by S W Vaughn
“Mendez, you are a worm.” Slade stood and extracted a thick wad of folded bills held together with a hinged gold clip from a pocket, teased a fifty from it and slapped it hard into his waiting palm. “Now get out.”
“Sure. Pleasure doin’ business with you.”
“I can’t say the same. Leave.”
Laughing, he snapped off a two-fingered mock salute and let himself out.
* * * *
Gabriel fought the light that edged the blackness, struggling to stay unaware of his battered body for as long as possible.
Cold ravaged his flesh and gnawed at his bones. Fits of shivers forced awareness into him. At first he thought they’d left him outside, but it had been a warm night. Maybe they’d stuffed him in a freezer. The surface beneath him was solid and unforgiving, and slightly damp.
He tried to open his eyes. Only one of them responded. The other, where Nails had struck him, had swollen nearly shut, and a gummy substance sealed the lids together. He suspected it was blood. His head throbbed a sickening rhythm that his stomach copied, and his throat tightened with every pulse.
He lay still and breathed slowly. The nausea lessened but refused to disappear. Wherever he was, it was fairly dark. Everything looked gray. After a moment, he realized the floor really was gray. Damp concrete, too smooth for a parking lot, extended far enough to convince him he was inside somewhere.
A parking garage? He’d heard no sound since he woke, not even distant traffic or the whisper of wind. He shifted, suppressed the renewed urge to vomit and tried to push himself up.
His arms wouldn’t move. He curled a hand, and his numb fingers brushed something rough. Rope. They’d tied his hands behind his back.
Fear pulled his senses into sharp relief. He rolled onto his side. An explosive groan escaped clenched teeth. At least his legs weren’t tied. He managed to sit up, and slumped forward with a gasp. A wave of dizziness threatened to knock him out again. He closed his eyes and willed it to pass.
At last, he lifted his head. A wall of cement blocks rose in front of him and stretched to an unfinished ceiling. Moisture glistened on the worn mortar between the blocks, suggesting a basement. The dim light came from a single fluorescent tube, the only one lit of several that striped the space beyond the beams at regular intervals.
He took slow breaths and forced himself to stay calm. This place could be anywhere. Diego and his thugs might have put him in storage until they contacted this Slade person, or they might have brought him to the man already. He had no idea how long he’d been out, and no desire to find out why Slade wanted him.
To his left loomed a steel door. Probably locked, but he had to try it. Even if the door was open and he managed to escape this place, he would somehow have to free his hands. He panned his gaze along the room, looking for something that might saw through the rope. The sight of pairs of manacles and chains hanging from the back wall stopped him cold.
Not a basement. A dungeon.
Heightened fear galvanized him into action. He pushed back with his feet and slid across the floor until his bound hands met the wall behind him. Using the surface for leverage, he struggled to rise an inch at a time. Gained his feet and leaned back. His breath left in ragged pants, and his legs shook beneath him.
Think, damn it. The rough cement might erode the rope if he rubbed against it long enough. That might take hours, though. He tried rotating his wrists. The coarse fiber abraded his skin, but the ropes gave a fraction of an inch. Working his hands free would shred his flesh.
Unfortunately, he had no other options.
Drawing a fortifying breath, he clenched his jaw and wrenched his hands in opposite directions, back and forth, as quickly as he could manage. A burning sensation spread through his wrists. The rope ground away layers of skin and the burn became stinging pain as blood trickled from the abrasions. After a few minutes, his shoulders ached with the effort. He kept at it, gained enough to pull his hands through to the base of his thumbs. A bitter laugh escaped him when he realized his blood soaking the ropes made them more pliable.
Almost there. Another inch and he’d be free. Everything burned. Wet warmth drizzled into his palms. The pain drove him to his knees. He stayed there and kept working at the bonds. If the door was locked, at least he could try to surprise anyone who came through it. He’d have a sliver of a chance. Better than nothing.
A hollow click sounded in the stillness, followed by the groan of hinges as the door opened. His breath left him.
He stood and turned to face the door fully, concealing the evidence of his struggle from whoever planned to enter. A stranger walked in, closed the door and approached him. The man wore a tailored black suit with a white shirt open at the throat and no tie. Thick blond hair framed a granite face from which frigid blue eyes asserted dominance.
“I’m going to guess you’re Marcus Slade.” Trying to move slowly so the other man wouldn’t notice, he started on the ropes again. The door had to be open. If he could get past this guy, he might be able to escape.
The man flashed a brittle and humorless smile. “Smart boy. And you’re Gabriel Morgan. Now that we’ve been introduced, you can have a seat, and we’ll talk.”
Crazy motherfucker. “I’m not—”
Slade gripped his jacket and smashed him against the wall. His mangled wrists banged the cement and drew a cry from him. Slade dragged him down the rough surface, forced him to sit on the floor and hunkered in front of him without relaxing his grip.
“From now on, when I tell you to do something, you will do it.” One hand left his jacket, gripped his chin and forced his head toward the door. “There’s a camera up there. I’ve been watching you, and I saw what you did to your wrists. Stop it.”
“You’re insane.” He jerked his head from Slade’s hand. “I don’t even know you! Why did you bring me here? What do you want? You can’t do this. You can’t just keep me here and... What do you want with me?” He lunged aside, hoping to break the grip on his jacket.
Slade held fast and backhanded him.
Agony exploded behind his eyes. Hot blood filled his mouth, coated his tongue with a bitter metal-salt taste. He shuddered and stilled.
“We’re off to a bad start. Let’s try again.” Slade stood and stared down at him. “You are Gabriel Morgan. I am Marcus Slade. I’m a businessman, and I have a proposition for you. That’s why I brought you here.”
“A proposition,” he repeated numbly. “Funny, but this doesn’t feel like an offer.”
“Oh, I have no intention of allowing you to refuse. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
His mouth opened, shut. This psycho was going to kill him. How could he get out of this? Struggling wouldn’t work. In his current condition, he couldn’t physically overpower Slade. The man was as strong as one of Diego’s goons. He’d have to play along until he could think of something else.
“All right,” he said. “What do you want?”
“It’s simple, really. I run fighters and girls, and they make me a lot of money. You’re going to fight for me.”
“The hell I am,” he snapped before he could stop himself. “You’re talking about those basement beat-downs your pal Diego does? No. And why do you want me?”
Slade laughed. “First off, Diego Mendez is no friend of mine. I don’t know how you ended up with him, and I don’t want to know. Second, those ridiculous little pissing contests you’ve been hanging around are not fights. The organization doesn’t even recognize them.”
A lead weight settled in his stomach. This bastard belonged to the organization? At once he recalled Diego’s reaction when he looked at Lillith’s picture.
He was definitely the right one. And Slade had said fighters...and girls.
Oh God. No...
“You’ll fight for me, Mr. Morgan. I happen to have something you want.” Slade walked to the door, opened it and leaned out. “Get in here.”
“What is going on?” came from beyond the entrance in a
woman’s voice tinged with fright. “Apollo, let go of me! Please. Tell me what’s happening...”
His chest became unbearably tight. He pushed himself to his feet, no longer caring what Slade said or did, and took a stumbling step toward the door, and another.
He stopped. An enormous black man filled the entryway, glared at him and stepped through, pulling a dark-haired woman in after him. Her head bent forward and cascading hair hid her face, but he didn’t have to see it. He’d known the instant she spoke.
She lifted her face. Her eyes met his. “Oh, my God.” One hand flew to her mouth.
He barely managed to remain standing. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed.
Lillith.
Chapter 3
“Gabriel!” Lillith wrenched her arm away from the man she’d called Apollo and flew toward him with a sob. Tears streaming from her eyes, she reached out and traced his jawline with her fingertips, as though she had to verify his solidity. “No. Oh, Jesus, no.” She whirled on Slade and screamed, “You bastard! What did you do to him?”
“Lilly.” His eyes burned with the force of his emotions, but he wouldn’t let that maniac see him lose control. “I’m okay. Really.” The lie came easy. He’d had years of practice.
“Okay? You call this okay?” Her breath hitched and wavered. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Looking for you.”
The last of her composure crumbled. She buried her face in her hands and sank to the floor in front of him, shaking with the force of her sobs.
He directed a vicious look at Slade. “If you’ve hurt my sister, you sick, twisted son of a bitch, I’ll kill you. I swear to God I will.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Mr. Morgan. As I said, the deal is simple. You agree to my terms, or she pays the price.”
Lillith shot from the floor and launched herself at Slade. “Leave him alone!” She pummeled his chest with her fists, striking blindly. Slade caught one of her wrists, and with his free hand produced a short knife. Lillith froze.
“Don’t!” He lunged forward, stumbled. His knees hit the floor. “Don’t hurt her,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.”
“I know you will.” Slade released his hold and offered the knife to Lillith, handle first, inclined his head toward him. “Cut him loose.”
Lillith accepted the knife with a trembling hand. “Loose from what?” she asked.
“His hands are tied. Get that rope off him before he cripples himself.”
She blanched. Unable to meet the devastation in her eyes, he lowered his head. Just like old times. She’d taken care of him with worse injuries than these, after their father had finished with him. He still carried the shame, the guilt.
Lillith circled him and moaned at what must have been an ugly sight. He sensed her kneel behind him. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Gabriel, it’s so bad. I can’t...hurt you more.”
“You won’t. It’s okay. If you can just separate them, I’ll get the ropes off.”
Her breath caught and held. He steeled himself for her touch. She gripped his forearm, hesitated, and sawed through a rope. At least she knew enough to do it fast. His freed arm dropped instantly. Lillith lowered the one she held with a shuddering sigh.
“Thank you,” he murmured, aware she needed to hear it.
Slade closed in on them. “I’ll have my knife back now, before either of you try something you’ll regret.”
Lillith stood and surrendered the weapon. Above his blood-streaked hands, the frayed ropes dangled loose around his wrists. He slid them off and tried to determine the least painful way to stand. As though she sensed his intentions, Lillith came to his side, crouched and put an arm around his waist. He gave her an apologetic smile. She nodded and helped him to his feet.
Slade motioned to the scowling giant. “Apollo, take Lillith upstairs.”
“Wait!” He moved in front of her. “I said I’d do what you want. Let her go.”
Slade’s eyes narrowed. “Really, Mr. Morgan. Do you think I’m stupid? If she leaves, you have no incentive to work. She stays.”
“What do you mean, work?” A shrill note entered Lillith’s voice. “Slade, what are you going to do to him?”
Slade loosed a mocking laugh. “Not a thing, dear girl. Your brother is going to fight for me. And win, of course. Every time.”
“No.” Lillith put a protective hand on his arm. “You can’t do that. Those fights...I’ve seen them. Seen the fighters. Jesus, Slade, they’ll kill him out there!” Her fingers tightened. “Gabriel, don’t let him do this. Just leave me here. I’ll be fine.”
“The decision has already been made, Lillith.” Slade’s icy tone brooked no argument. “He stays. You stay. He fights, or you die. Understand?”
She stiffened, about to intervene again, but he couldn’t let her. Shifting, he put an arm around her shoulders, held her to him. Blood from his torn wrists smeared on her shirt. He hadn’t wanted to sully her, but his relief demanded the embrace—if only to assure himself she was real. She collapsed against him with a wail.
“It’s all right, Lilly,” he whispered near her ear. “Don’t try to fight him, okay? I can do this. I’ll get us both out of here.”
She looked up at him and sniffled. “I never meant for this to happen. I’m so sorry.”
Before he could assure Lilly it wasn’t her fault, the thug jerked her away and dragged her toward the door. She resisted, screaming tearful obscenities, until he called after her, “Everything is okay, Lilly. Don’t cry. I’ll see you again soon.”
“Gabe.” Lillith slumped. Head bowed, she allowed Apollo to lead her out.
The door closed. He met Slade’s bemused expression with a grimace. “If you even touch her...”
“Yes, yes. You’ll kill me. Forgive me if I don’t exactly fear for my life, Mr. Morgan.” Slade pulled a cellphone from an inside pocket and keyed in a series of numbers, too many digits for a call. A text message, maybe. “You’ve no need to worry at the moment. As long as you do what you’re told, your sister will be safe.”
Rage shook him to the core. “Fine. Tell me to do something, then.”
“Patience, young one. We’ll get to that. You need training first, and that takes time.” Slade replaced the phone and crossed his arms. “For now, you have an appointment with Jenner. A welcome of sorts, so you can get to know your place here.”
“Jenner?”
“My lieutenant. He’ll be down shortly.” The sanguine smile that crossed Slade’s face seemed to have crawled from the sewers. “I highly recommend that you cooperate with him completely and without question—unless you want to discover depths of suffering you’ve never imagined possible.”
He looked away. Nothing could be worse than the anguish he felt now, for having failed Lillith already. He could imagine plenty of suffering. He’d endured it all his life to protect her from their father’s unending brutality.
No one could be crueler than Victor Morgan. Even if this Jenner was the devil himself.
* * * *
As he waited in silence, questions plagued him that he didn’t dare ask Slade. He couldn’t look at the bastard. Would he be forced to stay in this dungeon? He had no idea what was upstairs. How much would he have to fight to earn Lillith’s freedom—once, ten times, a hundred? The uncertainty tormented him. For all he knew, Slade might expect him to remain here until he was old and broken, or permanently crippled in a fight. A lifetime.
He would not allow this monster to confine his sister forever. He’d play along for now, but when the opportunity came, he would rescue Lillith and leave.
The door opened. He expected another hulking brute, a man who could break his arms like toothpicks or snap his neck with a single twist. Instead, a shadow slipped through and glided inside. The slim figure cleaved to the darkness that edged the borders of the room, and he could make out nothing save the suggestion of a shape. Odd clothing draped the silhouette—what a
ppeared to be a knee-length dress with long, flared sleeves and loose pants beneath. If Slade hadn’t used a male pronoun in reference to Jenner, he would have thought him a woman.
Jenner approached Slade and stopped just outside the light.
Although he still couldn’t see more than a hint of the lieutenant, the man’s presence commanded his attention. Repulsion, dread, and a hint of fascination frightened him more than Slade’s threats, but also sharpened his curiosity. A bulky object dangled from Jenner’s hand at his side. In shadowed relief, it appeared to be an oversized purse with a handle instead of a shoulder strap.
Another intimation of femininity. Was the man a transvestite?
“Don’t hurt him too badly.” Slade watched him as he spoke, and the cesspool smile resurfaced. “I want him to start training as soon as possible.”
Jenner’s head turned toward Slade. His silhouette stood in sharp relief. Something slender and snakelike hung from the back of his head. His hair. A single thick braid fell to his waist and became lost in darkness.
“Of course.” Two words, whispers of silk and smoke, dripping with venom.
A frisson of terror stirred in his soul. The man was a snake. The devil himself. He shook his head and forced the idea away. Ridiculous. The top of Jenner’s head barely cleared Slade’s shoulder, and with his slim figure, a gust of wind could carry him away. He refused the fear, snuffed it beneath a slow burn of hatred.
Slade glanced in Jenner’s direction. The distaste stamped on his features seemed a visceral reaction. “I’m leaving.” He passed the lieutenant, coming nowhere close enough for even the suggestion of physical contact, stopped at the door and spoke without turning. “Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Morgan. Your sister’s life depends on my satisfaction.”
The door closed with the finality of a tomb.
“It looks like just the two of us, does it not, angel?”
A hard shudder shook him. The bizarre tag—angel—rolled from Jenner’s tongue with a lover’s intimacy. Jesus fucking Christ. Jenner intended to shackle him to the wall and rape him.
“Don’t touch me.” The demand emerged a moan. He backed away and raked the room in desperation with his gaze, seeking escape.
