Life&Limb (PASS Series Book 2)

by Freya Barker

  I strip down to my shorts and take a seat, pulling Bree on my lap. She pulls rolls of narrow fabric from her purse and starts wrapping my hands, doubling up across my knuckles. After that we kill time pretending to make out while keeping an eye on the fighters coming and going, mentally noting things like general descriptions and identifiers like tattoos and scars. Some of the guys coming back look like their faces were run through a grinder.

  I hear the crowd yell when the Bone Crusher is introduced, when the sleezeball from the gym walks in. Jason Krupcek. It doesn’t take him long to spot me, and he ambles over.

  “See you found your way here without my help.”

  He’s not very good at hiding his annoyance.

  “Thought I’d test the waters first,” I share casually.

  “Who’d you challenge to get in?”

  “Bone Crusher.”

  He grimaces and sucks air in through his teeth.

  “Shoulda called me. You could’ve gone on the roster and probably have an easier match. Woulda saved you the two grand buy-in as well.”

  “I’m a cautious kind of guy,” I return, keeping my eyes steady on his. “I prefer to know what I’m getting into before I commit. I’ll let you know after tonight.”

  “Fair enough.” He shrugs. “Provided there’s anything left after the Bone Crusher is done with you.”

  He barely gives Bree a second glance and walks off to chat up some other guys.

  “Not too late to change your mind,” she says, nuzzling my neck, but I can hear the humor in her voice.

  “Yeah, it is,” I point out when two minutes later the Bone Crusher’s first victim is carried out on a stretcher, his arm slipping off the side and dragging along the dirty floor.

  I grab Bree by the hips and lift her off me, so I can get up. I know the name I used is going to be called next.

  “Stay here,” I instruct Bree, loud enough to be heard, before tagging her behind the neck and planting a hard kiss on her mouth.

  Kissing Bree is like kissing a sister, this is a role we’ve played before and it’s all part of the job. I pull her arms from around my neck when the announcer calls me out, and walk down the narrow walkway they built to the cage.

  If the crowd wasn’t already intimidating with its roar for blood, the behemoth stalking around the cage with sweat rolling off his bulging muscles and blood soaked into his hand wraps would do the trick. Jesus, the guy is massive. I’m not small myself, but I’m a doughboy in comparison.

  The older guy manning the gate to the cage checks my hand wraps to make sure I haven’t hidden anything sharp or hard in them. Fuck, I could hide brass knuckles under there and I doubt it would make a difference in this fight.

  I guess I passed because the gate is opened and I’m almost shoved in the cage. It’s basically a round platform with heavy netting affixed to a metal frame. I try to ignore the sea of faces, heckling and yelling, and focus on my opponent instead. But before I have a chance to scope out any weak points he might have, the announcer yells, “Fight!” and I see a fist coming at my face.

  One of the benefits of having a prosthesis is people tend to underestimate your agility, but aside from leaving me with a slight limp, I’m as agile as I was before I lost my leg. I made sure of that. It still presents a weak spot, simply because a well-aimed kick could seriously mess with my ability to defend myself.

  So far agility wins, since I’m able to duck the first few punches he aims at me. The next ones I’m not so lucky and catch one on my jaw and one to my shoulder. I duck and dodge, trying to keep the much slower man off balance as much as I can and even manage to land a few hits to his body. It’s almost like he’s toying with me to get the crowd riled up.

  I don’t realize how true that is until he suddenly steps into my body, and plants his foot on the toe of my prosthesis. He uses the momentum of his body to knock me to the ground, ripping the suction socket off my stump. Fuck, that hurts.

  I try to push up from the mat when his ripped arm rounds my neck, pulling me partially up.

  “Dimas!” I hear the voice over the roar of the crowd and my eyes catch on a familiar face.

  Before my brain has a chance to process Willa in the middle of the bloodthirsty mob, a solid hit lands on the side of my head and it’s lights out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Willa

  There wasn’t much security walking into the large barn.

  I’d waited for a sizable group of people to tag on to and easily followed them inside. No one looked twice at me.

  I stayed on the periphery of the crowd, weaving in and out, scanning faces to see if I recognized anyone. The energy in the place was intimidating, and the spectators were almost frenzied in their excitement when the first bout was announced. I had to look away a few times from the brutal fighting, wondering how people could enjoy two men beating each other to a pulp.

  At some point, I pushed and shoved my way a little closer to the cage to change my vantage point. I’d been mostly looking at the backs of people’s heads and figured if I had my back to the ring, I’d be able to see faces.

  That’s where I’ve been for the past ten minutes. Scanning faces and getting pushed around. Good thing I’ve got some height and a little mass on me, or I could’ve been trampled a time or two.

  Then I hear a heavy thud of one of the fighters going down hard. I turn my head and see a few men entering the cage to check on the guy. A stretcher is brought in and the unconscious fighter is carried off.

  That’s when I get a glimpse of one of the guys walking alongside it. A familiar face that looks so out of place, at first I have trouble identifying him, and when I do, I’m positive I must be wrong.

  The announcer calls out the next fighter—Gladiator—another idiot with a name I’m sure his mama didn’t give him, unless she was high on something. I ignore what is happening on the stage and try to make my way through the crowd to the back of the barn where I saw the stretcher disappear.

  I don’t get much farther than the doorway, where I’m held up by a massive guard, putting an unapologetic hand in the middle of my chest.

  “Fighters only,” he growls, giving me a little shove.

  “Hey! Don’t touch me,” I snap, trying to sidestep the looming figure.

  “Or what?”

  He takes a threatening step closer when a hand appears on his shoulder.

  “What’s going on here?”

  My breath falters when I recognize the voice, and when his face appears over the guard’s shoulder I take an inadvertent step back.

  His eyes narrow when he catches sight of me. “Willa?”

  I promptly turn on my heel and dive into the crowd. Jesus. I have to get out of here.

  Anxiety overwhelms me when the crush of bodies pushes me closer to the side of the cage. I try to brace myself on the edge of the platform to prevent getting flattened, when I catch sight of the man being held in a chokehold on the mat.

  “Dimas!” I yell in surprise, when a pair of eyes that look as surprised as I am zoom in on me.

  Disbelief freezes me for a second, before full-fledged panic hits as I realize what I’m looking at. I swing around, and with my head down shove forcefully through the bodies, with only one thought in mind; get out.

  I’m breathless when I get to the RAV and with shaking hands try to fish my keys from my pocket, looking behind me to see if someone followed me out. I open my door, dive behind the wheel, and immediately lock up before starting the car.

  I peel out of my parking spot, thanking God I had the presence of mind to back into it. When I pass by the barn I see the big guard coming out the doors, looking right at me.

  It’s not until I hit the highway leading back to Grand Junction and no one is behind me, that I dare let myself think.

  Seeing Dimas in the cage surprised me, and for a brief second I wondered if I could’ve misjudged him so badly, but I quickly dismissed that. He was probably there for the same reason I was, to find anything that migh
t help Brad. I’m actually infuriated with him for taking a stupid risk like that, stepping in a cage with that giant.

  But it’s the other man I recognized that scares me.

  First of all, what are the odds that the last few months I’ve been able to forget he exists and suddenly within a week he pops ups twice on my radar. Once at the grocery checkout, talking to Maris of all people, and now here?

  Dr. Brantley Parker. The man who tried—and failed—for five years to get in my pants, and didn’t do well with rejection. The same guy I saw tending to the injured man at a fucking illegal fighting ring.

  I can’t even begin to process that information.

  My heart rate settles into a more normal rhythm when I pull into my driveway, but still I find myself wishing I had a dog.

  Inside I flip on lights and lock the door behind me, before going around the house, making sure all windows and doors are secure. Then I grab a beer from the fridge and pull my legs up underneath me on the couch while I contemplate what to do next.

  I’d hoped to have an opportunity to ask if anyone knew Artie, but once there, I didn’t have the guts to approach any of the excitable spectators. Finding out Brantley Parker is connected to illegal fighting more than makes up for it, but what do I do with the information? Tell the cops? They’re likely to brush it off, seeing as they’re so eager to pin things on Brad. They probably won’t even want to acknowledge the existence of a fight ring, let alone consider a prominent physician might be involved.

  My other option is to tell Dimas, who is clearly doing some investigating of his own. He’d seen me there now, so the fact I snooped is bound to come out anyway, if he hasn’t figured it out yet. I know I have to tell someone. I’ll call Dimas tomorrow.

  I turn on the TV for some mindless distraction before I head to bed. While I watch an old episode of Bones, my mind starts drifting to my earlier conversation with Mom. That’s another call I plan to make tomorrow morning, Connie. I should know what’s happening so if Britt wants to talk, at least I’m not in the dark. I also want a letter from my sister giving me authority to enroll her daughter into a summer program somewhere. I don’t like the idea of Britt alone for hours on end. Too much trouble a twelve-year-old can get into.

  It’s almost midnight when my eyes start to get heavy and I turn off the TV. I take my empty bottle to the kitchen and set it beside the sink before I start turning off the lights. I’m about to flick off the outside light in the front entrance when I about jump out of my skin at the rusty sound of my doorbell.

  The sight of two uniformed policemen outside my door at midnight won’t do much for my anticipated night’s rest.

  “Ms. Smith?”

  The unpleasant Officer Bergland is accompanied by a much younger, and uncomfortable-looking, officer.

  “That’s still me,” I answer, snippily. “What can I do for you in the middle of the night, officers?”

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It was a simple question, Ms. Smith,” Bergland reiterates. “Where were you tonight?”

  “What is this about?” An uneasy feeling crawls up my spine.

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I’m not answering anything unless I know what it is that has you show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night.”

  “We found the body of Rupert Lezlo in the rail yard, less than a thousand feet from the shelter’s parking lot,” the younger officer clarifies, earning him a dirty look from the other man.

  I slap a hand to my chest, unable to speak.

  “Stabbed to death and clutching your business card, Ms. Smith.” Bergland’s expression is almost pleased when he gives me that devastating news. I know for sure I’m in a boatload of trouble when he follows it up with, “We’re gonna need you to come with us for questioning.”

  Dimas

  “Fucking Willa?”

  Jake barks, and I wince.

  “Not so loud, for fuck’s sake,” I plead.

  I’d been out for the count until someone shoved an ammonia capsule under my nose. Instead of letting someone there have a look at me, Bree got me dressed, grabbed my artificial leg, and helped me right out of the barn where Jake and Radar were already waiting. Collectively they got me into my truck and Bree took the wheel.

  I kept insisting I was fine, but everyone ignored me and Bree drove me straight to the Community Hospital emergency room on our way into Grand Junction.

  Apparently I will live—something I could’ve told them a couple of hours ago—and we’re just waiting for the doc to give the all-clear so I can go home to nurse my battered face and ego.

  “I’m gonna have a talk with her,” Jake grumbles.

  “You’re not,” I tell him firmly. “I’ll handle Willa. Anyone know where my phone is?”

  Bree hands it over, but before I have a chance to dial, the nurse sticks her head around the corner.

  “You’re good to go as long as you have someone to check on you. Any changes, dizziness, nausea, blurred vision, slurred speech, you come back here right away.”

  I give her a two-fingered salute and swing my legs over the side of the bed, and Bree hands me my prosthesis. My stump is pretty tender after that bout, but not nearly as tender as my pride. Found out firsthand why they call the guy Bone Crusher, and I hate to admit I was not even close to a match with him.

  Bree refuses to give me my keys so I grudgingly get back in the passenger side.

  “Call her,” she urges me.

  I dial Willa’s number but don’t get an answer. Then I try again with the same result.

  “Can you swing by her place? I just want to make sure she got home okay.”

  I give Bree directions. I’m both worried about and pissed at Willa. The first for being there at all, without letting me know, and the second for apparently not sticking around long enough to check on me.

  Her RAV is parked safely in the driveway and her outside light is on. She’s probably asleep and turned her phone off or she’s ignoring my calls. If not for Bree sitting beside me, and my body aching from the beating I’d received, I’d be banging on her door.

  “Looks like she’s home,” Bree volunteers.

  “Yeah, I’ll deal with her tomorrow.”

  Less than ten minutes later, we pull up outside my house. To my surprise Bree gets out as well and locks the truck.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Staying here tonight.”

  “You can take my truck, we’ll sort the rest out tomorrow.”

  She ignores me and keeps walking to the front door.

  “You heard the nurse. You need someone to check on you. I’m staying.”

  Without slowing down, she fits my house key in the door, and leads the way inside. I’m too tired to argue, so while she makes herself comfortable on the couch, I walk into the kitchen, toss my phone on the counter, and grab myself some ibuprofen and a glass of water. Then, with a casual, “Good night,” I head to my bedroom, manage to get stripped down to my boxers, and flop face-first on the bed. The shower will have to wait until tomorrow.

  “Dimi…Dimi, wake the fuck up.”

  I blink and open my eyes to Bree standing beside my bed, my phone in her hand.

  “Wha—”

  “It’s Willa, she’s at the police station.”

  I grab the phone with one hand, while wiping the sleep from my eyes with the other.

  “Willa?”

  “They’re not giving me much time. Can you call Hank for me? I need help. They say they’re charging me with murder.”

  “Don’t say a word, Willa. Not a single word.” I swing my legs over the side.

  “I’m not an idiot. I asked for a lawyer right away. It just took them four hours to—”

  Suddenly the line goes dead.

  “Fuck.” I throw the phone at Bree while I hop to the bathroom. “Get Hank on the phone, tell him to get his ass to the police station right now. Willa’s being charged with murder
.”

  It takes me two minutes to shower and by the time I get back to the bedroom with a towel around my waist, Bree has already put some clean clothes on the bed for me. I dress and walk out of the bedroom, to find her in the kitchen. A glass of water and more ibuprofen is sitting on the counter, and she’s putting another travel mug under the Keurig.

  “Hank?”

  “On his way there,” she says, while adding milk and sugar to what I assume is gonna be her coffee. I drink it black.

  “You know you’re gonna make someone an awesome wife some day, right?” I tell her, tossing back the pills and the water.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” she warns me with a smile, but I can tell her heart is not in it. She twists the lid on the second mug and hands it to me before snatching my truck keys off the counter. “And I’m still driving.”

  We’re made to sit in the small waiting area by the front desk, for close to an hour before Hank comes out, his face grim.

  “What’s going on? Where’s Willa?”

  “She’s been arrested for suspicion of murder and is gonna be spending a few hours in the holding tank until the DA can file official charges when he gets in.”

  “What the hell?” That’s from Bree, who steps up beside me. “Who is she supposed to have murdered?”

  “One of the residents at her shelter.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  My outburst draws the attention of the officer manning the desk and I raise my hands in apology. It won’t do anyone any good if I get charged with disturbing the peace or some such nonsense.

  “They found evidence.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Willa

  For two hours they have me sit in a small room with nothing more than three uncomfortable chairs, a small table, and my thoughts.

  I can’t believe Rupert is dead. That poor man did nothing to deserve that.

  Stabbed? Who would do such a thing?

  My emotions are all over the place: sadness, frustration, anger, and even fear. How could they think I had anything to do with this? I have no idea what they think they have on me.