The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  He whirled, keeping the waif-woman beyond their reach. The words flew out of his mouth before his brain could tell him this was a bad idea.

  “Try and stop me.”

  Incredibly, the brute grinned. The two ladies with him stepped back, as though his smile were a starting pistol.

  A fist lined with silver rings flew toward Gabriel’s face.

  He ducked aside, and it failed to connect. The next blow caught him in the sternum, knocking the breath from him. He recovered quickly and dodged a flashing foot, then let his own fist fly.

  His knuckles caught the other man high on the cheekbone. His opponent’s head pivoted to the side. Surprise filled the brute’s eyes. He stepped back and looked at Gabriel, poised to strike again, and gave him a contemptuous sneer.

  “You ain’t worth my time,” he drawled. “Do what you want with that piece of street filth. I got a real fight to get to.” He turned and rejoined the pair of prostitutes, who laughed derisively, and the three of them melted into the gloom.

  Barely hearing him, Gabriel turned toward the woman, but she was already halfway across the lot and walking briskly in the opposite direction. He went after her with long strides and reached her just before she turned the corner.

  She seemed to sense his approach, because she stopped in mid-step and mumbled, “Thanks,” without turning around.

  “You’re welcome. Look, can I…” He stopped himself. He’d almost offered to help her. What could he do, exactly? He couldn’t even help himself.

  She stiffened, and finally turned to meet his eyes. “See something you like?” The line emerged practiced, stilted. Her body language played out coy, but her eyes told a different story. Somewhere out there, her pimp was waiting for his cut.

  He shook his head miserably, and she sagged in defeat. The crumpled look on her face wrenched at him. He reached for her, brushed her bare arm — and she jerked away from his touch.

  “Hey! Hands off the merchandise.”

  “Sorry.” He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I only wanted to…”

  “Wanted to what? Grab a cheap feel? No dice, mister. I don’t do freebies, not even for knights in shining armor. It’s pay to play, all the way.”

  He recoiled. The fragility he’d seen in her had disappeared. Maybe it had never been there in the first place. His gaze fell to her arm, where he’d touched her. Slight smudges marred the skin of her upper arm, and at first he thought he’d smeared dirt there.

  Then he realized they were bruises, fading and finger-shaped. He shuddered and averted his eyes.

  “Do you want something or not?” Her foot tapped a weary staccato on the pavement. When he didn’t say anything further, she blew a short breath. “Listen. You seem like a nice guy. I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but it’s kinda obvious you don’t belong. You’re lucky that guy didn’t waste you, you know.”

  “Yeah. Lucky me.”

  She laughed a little. “I’m just sayin’ to watch yourself. Around here, heroes end up napping on a slab, know what I mean?” Her expression softened, and she became vulnerable again. She closed the distance between them. “By the way, this one’s free.”

  She kissed him. He tasted smoke and velvet, heat and sin. “Thanks, cowboy,” she whispered against him. “See you around sometime.” She whirled and strode away, her heels clicking furiously on the pavement.

  Gabriel stood motionless, and a strange silence settled over him. The distant background sounds of people arriving for the fight had ceased. He had to get back inside. If Slade realized he wasn’t there … Lillith was only a phone call away.

  He sprinted for the building, passed through the deserted front room, and forced his way through the crowds to Slade, who sat at a ringside table.

  Slade frowned at him. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, Angel?”

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and held his breath.

  The dreaded phone didn’t materialize. “Go,” Slade told him curtly. “Remember your instructions.”

  He nodded in silent relief and headed for the benches Slade had shown him earlier. Many of the fighters had already congregated there. No Eddie, or Lonzo, but there were a few he recognized from the previous fight. Only one bench remained empty, the furthest from him. He headed there, and caught sight of two regrettably familiar figures reclined in the back.

  The brute from the parking lot — and Nails.

  Chapter 20

  The brute saw Gabriel first. “You!” He stood and pointed a finger. “What the hell are you doing here, runt?”

  “Fighting.” A darkening bruise had surfaced where he’d hit the man. It was a start.

  “Who are you with?”

  “He’s with Slade.” Nails rose and flashed a wicked smile. “Angel, huh? Interesting choice.”

  “He’s the new hotshot kid from U?” The brute grunted. “I’m going to enjoy tearing you apart.”

  Nails laughed. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Kid can’t even hold onto his wallet. Too bad, Duke, looks like you’re stuck with another sleeper. Make him last for a while, wouldja? It’s boring as hell watching you drop a guy in sixty seconds.”

  “Shit. I could take ’im in thirty,” Duke said with a sneer. “How ’bout a friendly wager, little man? How long you think you’re gonna last against me? I'll give you a whole minute and a half, even.”

  Gabriel said nothing. Though his gut churned with rage and an undercurrent of fear, he maintained a calm expression.

  He doubted the bastard’s words would prove harsher than his fists.

  “Leave off, Duke. He ain’t got money. You just make him sorry he ever set foot on our streets.” Nails lost all trace of amusement. “That’s an order.”

  “You got it, lieutenant.” Duke grinned and dropped back on the bench. “See you in the ring, fish.”

  Gabriel walked past them and settled on the empty bench. Duke was going to be a hell of a lot tougher than Eddie … and he’d barely beaten Eddie. He definitely wasn’t looking forward to this fight.

  The lights dimmed. Spotlights flooded the ring and illuminated a new face. A shapely blonde stood in the center, clad in scant midnight blue to represent the hosting House Prometheus.

  She raised her arms. Light danced on the steel shaft of a microphone in her hand, and the crowd loosed a roar of approval. After the noise subsided, she gave the same basic welcome as the announcer at the last event had, and introduced the first two fighters. Magnus of Dionysus and Lucian of Ulysses. The men walked down a cordoned aisle to the ring and entered. The bell rang, and they went at it.

  Gabriel tried to let the chaos around him phase into the background, and managed a dull mental distance. Not enough to relax, but at least his galloping heart slowed to a quick trot.

  Eventually, someone nudged him.

  He snapped back to reality and looked to his side. Another fighter had taken a seat next to him, a young Japanese man with dyed bright blond hair pulled back in a tight knot. The fighter wore loose, blood-red pants and a matching sleeveless shirt, placing him with Pandora. He grinned and extended a hand with black painted fingernails.

  “Hello. You are Angel. I am Akuma — it means Devil.” A clipped accent edged his voice, though his English was fluent enough.

  Gabriel took the hand and glanced toward the ring. The first match had ended, and the second was already underway. He hadn’t seen who won, and it didn't matter to him. Nothing mattered now except winning the fight against Duke.

  “Hi,” he said at last to Akuma. “So, I guess this is Angel meets Devil.”

  “Yes. I have wondered when we might be paired together. Our battle will be epic. Its repercussions will echo through eternity.” He smiled again, and Gabriel realized he’d meant it as a joke.

  “Your housemate lost,” Akuma told him. “But he fought bravely.”

  Gabriel smirked. Doc would have a fit.

  A new fight unfurled in the ring — it looked like one fighter from Pandora and one from Prometheus
. At the moment, the match had no clear leader.

  “Prometheus fights without honor,” Akuma said.

  He couldn’t hold back a sarcastic snort. When the other man gave him a strange look, Gabriel said, “Honor? There’s no honor here. We aren’t fighting for respect or principles, just for money. Dirty money.”

  “No.” Akuma shook his head slowly. “You are an honorable man. And so am I. It is true that we lack a strong moral reasoning for these battles, but we fight for glory, for respect. This …” He gestured, indicating the whole room. “This is an affirmation of life.” His smile broadened. “The money is a nice bonus, though.”

  The words should have been wrong, empty. A hollow comfort. But somehow they rang true. Still, with the idea that these fights weren’t all bad, familiar horror and self-loathing welled up and Gabriel forced the thought away. He would not become one of these animals.

  One man went down in the ring — the man from Pandora. The announcer swept an arm at the one who remained standing and declared him the winner. The crowd launched its mingled hoots and cheers.

  The matches were spaced fifteen minutes apart. In a short time, he’d face the brute from the parking lot, a man who thought he had a reason to hate him. Hate, he had discovered, could serve as powerful motivation.

  Maybe revenge would prove stronger.

  Akuma took his leave and promised they would meet again. Nodding absently at the retreating fighter, Gabriel tried to focus on the impending match.

  The announcer’s magnified voice cut through his drifting thoughts. Time to go. He tugged his shirt off and waited for his cue.

  “Competing in our third match of the evening, please welcome Duke of Prometheus!”

  The brute swaggered down the aisle to the roar of the crowd. Gabriel stood, rigid with anticipation as the announcer continued. “And appearing in his first away match, from House Ulysses … Angel!”

  The corresponding increase in the crowd’s volume intoxicated him. A forbidden thrill coursed through him and electrified his body. Akuma’s words echoed in his head: You are an honorable man … this is an affirmation of life.

  He followed his opponent’s path between the roped barriers and ignored the words. Only Lillith’s life mattered. He didn’t need to affirm his.

  As he entered the ring, the shapes and the sounds of the audience converged into a formless, shifting void of muted color and dull buzzing. Images flashed before him, mental snapshots with single subjects in sharp focus. Akuma assisting his fallen comrade at a corner table. Slade staring at him with fierce intensity.

  Duke. Undulating tower of hatred, with the malevolent expression of a schoolboy about to tear the wings off a captured fly. Or a cornered Angel.

  The bell and Duke exploded in the same instant, and Gabriel found himself flat on his back. Knees ground into his shoulders. A volley of blows rained on his face. Hot blood erupted from his nose and filled his mouth. The fists moved down, pummeled his ribs, his stomach.

  Disoriented, he bucked and twisted beneath his opponent’s weight. The pressure on his right shoulder eased. He reached up, grabbed a handful of something, and pulled. Duke collapsed on his head. Ignoring the flare of pain, he squirmed away and rolled to the side, managed to gain his footing just before Duke barreled at him.

  He wasn’t fast enough to dodge a fist to the gut, but he recovered quickly and struck back. His blow clipped his opponent square in the temple.

  Duke shook his head like a duck shedding water, and grinned.

  A muscled arm shot forward. Gabriel stepped aside, planted his feet apart for balance — and too late, caught on to the feint just before a booted foot collided with his balls.

  Glaring white haze. Sound faded out, in — old movie reel, skips and smudges. Down, down … no. Can’t go down. Get up. Look out…

  Fresh agony rocketed through his crumpled nose and jerked him back to semi-lucidity. Fury propelled him from his knees and into Duke. His aimless jabs missed their target more often than not. The anger-induced energy wore off, and his groin screamed a reminder of its recent battering. He winced, stumbled back.

  Duke laughed.

  “Oh, my. Poor pretty boy.” A wide grin revealed broken eyeteeth, shattered at an angle that made Duke appear to sport fangs. “Told you this was our turf. We own the streets. Can’t you fucking read?”

  Concentrate, damn it. Duke stood unguarded. He threw a punch and connected with his opponent’s jaw. Duke’s head turned with the blow.

  His arm followed its arc. But before he stopped moving, an elbow slammed his shoulder and sent him to the mat.

  Gabriel landed on his side, his back to his opponent, and rolled away the instant he touched the floor. Duke’s foot stomped the mat and barely missed his hand. He started to push himself up. Duke dropped to one knee beside him, grabbed a fistful of hair and bashed his face twice against the mat without letting go, then wrenched his neck back and sneered.

  “If I was you, I’d stay down, little fish. You aren’t ready to swim with the sharks.”

  Duke thrust his head down and stood.

  Gabriel twitched, put a palm on the mat. A boot slammed his side and flipped him onto his back. Duke loomed over him. “You deaf, too? Stay the fuck down, or you ain’t walkin’ out of this ring.”

  Discontent exploded from the crowd in shouts and hisses. He couldn’t tell if the reaction was from Duke’s arrogant demands, or boredom. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t oblige the man. He had to get up.

  The rope border stood a few feet away. He rolled once, grabbed the lowest one, and pulled himself upright. Blood drizzled like sweat down his temple from a gash above his eye. One knee jerked and threatened to fold beneath him. He shifted his weight, prepared to move.

  Duke shook his head. “Stupid little fish.”

  Gabriel launched at his opponent, intent on bringing him down. Duke caught him around the torso as they fell. The Prometheus fighter hit the mat with a brief grunt, bucked up and twisted, throwing him aside. Both men stood, but Gabriel lagged by precious seconds.

  Duke strode toward him, drawing back a right fist. He crouched slightly and searched for an opening, ready to dodge the blow. The fist that flew at him seemed almost swollen — and Gabriel caught a dull glint of metal nestled between the third and fourth fingers.

  The bastard had a weight.

  The shock of the hit slammed through him down to his feet. Something in his jaw cracked, a sickening sound his ears amplified from the inside. He fell to the mat, scrambled aside and stood, only to have the weighted fist slam his ribs. Once, again. The pain sent scalding bile up his windpipe.

  Duke prepped for a left swing, and he threw up a forearm to block — but Duke opened his hand at the last second. Fingers encircled Gabriel’s wrist, wrenched his arm aside. His opponent’s weighted right hook struck the base of his neck.

  A gasping breath caught in his throat and would go no further.

  Duke dropped his wrist. The weighted hand slid in his pocket, quick as a snake, and came out empty. He gripped Gabriel’s upper arms and pressed them to his sides, stepped forward. And drove a knee into his still-throbbing groin.

  Gabriel couldn’t even scream.

  His muscles locked rigid, holding him in place even when Duke let go and stepped back. A dazzle-swirl of sparks erupted at the corners of his vision. He shook his head. The dancing lights refused to clear. Sweat coated his skin and drenched his hair, plastering it to his skull. The pain in his battered face was incidental compared with the ripping ache from his injured groin that coiled like hot lead in his gut.

  There were two Dukes. He blinked, swung, and missed both of them.

  Two blurred hands extended and became one. Fingers squeezed his windpipe. He hammered at the rock-hard arm connected to his throat, weakening with every blow.

  Sight and sound bled from the world, leaving blackness in its wake.

  Chapter 21

  Clicks and pops chattered in the dark. Tiny threads of Gabriel’s consciou
sness pulled together and formed a knot of panic. Jenner. His body jerked automatically, and a hoarse, anguished cry exploded from him. His eyes flew open, hot with pain.

  Doc’s room. Dimly lit, empty save for himself. No Jenner.

  He remained absolutely still. Everything hurt. Breathing. Blinking. Even attempts at thought seared his brain. His heavy eyes closed, but his mind refused to shut down again.

  Another burst of rapid clicks sounded, like distant gunfire. With agonizing slowness, he turned his head toward the sound and forced one eye open. The IV pole stood to his left, switched on but connected to nothing. The line hung straight down. No needles were taped in place on his arms. A wrinkled, empty bag curled on one hook. A mechanical whirr spun from the box and spat more clicks as the machine attempted to draw fluid from the emptiness.

  At last, the pain eased enough to allow more lucid thought. With it came renewed fear.

  He’d lost.

  The last thing he remembered was Duke’s hand clamped on his throat. He had no idea how he’d gotten here, or what would happen now — other than the certainty that Slade would be furious. He would hurt Lillith. If he hadn’t already.

  The curtain across from him rustled and twitched. He tensed, expecting Slade, or maybe Jenner. Doc stumbled through instead. He froze, wavered on his feet, and sent a mildly astonished look in the direction of his bed.

  “’Lo, Gayreel. How’d you get here?” A vacant grin drifted across his lips. “’Sup? You wanna drink? ’S the good shit.” He held up a hand with a clumsy flourish. His fingers clutched the neck of a near-empty bottle. Black-label Jack Daniels. The last of the liquid inside sloshed around with his unsteady motion.

  “Doc?” His voice emerged a whisper-croak. Clenching his jaw against impending agony, he propped himself up on his elbows. A moan slithered from his throat and collided with his teeth.

  “Here. I’ll pour ya shot.” Doc thrust the bottle toward the bed. The sudden movement unbalanced him, and he folded and thumped to the floor. Seconds of silence passed before a high-pitched giggle arose from the unseen doctor. “Don’ya know this’s a party?” Doc shouted from the floor. “Iss fight night! Buncha fuckin’ murderin’ drug dealers all killin’ each other, an’ I get ta fix ’em up! ’Cuz I’m the doctor!” Crazed laughter burst from him and degenerated rapidly into guttural, wrenching sobs.