The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

Gabriel closed his eyes. Weak. Broken. He’d always thought he was. Always been told, and never decided for himself. He’d simply accepted the labels. Worthless. Stupid. Sniveling. But he hadn’t been any of those. He’d taken the beatings without complaint, taken the humiliation of endless verbal abuse, of counting strokes when his father demanded it, never wavering.

  Not for Lillith. For himself. Because he could.

  Screw Lillith.

  “Pay attention, brat.” Slade’s palm struck his face. Sparks exploded behind his eyes.

  Gabriel looked at him. “One.”

  “What?”

  Slade’s grip on his hair loosened. He twisted away, stood straight and held himself open. After a beat, Slade drove a blow into his sternum.

  “Two.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Slade flushed crimson and backhanded him. “Are you insane? Snap out of it!”

  He grinned. Blood leaked from his mouth. “Three.”

  “Knock it off, goddamn it!” A rabbit punch pounded his kidney.

  “Four.”

  A frustrated growl strained through Slade’s clenched teeth. He drew back and lobbed a fist at face level. Gabriel’s head whipped aside with the force of the blow. The leak became a hot, flowing stream.

  He spat blood, pivoted back to meet Slade’s eyes. “Five.”

  “You little bastard.” Slade glanced down at his groin. “Count this.”

  Moving faster than he thought possible, Gabriel delivered the blow Slade intended for him. Slade gasped and dropped to the mat.

  “Five is all you get,” he said. “You won’t touch me again.”

  “The hell … I won’t.” Slade scrambled back and gained his feet. “I’ll kill you.”

  “That’s against the rules.” Gabriel stepped forward.

  Slade swung, and he swatted the blow away, responded with one of his own that sent the man reeling. “You know, Slade, you should really learn to protect yourself better. Maybe you should take your clothes off. Tell you what — you do it first, and I’ll join you.”

  “No.” Slade shook himself. “You won’t win. You’re just a boy.” He lunged.

  Gabriel avoided the strike with ease, then laced his fingers together and pistoned the double fist into Slade’s gut. Slade flew back, bounced off the cage wall. Landed hard on the mat. “This is my game now,” he said. “My rules. And the first one is that you will not touch me again. Ever.”

  “You don’t make the rules.” Breathing hard, Slade struggled to stand. A grim smile stretched his lips. “You’re alone, boy. Even your sister hates you.”

  He smirked. “Thank God for that,” he said. “I’d hate to see what she does to people she likes.”

  “You won’t beat me!”

  Slade rushed him.

  Gabriel felt the vibrations of the advance in his feet and stood his ground, timed his response for the last instant. Just before Slade reached him, he dove aside, half-turned on the ball of one foot, and slammed an elbow between his opponent’s shoulders.

  Slade’s face made contact with the mat. Something crunched.

  “Want to know my second rule?” He squatted next to Slade’s head and lifted it by the hair. “It’s a simple one,” he said. “The only one that matters, actually. And it’s all thanks to you.”

  “What…”

  He leaned down and spoke near Slade’s ear. “Don’t lose.”

  Gabriel bounced Slade’s head hard on the floor. A long exhale indicated the man’s loss of consciousness. He straightened to a near-silent crowd and turned in a slow circle, absently wiping a runner of blood from the corner of his mouth. Their anticipation washed over him. They hovered on the verge of frenzy.

  His lips stretched in a parody of a smile. “One.”

  The mob took up the count at two. He stood over Slade’s motionless body until they reached twenty. An explosive clamor proclaimed their acceptance of the fight’s outcome.

  He decided not to wait for the loser, and walked away alone.

  Chapter 44

  The next morning ushered Gabriel to his final task. His aching muscles made climbing the stairs to the second floor of the hotel a challenge, but he didn’t mind the pain. It reminded him that he’d ended on his feet. He’d won.

  Now he intended to collect Slade’s debt and get on with his life. His real life. Unfortunately, Slade wasn’t going to like what he had planned.

  He stopped in front of a door and knocked. From inside, he heard a chair scrape across the floor, a muttering voice, footsteps. The door opened to a familiar disgruntled face.

  Gabriel lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Doc.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Doc slipped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. “You look terrible. Are you all right?”

  “No worse than usual.”

  “In that case, let me be the first to shake your hand.” Grinning like a kid with a new bike, Doc clasped one hand in both of his. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see someone kick the crap out of that arrogant son of a shithead. I’m so glad it was you.”

  “You saw the fight?”

  “Damn straight I did. Think I’d miss the match of the century?” His grin widened. “Besides, somebody had to pick up after you boneheads.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. There’s always that.”

  “I wasn’t the only unusual one there.” Doc’s expression smoothed. “Jenner saw it, too.”

  “He did?” Gabriel shook his head. “Guess I should’ve expected that.”

  Doc sent him a suspicious look. “Why would you expect it? Jenner never goes to the fights. Come to think of it, the old psycho looked almost happy,” he said. “Something you want to tell me about, Gabriel?”

  “I … can’t. Not yet.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Doc grunted. “So where’d you take off to last night? I looked for you then. Asked around a little. No one saw you leave.”

  He shrugged. “I went out browsing for a while. I’m in the market for some real estate. Business property.”

  “Well I guess since you’re a millionaire now, you can afford it. What are you looking for?”

  “I’m going to open a gym.”

  Doc blinked at him. “Any particular reason?”

  “Yes, but I can’t—”

  “—tell me right now. Yeah, I know.”

  Gabriel inclined his head toward the door. “Is he in there?”

  “Where else would he be?”

  “Good.” He put a hand on Doc’s shoulder. “I need to talk to him. Alone. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure, it’s your funeral. He’s pretty pissed. You want to bring a gun with you or something?”

  “No. I think we understand each other now.” He smiled. “Thanks for everything, Doc. I’ll see you around.”

  “God, I hope not. No offense, but you should take the money and get the hell out of here.” Doc shook his head. “You don’t want to give these assholes a chance to … why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Damn it, Gabriel. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “My mind’s made up, Doc. And my eyes are open.”

  Doc sighed. “Okay, then. Go have your little chat. I’ll probably have to tranquilize him when you’re done.”

  “Probably.” He reached for the door. “Oh, and Doc? If you do have to put him down, make sure you use a really big needle.”

  Doc’s laughter followed him inside.

  Slade lay on Doc’s cot, hooked to the ubiquitous IV. His eyes found Gabriel the instant the door closed. “Well, boy. I didn’t expect you so soon. Having a good laugh, are we?”

  “Not really.” He crossed to Doc’s desk and leaned against the edge, took in the massive bruising on Slade’s face, his battered torso. A mat burn blazed across his forehead. “You know why I’m here. And I half expect you to say you’re
not going to pay me.”

  Slade sat up slowly and swung his feet to the floor. He closed his eyes, gripped the edge of the mattress. “We had a deal, Mr. Morgan. I don’t renege. The money is yours.” He grimaced, either from pain or the admission. Probably both. “You’ll have to be patient, though. It will take some time to liquidate that much cash. I can give you two million today, but it’ll be at least two weeks for the rest.”

  “That’s fine.” He crossed his arms. “There’s another reason I came here.”

  “Your sister—”

  “No. That’s not it. Do what you want with her.” He felt nothing at the mention of Lillith now. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Do you,” Slade said dryly, and leaned back against the wall. “This should be interesting. Let’s hear it.”

  “How much would you like to keep the rest of the money?”

  Slade’s eyebrows raised. “Go on.”

  “I want to buy something from you. For eight million dollars.”

  “And that would be…”

  “Jenner.”

  “What?”

  He forced himself to breathe evenly. “You heard me. I want Jenner. Give me him, and the cash you have now, and we’ll call it even.”

  “You—” Slade stopped abruptly. “Explain this to me. Why in the hell would you give up that much money for Jenner? What are you going to do with him, teach him needlepoint?”

  “I need a lieutenant.”

  “Boy, you have about five seconds before I break your neck. What are you talking about?”

  He smiled without warmth. “Here’s the thing. I like fighting. I’m good at it — as I’m sure you know.” He paused, enjoying the fury that spread on Slade’s face. “So I’m starting my own House.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I can, according to Dell Ramone and Tomi Harada. They want fresh blood in the organization … and they have more money than you. It’s already been settled.”

  Slade fell silent. At last, he smiled. “You really are stupid, aren’t you? You have the opportunity to take ten million dollars and do whatever you want. And you’d rather play tough-guy with truly dangerous men.” Rough laughter escaped him. “You can’t control Jenner. The minute your back is turned, he’ll stab it.”

  “I don’t have to control him.”

  “You’re serious. I don’t believe this.” The smile lingered on his face. “All right. We have a deal — eight million for Jenner. The rest in cash. And you never so much as walk past this place again.”

  He held out a hand. Slade took it and squeezed hard. He let him, holding his gaze steady until he released it. “Goodbye, Slade,” he said. “See you in the ring.”

  As he headed across the room, Slade called to him.

  “You’re going to fail.”

  He stopped with a hand on the door. “Am I?”

  “You’ll never make it in the organization. I certainly won’t go easy on you, and if Mendez gets the opportunity, he’ll kill you.” Slade stood and advanced with a sneer. “I’m going to enjoy watching you burn. You have no idea what you’re getting into here, Mr. Morgan.”

  This time the rage passed almost before he acknowledged it. He turned and let his gaze linger on the bruises he’d inflicted, the beginnings of uncertainty he’d placed into the ice-blue eyes of his former captor. And smiled.

  “My name is Angel.”

  Thanks for reading!

  If you enjoyed BREAKING ANGEL, please consider leaving a review on Amazon to share your thoughts. Reviews are a great way to help other readers find new books and new authors to enjoy.

  Read on for an exclusive preview of DEVIL RISING, book 2 in the House Phoenix series, and links to more books by S.W. Vaughn.

  More Books By S.W. Vaughn

  Books in the House Phoenix series

  BREAKING ANGEL | Book 1

  DEVIL RISING | Book 2

  TEMPTING JENNER | Book 3

  SHADOWS FALLING | Book 4

  WICKED ORIGINS | Stories & Novellas

  More Thrillers

  WHAT SHE FORGOT – psychological thriller

  THE LIFE SHE STOLE – psychological thriller

  KILL SWITCH – crime thriller

  TERMINAL CONSENT – crime thriller

  THE BLACK DIRECTIVE – crime thriller

  DEADLY MEASURES – a prequel to The Black Directive

  About the Author

  S.W. Vaughn lives in “scenic” Central New York, with its two glorious seasons: winter and road construction. In addition to House Phoenix, she is the author of several thrillers and fantasy books, including two urban fantasy series under the name Sonya Bateman: The DeathSpeaker Codex, and the Gavyn Donatti series (Master of None / Master and Apprentice) from Simon & Schuster.

  Join the mailing list to receive email notifications when new books by S.W. Vaughn are released.

  Preview: Devil Rising

  Silence fell over the crowd when Angel entered the steel cage to join his opponent, Bishop of House Dionysus — but it didn’t last long. The instant the scantily clad announcer backed from the ring and cried “Begin!”, a roar of approval washed through House Pandora.

  The two men caught in the glare of the spotlights approached each other warily, searching for an opportunity to strike. Angel rarely made the first move, and this match proved no exception. His opponent lobbed a fist that was knocked aside before it connected. Bishop’s next strike caught Angel square in the stomach, but the younger man shook it off as though he hadn’t felt a thing.

  For long minutes Angel played defense, occasionally taking hits but never returning them. The thunder of the ragtag crowd reached a fever pitch and crested. Then their exuberance began to deteriorate with the lack of action in the ring. A few lone catcalls rang out amid subdued cheering: “C’mon, hit him!”

  “Drop his ass!”

  “Quit playin’ around in there!”

  “Get him, loser!”

  The last taunt drew Angel’s attention, and he turned toward the sound. The spotlight illuminated the tattooed black wings on his back that now glistened with sweat.

  His opponent took the opportunity to deliver a roundhouse blow to his unprotected jaw.

  At the sight of Angel’s blood, the crowd frenzied like sharks closing on a wounded dolphin. Slowly he faced his adversary again — and at last, his fist was a blur driving into the other man’s gut. His opponent bent with the force, right into a mouthful of knuckles that snapped his upper body back.

  Angel seemed determined to draw the match out. He stepped away and allowed his opponent to regain his balance, then lashed out again. Bishop moved aside enough to incur only a glancing blow that skimmed his ribs.

  Shaking himself, he growled and launched at Angel. Both men fell to the mat with a thud that rattled the cage walls. As they locked together and struggled for control, the mob’s clamor swelled to the rafters, drowned the flat fleshy impact of the blows they traded.

  The pair broke apart abruptly. Each man struggled to his feet at opposite ends of the ring. The other fighter barreled across the floor at a full run. Angel stood his ground until the last possible moment, and then pulled aside with rapid grace. Raising both arms, he laced his fists together and swung as though he held an invisible baseball bat, catching his opponent at the base of his spine.

  Bishop flew forward, bounced off the wall and crashed in a heap at Angel’s feet. He made no move to rise again.

  Overhead, speakers lashed to the rafters came to life and started a pre-recorded count. Though his victory was sealed, Angel stayed in place until the automated voice reached twenty, and the announcer rushed into the cage to proclaim him the winner.

  Only then did he stride somberly from the ring as the cheering of the crowd filled in the space he left behind.

  Shiro Kuroda stood when his friend descended victorious from the ring. Angel approached with a tired smile, and when he reached the table, Shiro gestured for him to sit. “Rest, mikata,” he said. “Yo
u have earned it.”

  “Arigato gozaimasu,” Angel replied, slightly breathless. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Of course. You fought well.” He smirked and added, “And your Japanese is progressing nicely. You are losing your American accent.”

  “Hate to tell you this, but you’re the one with the accent.” With a short laugh, Angel closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Damn, he really got me with that jaw shot. I shouldn’t have looked away, but…”

  “What happened?” Shiro prompted when Angel didn’t finish the statement.

  “I thought I heard — someone yelling in the crowd sounded like Slade.” He lifted his head and shrugged a little. “Guess I still can’t deal with that bastard.”

  “Then it is a good thing you do not have to,” he said softly. “He cannot control you any longer. You are free.”

  Angel snorted and dropped his gaze.

  Knowing there was nothing further he could say to put his friend at ease, Shiro fell silent.

  “That was some introduction I got, wasn’t it?” Angel said after a moment. “Tournament champion. Has a nice ring to it.”

  “Indeed. I am sorry to have missed your winning match.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. You didn’t miss much.” Angel glanced at the crowds flowing around them. “How many tournaments have there been, anyway? I’ve never heard anyone else called out that way.”

  “I do not know for sure,” he said. “There have been at least seven, and most of the champions chose to retire afterward. But there was one who—” He stopped, realizing he hadn’t wanted to mention that still-painful incident.

  “One who what?” Angel said. “Come on, give.”

  Shiro closed his eyes as the memories rushed in. “He was … one of ours. Shonen. Harada-sama favored him greatly.” His expression darkened. “Three years ago he cheated his way to the tournament finals and won. Once he had the prize money, he decided to take his leave before his deception was discovered. Ran in the dead of night, coward that he was.” He paused then, and admitted, “I tried to stop him. I was not successful.”