by S W Vaughn
“I don’t,” he muttered darkly. “Think they know me, though.”
“Hot damn. You ain’t even fought yet, and you got a rep already.” Lonzo laughed and looked at the figure pushing toward them. “Sure did pick a nasty one, though. Cortez is a brute.”
“You don’t say.”
Cortez reached Kaiser and stopped. “What’s up, ’mano? You forget your match-up again? You aren’t in ’til next to last. One of the Japs.”
Kaiser shook his head and pointed.
Cortez followed the gesture, and said, “Son of a bitch.” He reached down, snagged Gabriel’s shirt and hauled him off the bench. “I told you to get lost. Guess you didn’t hear me. Who the fuck let you in here?”
“Hey!” Lonzo shot to his feet. “Leave off, man. He’s with us.”
“What? You’re shittin’ me, right? Slade signed on this little puke?” Cortez released him and wiped his hand on his shirt with an exaggerated motion. “What’d he do, take out life insurance on him? He ain’t gonna last two minutes.”
“He is standing right here.” Gabriel resisted smoothing his rumpled shirt. “Don’t talk about me like I don’t count.”
Cortez laughed. “Here’s a news flash for you, kid. You don’t. Get fuckin’ used to it.” He walked away, and Kaiser followed with a confused expression.
Gabriel sat down hard. “Thanks, Lonzo. Sorry about that. I just…”
“You know what? I don’t wanna know. Seriously.” Lonzo grinned and rejoined him on the bench. “Don’t even worry about those assholes. They aren’t worth the effort.”
“Yeah. I forgot ’em already.” Until he had to fight one of them. He had a feeling that would be pretty damned memorable.
A sudden thunderclap of cheering cracked from the spectators, and Gabriel sought the source of the excitement. A sable-haired beauty stood poised in the center of the cage, arms over her head to greet every person in the arena. One upraised hand gripped the staff of a cordless microphone. Scant triangles of glistening black leather were all that covered the ripe swell of her breasts, the generous curves of her ass and her private nest of curls. Stiletto-heeled boots hugged her legs to mid-thigh.
She bent her arm to bring the mike to her lips, and her voice boomed through the open space. “Welcome to House Ulysses!” The applause intensified. She paused, waiting for a lull. “We have a special treat for you tonight … the debut match of our newest fighter!” Again the clamor swelled, ebbed. “The betting window will stay open through the seventh match, for those of you who would like to wager on our final fight.”
“And now — bring on the boys!” The announcer turned toward the pen with a seductive smile. “For our first bout of the evening, please welcome Tiger of House Pandora to the ring.”
Tiger slunk past the bench where he and Lonzo still sat. The fighter offered a quick, predatory grin, mounted a second set of stairs that Gabriel hadn’t noticed before, and ascended into the cage to the sound of rousing cheers.
Lonzo stood. The entrance to the pen opened and another fighter walked in, bathed in shadow. “Ah,” Lonzo half-shouted over the din, “there’s Eddie.”
Gabriel strained to make out the new arrival, but he’d already mingled with the rest of the men in the enclosure. The announcer’s voice rang out again. “Competing against Tiger tonight is our own … Lonzo!”
With a brief wave, Lonzo charged up the steps and into the cage.
Gabriel temporarily abandoned his quest to determine which man would be his opponent and turned his attention to the impending fight.
Chapter 17
“Ooh, I don’t think he’s gonna come back from that one.”
The tall fighter in black next to Gabriel had stated the obvious. Accompanied by a mixture of cheers, catcalls and sighs of dismay, Lonzo’s limp body slammed into the cage wall for the third time in ten minutes.
Tiger had held a clear advantage from the start. Though Lonzo had the drive and the power, his opponent possessed speed and skills that could only have come from years of training.
Lonzo never stood a chance. He knew it, and he still fought.
Gabriel watched in mute horror as the fighter struggled to rise and failed. With a long, shuddering breath, Lonzo sunk to the floor and stilled.
Twenty seconds passed, counted out by the announcer. A bell sounded. “Winner!” the announcer called. She dashed across the ring and held one of Tiger’s bloodied fists upraised in a victory salute. Grinning, though his smile now floated over heaving breaths, the fighter from Pandora soaked in the cheers of the crowd like a cat in the sun.
Sol entered the ring, silent as shadows while the masses lauded their hero of the moment. Unnoticed, he bent to lift Lonzo — and to Gabriel’s amazement, the beaten fighter managed to walk out of the ring with his arm around Sol’s massive shoulders. At last the cheers began to abate, and Tiger took leave of his temporary glory.
The fighters in the pen had taken no notice of each other during the match. Now, with a break in the action, they moved around again. Gabriel caught snatches of conversation, reflections and instant replays, a few comments on how they would’ve won against Tiger.
He pushed his concern for Lonzo to the back of his mind and tried to concentrate on his impending ordeal. But when he turned to reclaim his spot on the bench, he found himself facing one of the fighters, who’d been standing behind him.
“’Lo, kid,” the fighter said. “I’m Eddie, and I’m guessing you must be Slade’s new guy.” A hand came forward.
He took it. “Yeah, that’s me.” The guy was big, but not monstrous like the twins, and black as pitch. His hair hung in tight, shining curls to just below his ears, and the deep purple tank top stretched over his chest revealed thick, veined arms and contoured muscle. Christ, were any of his opponents going to be his size?
“Leave your manners back at the ranch?” Eddie’s smile stayed in place, but his arms folded across his chest. Gabriel replayed the conversation, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.
And then he remembered the name. The goddamned name.
“Sorry. I’m … Angel.”
“Well, I’m charmed.” Eddie nodded and stepped back to let him through, and as he moved to the bench, Eddie grinned. “Looking forward to bein’ the first guy with the pleasure of beating you.”
Great. He managed a weak smile and sat down. The clock moved on, and time rushed him toward the inevitable.
The rest of the matches passed in a blur. Next up was Boomer of Prometheus, a burly-looking bald slab of a man, against Johnny O, one of Dell’s crew. These two seemed evenly matched, but eventually the slighter Johnny O went down. His defeat drew a sympathetic groan from Eddie. Boomer gloated and strutted around the ring, a misshapen peacock preening for an audience that tossed out more hissing than cheers.
It seemed House Prometheus was not the favorite.
Eventually, only four fighters remained in the pen. Two of them migrated into the spotlight, and the announcer introduced Kamen of Pandora and Kaiser of Prometheus. Gabriel kept his gaze diverted from his soon-to-be opponent, opting instead to try following the movements of the men in the cage.
The background roar of the crowd faded. Flesh smacked flesh, bone impacted muscle, grunts and sighs ejected from the fighters. Slick with sweat and blood, Kamen and Kaiser rolled across the mat, locked in a violent embrace and landing blows as they went.
Blur of skin and cloth and hair. Striking like cobras on fast-forward, hissing and spitting. Heads snapped, time whirled. Dragged closer to the moment he feared.
Thud. Kamen down. Game over. Time’s up.
The announcer called the victor’s name, and Eddie muttered something under his breath. Hiding behind a mask of rigid politeness, Gabriel looked at him and said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said, those fuckers are on ‘roids or something. Prometheus.” Eddie frowned and blew an agitated breath. “Winning streak, my ass.”
Gabriel nodded.
�
�I’d like to kick Mendez’s happy ass from here to Sunday.” The fighter broke off and fell silent. A minute passed, and he said, “Well, kid. You ready for me?”
“Sure.” Lillith’s life depended on his performance here and now. Don’t kill your opponent, Slade had told him. Don’t disfigure your opponent. Draw out the match. Shirt off. Goddamn it. He had to display the inked horror Jenner branded him with. He shrugged free of both shirts and dropped them in a crumpled heap on the nearest bench, ignoring his opponent’s antagonistic snort.
He looked at the ring, the announcer, the spectators. And remembered the last unspoken rule.
Don’t lose.
A cheer rippled through the crowd. The sound crested even before the announcer reached the center of the ring, and his heart sank. Tonight he served as the star attraction — fresh meat. The woman in the cage held up a hand for silence, but the din swelled before it settled into a dull roar.
She smiled, dazzling. Paused for effect. Raised the mike.
“And now, the main event!”
Cheers and jeers, applause and catcalls. A thin film of sweat coated his palms. He rubbed them on his pants.
“House Ulysses welcomes back to the ring … Eddie of Dionysus!”
Flash of grinning teeth. Feet charged up wooden stairs, pounded across the mat. Cheers and jeers—more cheers, less jeers.
They liked Eddie.
“And introducing the latest addition to our fine stable of fighters. Please welcome to the arena … Angel!”
Gabriel’s feet carried him forward and up. Step, step, step, into the searing flood of spotlights. Hands fisted at his sides, determination stiffening his stride. He forced himself to cross to the center with a measured gait.
Dimly aware of the awed hush that befell the crowd, he faced his opponent and waited. He would let Eddie make the first move.
Don’t lose don’t lose don’t lose.
The announcer retreated with an appreciative wink. A buzzer sounded.
Eddie moved.
Gabriel jerked back, aside. The blow meant for his jaw whizzed by in a blur of knuckles. From the corner of his eye, his opponent’s other arm began an upward trajectory. He ducked this time and felt his hair ruffle with the force of it.
Drop to the floor. Roll clear, stand. Don’t let him connect. Draw it out.
Roaring like an enraged bull, Eddie charged. Gabriel sidestepped, neat as a matador, and whirled to face him. His opponent lunged. He avoided one flying fist only to collide with another.
The blow glanced off his ribcage. The sharp sting faded fast. He hadn’t received the full impact. In front of him, Eddie grinned and jabbed again at his midsection.
Block. Shove away. Back off.
Avoidance was simple, but it couldn’t last forever. The crowd wanted action. They came for blood. Minutes passed with no contact and he felt pressure emanating from all sides, a nearly audible chant: punch-kick-strike-hurt.
He lashed out, aiming for his opponent’s gut. Eddie proved equally effective at defense, and his fist met a meaty forearm. He tried again with both hands — one-two, Sol’s technique — and this time connected.
It was like punching flesh-covered steel.
The effort left him unprotected and off-guard. Eddie landed a hit to his face. His lips mashed against his teeth, and the lower one split. Wet warmth engulfed his chin and pattered on his bare chest.
Just what the mob ordered.
Eddie paused to savor first-blood triumph. Mistake. He rabbit-punched the man’s left kidney. His opponent doubled over with a gasp, and he delivered a blow to his jaw. Eddie lurched sideways — but instead of taking advantage of the vulnerability, he stepped back and waited.
Draw it out.
Eddie straightened and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away dripping blood so dark, he could believe the fighter ate handfuls of iron for breakfast. His opponent bared red-smeared teeth in a can’t-hurt-me smile.
Eddie came at him again, bellowing, arms outstretched — and this time bore him to the mat. He tried to block. Flailing fists and feet seemed everywhere at once, connecting with dull smacking sounds and blossoming pain.
He went limp, tried to maneuver the man into relenting. It worked. Eddie hesitated just long enough for him to tense and spring, and reverse their positions. He knelt on Eddie’s shoulders. The fighter bucked and convulsed beneath him.
The barest tremor of victorious pleasure thrilled through him.
No. This was not sport. This was survival. Self-directed rage coursed his veins, and he channeled it into a furious backhand that snapped his opponent’s head into the mat.
Disgusted with himself, he rolled off Eddie and sprang to his feet.
The fighters circled each other, trading blow for blow. Time slowed to a crawl. Eddie swung in slow motion, his breath formed great tearing sighs. Limbs moved as though mired in mud. Blood flowed like syrup.
His opponent crouched, looped one leg outward in a wide arc — a sweep kick. Gabriel couldn’t avoid it in time. He crashed to the mat at the base of the cage wall.
Right in front of Slade’s table.
Eddie leaned over him. With his fingers entangled in the chain mesh above, he drove his foot into Gabriel’s ribs and stomach. Over and over.
Thud-rattle. Thud-rattle. Crunch-rattle.
Gasping in agony, he tried to rise. Eddie struck every time he started to gain purchase. He turned to look at his captor through the cage, and what he saw erased his thoughts.
The bastard was reaching for his phone.
Blind fury carried him to his feet despite the hailstorm of kicks. Wedging himself between Eddie and the wall, using the mesh behind him for leverage, he raised his legs and shoved hard. His opponent stumbled backwards and sprawled on his ass.
Gabriel rushed him. The other man gained a standing position, and he swung his balled hand, drove it with every ounce of power he possessed, every drop of rage he could produce. And connected.
Eddie’s limp body crashed to the mat.
Five seconds, ten seconds. Not so much as a twitch.
Silence screamed from the masses, gathered momentum.
Fifteen seconds.
Twenty.
“We have a winner!”
A backlash of sound washed over him as the crowd broke in wild delirium. He stood over Eddie’s unmoving body in disbelief. Blood … so much blood. He had beaten another man unconscious.
Gabriel looked down. Sorrow and self-loathing gnawed at him as he came to a terrible realization.
He wanted to do it again.
Chapter 18
Slade smiled as he approached the betting window. Payout time.
Apollo had returned to the House to deliver the boy to Seth. He’d done well — but Slade would never let him know that. The match had lasted a full twenty minutes, the second longest in the organization’s history.
Slade’s own debut bout had been the longest.
He replayed the fight in his mind like a beloved movie. The boy — Angel — was a natural exhibitionist. Whether the ability stemmed from fear for his sister or an unconscious warrior spirit, it made for an incredible show. His conditioning had proven well worth the risk.
Slade neared the front of the line, and a familiar and unwelcome figure approached from the side. Refraining from a childish display of eye-rolling, he looked ahead as though he didn’t see the obnoxious twit.
“Hey, Chief.”
“Mendez.”
“Your kid did pretty good out there tonight.”
He gave him a sidelong glance. “Yes, he did.”
Diego’s brow creased. He was obviously thinking hard. “A lot better than I expected,” he said, pronouncing each word with deliberation.
“I’m assuming you bet against him.”
The statement brought a strained laugh from his oily associate. “’Course I did. That don’t matter, though. My guys won all night.”
“Did they. I hadn’t noticed.” Get to the poi
nt, you insufferable cretin. He had almost reached the window, and didn’t want Mendez to find out how much he’d earned from the boy.
“So I was thinking …” Mendez leaned in. “I oughta get a cut of your action, you know,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “For findin’ the kid for you.”
He whirled on him. “You got your cut already, you snake. The deal is done. Get lost.”
“All right, Chief. Chill. Didn’t hurt to ask, now, did it?”
Slade glared in thunderous silence.
“Right. Catch ya later.” Mendez turned and walked into the crowd. The worm had nerve, a lot of fucking nerve.
He reached the window and cast a self-assured smile at the man behind the glass.
“Ah, Mr. Slade,” the man said. He was one of the two regular managers the organization used for events — Bentley or Benson, something like that. Not that his name mattered. “Cashing out?”
He nodded, reached into his pocket and produced a sheaf of receipts, slid them through the slot at the bottom of the window. Bentley-or-Benson riffled through the stack, punched some numbers into the laptop on the counter beside him, whistled softly and fed the receipts to a shredder.
“Five hundred gees. Nice little chunk of change. You want it all deposited?”
“Yes. Wait, no. Give me three thousand cash, deposit the rest.” He still had to pay Lonzo, despite the gung-ho fighter’s penchant for losing, as well as the two others who’d been in tonight.
Ben-something poked at the laptop, clicking away, his fingers a scurry of mice. Keeping his eyes on the screen, he used a key on a wrist coil to unlock a drawer beneath the counter. He extracted a slim banded stack of bills, and with his free hand retrieved a slip of white paper from the miniature printer beside the computer. He slid both the cash and the receipt through, and Slade pocketed them both quickly.
“See you next time, Mr. Slade.”
He started to respond, but Bentley-or-Benson had already motioned for the next customer. The tide of people jostled him away into the whirling aftermath of the evening’s entertainment.
