cold concrete floor. He looked up. The hushed conversations stilled to hear the name again, to inspect the visage they all knew from the mug shot on the television news broadcasts. This, then, was the famous Redfish. Mad Dawg Hatalsky’s strategic advisor. A criminal mastermind.

  Mark sauntered over, but he didn’t flash his badge. He didn’t need to. A guy like Redfish would know a cop when he saw one. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure,” Redfish said. His expression was impassive.

  They walked off, and Sean watched them exchange a few words. Mark looked awfully intent on making his point, but he settled down some when Redfish pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and fiddled with it for a while. Then he tilted it so Mark could view the screen. Mark’s features hardened into his impassive cop face again and his eyes were stuck in an expressionless, dead-eye glare.

  Sean figured he knew what would happen next. Mark would pull out his cuffs and cart their uninvited guest away.

  But no. That would have been too easy.

  He saw Mark nod once, then turn his back on the jail-breaking felon. He scanned the curious faces trained at him. “We are on neutral ground. The neutral ground rule stands.” His eyes searched the crowd for a potential babysitter. “Dud. Come tell Red all about the rules of the game.”

  ASBJORN STAYED IN THE shadows. He would never forget Redfish’s startled face as he entered the alley. Redfish knew what he’d done. He was tied into the underground and would be an invaluable contact for Mark. Maybe the Gang Unit would get to work with the guy. Maybe he’d become Mark’s mole. In any case, Frank Pettel was dead and Redfish was here, mingling with Asbjorn’s friends and learning everyone’s name. He felt a cold thrill of fear deep within.

  Loose lips sink ships.

  The old saying reverberated in his mind. He’d thought only Ken and Don were aware of what he’d done – Mark had probably guessed – but it seemed that the news had spread a lot wider than he expected. If people knew, it would come down to a felon’s word against Asbjorn’s.

  He’d left no evidence. Nothing for the ballistics to analyze, no fingerprints, no security footage.

  He didn’t forget that Redfish had offered him a job. It could be good – he could pretend to think about it. It could also be bad, if the man tried to blackmail him. He decided to stick to the shadows.

  The games had begun. A few of the junior fighters had already taken their place inside the circle painted on the concrete floor. They toasted one another, drank, and fought. Most fights were short – one opponent had a surprise move and wasn’t afraid to use it.

  Nell stepped inside the ring next. Her bright eyes narrowed as she scanned the crowd. Her long hair was bound in a French braid and coiled around her head. “Sean. Will you share my beer and my blood?”

  Asbjorn felt his eyebrows shoot up. Surely she didn’t intend to carry out her stupid plan? Didn’t enough people interfere already? He saw Sean’s caramel eyes meet hers as he nodded. He seemed resigned to his fate, as though he didn’t feel like fighting today.

  Asbjorn was tempted to keep to the darker part of the Warehouse. He moved closer to see better, though, and had to contain an almost uncontrollable urge to run in Sean’s direction. The urge to protect warred with his desire to avoid conflict with the man who left him. Seeing him up close would be too painful – and besides, one of their old arguments revolved around Asbjorn letting Sean fight his own fights. Sean was capable and trained. He didn’t need Asbjorn’s help, and there was no reason to think he would want it.

  Sean’s right hand rose to his throat, where his amber sun-disc used to sit in a place of honor. That disc sat in Asbjorn’s pocket now. It seemed as though Sean missed it – or maybe it was just a nervous tic he had developed over time. Sean got dragged into this dank, awful place in a most humiliating way, but since he was already here, he finally looked up with a bit more determination in his eyes. As though he was ready to make his presence known and burn some of that stress and embarrassment off in the ring.

  Sean and Nell bowed to one another and closed the space that separated them immediately. Asbjorn saw Sean reel back. Two streams of blood, dark in the thin light of the light that hung over the ring, gushed from his nostrils.

  A head-butt? Wasn’t that one of those techniques one reserved only for enemies?

  Asbjorn inched a little closer, both alarmed and fascinated.

  Sean shook his head, like he was trying to get a water droplet out of his ear. Then his center of gravity dropped, he captured Nell’s punch, and trapped her arm. Asbjorn saw it coming and grimaced. He didn’t envy Nell-sensei the necessity of performing a breakfall on the hard, concrete floor. Yet she didn’t – she twisted toward Sean and grasped his ear in a painful pinch. He gasped, and she freed her arm and kicked him in the stomach with her knee.

  Once again, Sean scrambled up from the cold ground. His eyes were dazed, not comprehending what was going on.

  Nell’s calm face neared his confused one, and her sharp whisper carried through a space full of silent audience. “Asbjorn’s like a brother to me, Gallaway. You hurt him, you hurt me. Then I get even.”

  Sean shook his head, then held it in his hands as he watched her stalk away from the ring. He now had to pick his next opponent. He won, throwing him with relative ease.

  Sean’s latest opponent called Asbjorn out, and Asbjorn went, draggi
ng his feet but unwilling to embarrass himself by backing down.

  They stood in the ring, said the words, downed their shot of bourbon, and squared off. They circled for a while, moving in and out, gauging each other’s range. Asbjorn was surprised when a quick jab grazed his cheek. The younger man, Troy, had fast hands and apparently spent some time in a boxing gym.

  Jab.

  Jab. Cross.

  Asbjorn evaded the first blow and absorbed the second combination. He knew he should hit back. Now. Yet... the kid was lighter and much younger, and a flash of pristine snow flashed before Asbjorn’s eyes.

  White, with a streak of red that kept slowly growing.

  It was as though the Warehouse around him disappeared and the hum of the crowd receded into white nothingness. The heat of the fight was replaced by a chill that passed over him. He smelled blood and took two quick steps away. He tried to recall the taste of bourbon – warm, rich, biting – but it was gone.

  Reality returned with a sharp cross that moved his chin and jarred his brains. He lunged himself forward and threw his opponent to the ground. The fall stunned the younger man, and Asbjorn moved in for the finishing technique –

  “...this move is lethal, now, if you’re not careful, so don’t overdo it....”

  Asbjorn heard the echo of Tiger’s voice shoot through his head as he pulled back. An elbow cracked his face. Troy rolled away, soon up on one knee and hands combat-ready.

  “No, it’s good, Troy. Nice escape. Your game.”

  Troy beamed him a smile. Pulling a fast one on the infamous Asbjorn Lund would buoy his ego for weeks.

  SEAN HAD SEEN ASBJORN bleed before. He’d even seen him stumble around, suffering a mild concussion. That was nothing new. He had never seen him throw a fight, though – and if this wasn’t a thrown fight, Asbjorn shouldn’t be out there, because he was fighting like shit.

  Sean thought even he could take him now.

  The thought did not please him. He grabbed a bottle of water and moved over to a small, select group of fighters. If he stuck with them, he might be less likely to get challenged. Like Asbjorn, Sean knew he had no business being out there if his head wasn’t on straight.

  He eyed the redheaded Russian from the side. Redfish. What a ridiculous street name. The tall, lanky man was nursing his hard-won beer, sitting on a cooler right next to Ken.

  “He sucks,” Redfish said to Ken, his accent light.

  “Nah. You haven’t seen him when he’s on,” Ken replied and sipped from his dark brown bottle.

  Redfish sipped again. “We watch the decline of one of the best fighters. And you say I’m wrong.”

  Ken shrugged. “He is going through shit right now. He ain’t right in the head, but once he gets it all sorted out, he’ll be all right again.”

  Sean winced. The “shit” Ken mentioned was probably related to him and his idiotic effort at handling a difficult situation. That’s the trouble with hindsight, Sean thought – he knew what he shouldn’t have done, but he still had no idea what he should have done instead. Sean had been desperate to talk it out, but with Asbjorn avoiding him, talking was hard, if not impossible.

  Redfish spat on the floor. “It’s just in his head, sure, but that’s the part that matters the most! If he won’t get his head all straight, pulling his punches and finishing moves, someday someone was gonna kill him dead.”

  “And you’re sayin’ that someone might be you?” Ken said in a low growl.

  “I’m sayin’ he’s a disaster waitin’ to happen. Don’t think I didn’t recognize him. There was a big bar fight at the docks before Christmas. He looked much better then. Not like dog meat.” Redfish threw the bottle in a bin. “That blond kid just isn’t worth it.”

  “You think this has to do with him?” Ken asked, as Sean listened with bated breath.

  “I know how Frank Pettel got taken down. Lund’s a natural. Right now, this?”

  He spat. “It’s painful to watch. Fucking painful.” His light Russian accent had him enunciate every letter of “fucking,” as though it wasn’t a swear word anymore.

  Sean watched Redfish and Ken intently. They knew something he didn’t know. Something about Pettel’s death – and how was Asbjorn connected?

  There was no way. He wouldn’t.

  A deep suspicion took root in Sean’s gut. Would Asbjorn kill for him? And when? Sean tried to organize his thoughts, going back over the period of last two weeks, day by day. Some of the days blurred together, but others stood out in stark contrast and his memory recalled every vivid, painful detail.

  Sean was watching Asbjorn’s numerous fights as closely as Redfish and Ken. He fought often but not well. He’d drink up, square off and bow, and....

  Asbjorn was sparring, not fighting. He didn’t hit through his target – he was just tapping the surface. He slowed his technique down to a mere fraction of its usual speed, allowing his opponents to mount a sturdy offense. He did everything to protect his opponent from so much as a well-deserved shiner. But why? This was so unlike him.

  “Toy weapons make toy warriors.”

  Asbjorn’s words popped up in Sean’s mind. Looking at Asbjorn now, he no longer resembled a menacing element. He fought like everyone’s favorite uncle at a family reunion.

  A strong uncle who was afraid to use his strength.

  Afraid.

  Strength.

  Another opponent found himself between a rock and a hard place, just to be let go as gently as a butterfly.

  Again!

  He did it again!

  The very opponent who Sean disposed of with ease a few fights back was now gaining an upper hand over Asbjorn, because Asbjorn neglected – no, he refused – to exploit his advantage. Another elbow connected with Asbjorn’s chin and he staggered back under the well-placed strike.

  Frustrated, Sean was only too eager to take up the victor’s challenge, disposing of him with a simple, painful wristlock and a kick to the knee. As he picked up his next beer and looked around for his next dance, he noticed Redfish look him up and down. The man knew something – something vital. Sean was certain of it, and he was determined to find out the secret he harbored. He nodded his way as he recited the formal invitation.

  “Who’ll share my blood and my beer?”

  Redfish was quick to raise his hand. “I will,” Redfish answered the challenge in his accented voice.

  Sean looked around the crowd, not wanting to seem too eager, before he nodded in the redhead’s direction.

  He swaggered over to face Sean in the middle of the ring and accepted a shot of tequila with a wedge of lime. “I will spill your blood and your tears for you, Sean Gallaway.” His voice was soft, so soft only Sean could hear him.

  Sean felt a jolt of déjà vu. It was like Pettel was after him again, and a sudden urge compelled him to hide. Hiding never sat well with him, though, and the sooner he showed this nobody he would not yield, the better it would go down the road. He faced the problem head-on. “You were with Frank Pettel. Is that why you’re after me?” Sean’s reply was equally soft, his expression not betraying the alarm he felt.

  “Maybe you wanna show off, little boy. Maybe you wanna trash the guy who trashed your former boyfriend.”

  “What he is to me is none of your business,” Sean said in a voice that was cool and detached. He couldn’t afford to get riled up. If he did, heat would rise up his cheeks, and he’d lose all credence if he blushed. He met the man’s gray eyes with equanimity – his stare was turned right back.

  A dangerous expression flashed across Redfish’s otherwise handsome features. An expression of intent. “Come see this. This is why I’m after you.”

  Redfish produced a cell phone out of his cargo pocket, finding just the right set of images. He tilted the small screen for Sean to see.

  There was red and white – and a humanoid form, oddly disjointed.

  “What’s this?” Sean asked, not comprehending.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me zoom in fo
r you.” Thick fingers slipped over the touch-sensitive screen, inflating the image until there was no doubt in Sean’s mind.

  There, before his very eyes, was an image of the dead body of one Frank Pettel, crumpled in a pool of dark liquid that formed a stark contrast against the white snow. He blinked and shook his head in disbelief, trying to reconcile what he saw with the weeks of terror that preceded this night. He tried to focus on the man before him.

  “So you’re the one who killed him?”

  “No. Scroll down and inspect the wounds.”

  Sean did so, zooming in some more. He stood still, willing the image away, but there was no fighting the facts. Pettel’s torso was almost cut in half. He reeled back as his gorge began to rise at the gory spectacle. “You... you....”

  “No. Not I. I only saw a tall blond guy at the scene. But you, Gallaway. You’re just the little shit, you know that? You have your boyfriend do your dirty work for you and then you dump him. Look – are you proud of your work? He’s but a shadow of the man he used to be.” The voice of the man who called himself Redfish was a hiss of venom in the dark.

  Sean’s eyes flitted toward Asbjorn’s slumped form and battered face at the edge of the ring. He wore a plain denim shirt, unbuttoned at the top only so the flat, hand-wrought silver of his triskelion gleamed in the inadequate light. Sean’s gut clenched at the sight, but before he could process how he felt and why, the accented, adversarial voice called him out.

  “It’s time to spill your blood and your tears, kid!”

  ASBJORN LEANED HIS butt against the back of the beat-up, stained sofa somebody had probably salvaged on garbage day. He was favoring his twisted knee, stretching his legs tentatively and taking an inventory of new aches and pains. He straightened his sore back and shoulders, tensed, and relaxed again. His neck was whiplashed for sure, and his knee would need some work with weights to set it straight again.