by Evelyn Glass
“Uh,” he grunts, falling back into the wall.
I jump to my feet and make to sprint toward the court, desperate to get there, get to Anna, find her and save her from the mad bitch. I’m about to lurch into a run when the scarred man wraps his hand around my wrist. It’s a chunky hand, a hand that most men would fear. It’s the hand of a bouncer, the knuckles covered with old scars, the fingers callused until they are hard like the outer layer of an armadillo.
“Don’t,” I say, looking into his eyes. His friends are on their feet now, standing just beyond him, their hands raised in boxer’s stances. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you force me to.”
“Hurt us?” the scarred man says. “You just assaulted an NBA player. You need to come with us. What the hell are you doing?”
“I have somewhere more important to be,” I sigh. “Just let me go.”
“I can’t do that—”
His friends jump at me, fists pulled back. I know that if any one of those fists hit me, I’ll most likely be out cold. But they come at me too eagerly, come at me like men who have never been in a real fight before. Herding crowds of sweating NBA fans and standing beside barricades with a stern expression on your face doesn’t train you to fight a seasoned killer, a man who knew bloodshed and violence before most boys know algebra.
I wrench my hand free from Scar and jump back, dancing away from their fists. I duck left, bob right, always occupying the space just outside their fists. It infuriates them. I hear it in their grunts and their coughs and their spitting breaths. They swing and swing, all three of them, and I am like water; I move here and there, not thinking, just letting my training take control. I dance between their fists until I see an opening. When I backhand Scar across the jaw, he flies into the wall with such force that his eyelids flutter and he slides down to the concrete, coughing. I turn my attention to the other two men. They charge at me, not thinking, so angry that they don’t even aim their strikes. They come at me like children in a schoolyard. I dance aside, aim, and punch each of them once in the face, a jab with my left and a hook with my right. The man I hook stumbles back, bleeding from his nose, and falls to the ground. I jab the other man again, again, until I feel the bone in his nose cave in.
Then I jump away and wait for half a moment. All of them are on the floor, bleeding. But they’re breathing. I’m glad. I don’t want to kill these men, men who are only doing their job and have probably never hurt anyone in their life, men who are most likely paid shit and don’t get any recognition from anybody for what they do. When I see that they’re breathing, I turn and sprint toward the exit, the small hole of light which grows steadily bigger as my legs pump.
Anna, I think, mind frantic. Anna, Anna, Anna.
If she’s dead, I will never forgive myself. I will never let it go. As I run, I imagine a future in which Anna is dead because of me. I am a broken man. In my mind, my muscles have turned to flesh threadbare over bone, my skin sallow, my blue eyes dim and sunken. I see myself rise from a drunken stupor, grasp at a bottle with a cigarette butt swilling in it, and down it all and collapse onto the bed again. I would like to think that that wouldn’t happen; I wouldn’t let myself come to that even if Anna is hurt. But I know that’s impossible.
I love her, I love her, I love her.
That’s the truth, the truth that sits inside of me now, an integral part of who I am. If Anna dies, I die. If Anna gets hurt, I hurt myself. My body aches from where the men grabbed me, my neck and my legs from where they dug in their thick bouncer’s hands, but I ignore it. My pain is irrelevant. I could be bleeding from a thousand wounds, coated in slick crimson blood, and I wouldn’t stop. My life is one word now, one word that echoes deep inside of me and will echo until the day I, or she, dies: Anna.
I run and run and run, and though the beam of light grows bigger, I’m sure time is playing some trick on me. It seems to grow bigger so slowly that I’m sure it will be an eternity before I get there.
But then, finally, I am in the light. The arena is quiet, the crowd muttering to each other, whispering and wondering what the hell is going on. Several of them turn to me as I emerge, but not so many as to draw the entire attention of the crowd to me. The players stand in huddles either side of the court with their coaches, and the announcers sit at their table looking confused and out of place. Dimly, I hear sirens piercing the walls of the arena. So they’re waiting for the police.
The gunshot splits the air and the crowd erupts into frenzy. My gaze snaps to the source of the gunshot. The Bear stands with a pistol in his hand, aimed at the air, a twisted grin on his face.
Before I know it, the court is full of people, jostling, budging, kicking, blocking me from the tunnel where Anna is.
###
Everybody is on their feet, running nowhere in particular, like a herd of cattle at the sound of the farmer’s shotgun. A man smashes into me, knocks me backward, and immediately I’m swept up in the fray of people. I plant my feet and shoulder-barge people out of the way, continually nudging them, pushing them. I push and push until there is a small ‘safe zone’ around me, an area about three feet wide where nobody seems to want to step. I look at one of the men I’ve just pushed out of the way. He’s on the floor, blood spilling from his nose. A woman wearing heels almost steps on his head. I bend down and pick him up under the armpits, lift him to his feet.
“Get the hell out of here,” I say, giving him a nudge in the chest. He falls back into the crowd like a man falling into a tortuous sea, chaos all around him.
I begin to make my way through the crowd, heading in the general direction of the tunnel. I know that Anna is somewhere down there, River with her, being hurt badly. Maybe she’s already dead, my traitorous mind comments. Maybe she’s already dead, stone-dead, lying in a pool of her blood and you’re too late. I bite down so hard that my teeth ache and I keep pushing forward, diving into the fray. My only hope is that River has drawn the thing out, is gloating and talking. She’s held this inside of her for a long time now; surely she wants to take the chance to gloat, to make fun of Anna, to bask in her petty glory.
I spread my arms in front of me and push past people. They run nowhere and everywhere. The smell of sweat and panic is strong around me, rising in the air. I press forward, counting every foot pushed through the crowd as a victory. I can’t move any faster and it kills me, knowing that somewhere deep in the tunnels of the arena Anna is being hurt, maybe shot, maybe she’s already shot clean through the head and this is a delaying tactic, something to stop you from getting to River in time to exact revenge. I can’t believe that. I want my killer’s center back. I’m desperate for it. But the more I push through the crowd, the harder it is to keep my mind on the task hand. Absurdly, my mind flits back over previous jobs, thinking about the cool calm that gripped me then, and the pandemonium which grips me now. It’s completely opposite, something that can’t even be compared. Once, I was stone, an untouchable carving of stone which nothing could affect. Now, I am flesh and blood and heart, heart most of all because Anna has awoken something within me I don’t fully understand. Only that the desire to get to her, to be with her, to save her, is strong, overpowering. I need her desperately.
I’m about halfway across the court when The Butcher appears in front of me. Nobody even tries to step close to the huge monolith of the man. My safe zone is three feet, his is almost ten. People avoid him without even thinking about it. It’s like we’re in a movie and the struggling crowd are extras who have been directed to leave a space around the two of us. A moment later, The Gent pops up beside Butcher, looking small and foppish in his tuxedo. The Butcher grins at me and The Gent shakes his head slowly.
“What are you doing, Samson?” Andy McCray says, making a tut noise from back in his throat like a disappointed teacher. “What are you thinking? Why are you putting yourself on the line like this? Why are you driving yourself crazy? All for a piece of cunt?”
I know he’s baiting me. It’s an old tac
tic. I can see it in the playful gleam in his eye. But though I know that, it kills me to hear him call Anna by a name like that, a cruel and unworthy name. I know he wants me to attack him, I know he has already planned out what he’s going to do when I attack him, and yet I don’t think. I launch myself like a torpedo through the air.
The Butcher cackles and brings his huge ham-fist down on the side of my head. The Gent giggles and kicks me in the stomach. The chaos is so great that nobody even stops to watch the fight. They push around us, but never through us, never disturbing the scene. I’m not even sure how it’s happened, but I’m on my belly, my hands clawing pointlessly at the court. I try to rise and The Butcher brings his boot down between my shoulder blades. Something cracks and the air is sucked out of me. I try to suck it back in, but all I get is hollow rasping breaths. No, no, no, I think, clenching my hands into fists and trying to stand up. No, no, no, Anna. Anna!
The Gent hops over my prostrate form and crunches my hand with his polished gentleman’s shoe. Something else cracks, in my hand now, and I roll onto my back and stare up at the two men.
The Butcher guffaws. “This is the great Samson Black,” he mutters, as though confused. “This is really the great Samson Black? The man I’ve heard so much about? The legend of New York? Black Knight’s nephew?” He lifts his leg, aiming his boot at my face. I see the underside of his boot, bits of mud and leaf clinging to it.
I know that, in less than a second, the dirt of his boot will be imprinted on my face. His boot seems to take an eternity to descend. I hear his grunting as though it is the only sound in the arena, and not screaming above hundreds of other men and women. I hear The Gent’s giggle like a backing tune to Butcher’s grunt. Butcher’s face is twisted in pleasure, the face of a man who is about to do something he knows, for an absolute certainty, will bring him pleasure. Down, down, the boot comes toward my face. It takes me a moment—or the breath of a moment, a tenth of a second—to realize that the boot is coming at me quickly enough to do serious damage. If it hits me, I will die, or I will at least be so injured that I might as well be dead. I imagine my skull caving into my brain, wondering what kind of damage it will do. And Anna will die. A jolt runs through me as the thought punctuates the frantic violence. Anna will die and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.
What the hell am I doing!
Time resumes its normal pace—and I spin over and over. The boot smashes into the court beside me, and the men laugh. When they look down at me, I know they must see me as pathetic. They must see me as a man already defeated, no longer a threat. There are four of them, The Butcher and The Gent, and their two friends lurking somewhere else in the crowd. Why would they worry? I’m done for. I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. I’m Samson Black, expert hitman, a killer who never loses control. I’m Samson Black, nephew of Black Knight.
I don’t know where the burst of energy comes from. Somewhere deep down, a reservoir I’ve never had to tap before. Like a jack-in-the-box, I spring to my feet, fists raised. The pain in my hand is extraordinary, but somehow I still manage to clench it into a fist. The Butcher makes a coughing sound in the back of his throat, taken off-guard by my sudden lurching. He steps back, but I swing around with my good fist and smack him in the side of the head. I smack him so hard that shudders move up my arm and reverberate in my shoulder. I smack him so hard that he stumbles back, and I smack him again, again, my fists moving so fast no individual strike is visible, just a mad fray, a blur of strikes. The Butcher stumbles and trips on his own feet, falling onto his ass. I turn, and The Gent thumps me in the nose. Blood coats my upper lip and explodes in my mouth, but I ignore the pain, the wooziness in my eyes, and step back out of range of his second strike.
“You’re a goddam fool, Samson, you know that?”
He jumps at me again, and again I dive out of the way. My body aches all over, needles of pain moving under my skin, but I keep my footing and rebound with a massive right-hook. My knuckles bite into the side of his head, and I’m sure The Gent has never been hit so hard in his life. His eyes go wide and his knees tremble. For a moment he stands like that, a cartoon character hovering over a precipice, and abruptly he drops.
The crowd is beginning to thin now, people finally making their way to the exits.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and wade through toward the exit down which River and Anna went, down which I may well find the corpse of the only woman I’ve ever truly felt something for, down which I may be greeted with the sight of a slack-jawed Anna, her beautiful blonde hair coated in blood.
Anger washes through me at the thought. I throw people out of the way without care, only determined to get to her, her, her. My woman, mine, the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my damn life with if she’ll have me.
Soon, I can see the tunnel, the opening only a few yards in front of me, beckoning me. I push a couple more people out of the way and jog toward it, ignoring the innumerable points of pain which lance through me.
I’m at the mouth of the tunnel when The Pistol and The Bear step out from behind the rafters, hop down on the court, and pace toward me.
I look down at their hands. Both of them are carrying blades.
###
The two men charge at me, and with a sigh I crouch low and make myself ready to catch them.
The only advantage I have—the only advantage any man has when facing off more than one opponent—is the overconfidence of the blade-wielding men. I learnt a long time ago that two or three men tasked with taking down one man will get overconfident and overeager. In their minds, they can already see me cut and bloodied, on my back and bleeding from a hundred gashes. They already see themselves in a bar, bragging to other killers about how they took out Samson Black. They imagine themselves lying on their backs and smiling up at some woman, probably a hooker, and regaling her with tales about the Night They Killed Samson Black.
For the thousandth time, I wish I’d brought a weapon other than the one meant for River. And even now, I won’t waste it. Won’t even think about wasting it.
‘What sort of plan was this, eh?’ Black Knight’s voice isn’t judgmental, just bemused. A man like him would never understand why I didn’t just kill River when I had her at my mercy. I could’ve avoided all of this; Anna never would’ve been at risk.
What sort of fucking plan is this?
I let my arms hang at my sides, relax my body, and hope to hell that I’m quick and strong enough to beat these men before they beat me. Or, worse, before River kills Anna.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Anna
She grins down at me ghoulishly and though I hate the way her lips peel back over her teeth, I can’t look away. Not from bravery or courage or any of that, but because I know that this may well be the last thing I see. The last thing in this life I see will be the smile of the woman who kills me. She twists the gun and the barrel tugs at the skin of my head, pulling at it, twisting it, wrenching at it. I feel like I am in someone else’s nightmare. Surely, I reason, this can’t be happening to me. I am a cheerleader and a veterinary student. Things like this don’t happen to women like me. But it’s now, in the last moments of my life, that I realize that nobody is immune to the chaos of life. This could’ve happened to any woman. It merely takes the right circumstances—the wrong circumstances.
“Do you hear the madness out there?” She smiles.
I hate the way she smiles. It’s carefree and sickening at the same time. It’s like a mixture between the woman she once was and the sadist’s face she adopted when experiencing the years of torture. She’s not a person anymore, not really, not like the rest of us. She’s a twisted caricature of a person.
“Answer me!” she cries. “You won’t steal these last moments from me, bitch!”
“I hear it,” I mumble, shrinking away from her as much as I can, which isn’t much at all when her gun is planted against my skull.
“Do you think there’s any chance that your littl
e lover man will get to you? First, he was taken away by security. Three big strong men. What, do you think, are the chances he got free of them? Oh, fine, let’s assume that he used his Black magic and somehow made it happen . . .” She pauses. I see it in her face. She’s wondering whether to go on with her soliloquy or just end it all.
“Well, what else?” I urge, my voice hoarse, all the phony nonchalance and confidence gone from it now. I’m just a woman on her back, speaking for her life.
She sighs. “Well, even if he did somehow get back into the arena, there’s the crowd, isn’t there? You hear them. Chaos out there, absolute chaos. And then even if he could get through the crowd—which I very much doubt, you know—there are my men, four of them, just as tough and deadly as Samson is. Do you really think he loves you enough to try and get through all that, let alone succeed?”
