“Sir, what’s going on? Why did you bring me here?”
“Sit down.”
He pulls me into an empty seat, taking his place next to me. Fresh sand is poured into the ring and raked until it’s even. I pray to god that they’re just making a nice Zen garden. But the crowd has other ideas.
“Hurry up, fuckers!”
“Fuck this shit! Death match!”
“Death match!”
It becomes a chant, wild and feral, and my heart is pounding in my mouth and I am sweating profusely, the cold sweat of dread.
“Death match! Death match!”
My worst fears are confirmed when two men are pushed into the cage. One looks like he’s maybe 19, in shape, but he’s shaking like a leaf and clutching a machete. The other man is a giant like the bouncers, straight out of a prison movie complete with Schwarzenegger’s body and a scar over his eye. One giant hammy fist of his is closed over the grip of a bat.
The smaller man darts to the center quick as lightning, swiping his blade at the giant’s feet. But the giant only laughs and swings his bat. The kid jumps away, but the bat clips his shoulder and makes him drop the blade.
The giant slams the bat into the kid’s side with a crushing blow, and the cracking sound makes me wince. My eyes squeeze shut. The crowd boos.
“Too easy, no way!”
“Come on!”
“Fight for it!”
The giant looks over to a man sitting in the front row, flanked by bodyguards, wearing a silk suit and tie and smoking a cigar. He gives him a slow nod of the head.
The giant nods back and kicks the machete back over to the kid. Kid snatches it up, trembling, and stumbles to his feet. The crowd roars approval, and the terrified kid uses the tide of adrenaline and noise as impetus to heave himself at his opponent.
My hands fly up to cover my eyes, but I can’t help but peek through my fingers, sickened. It’s like watching a train wreck, or an autopsy.
Somehow the kid ducks the swing of the giant’s bat and manages to sink the blade into Giant’s leg. Giant bellows in rage and wraps his arms around the kid’s neck, squeezing. Choking and spluttering, Kid’s arm flail until he finds his grasp on the machete again. He rips it out of Giant’s leg, blood squirting, and drives the blade into Giant’s ribs.
The slash makes the giant twitch and roll, and he takes the kid down with him. They are a mass of churning arms and legs and blood. I see the kid’s arm reel back for a punch that lands on the giant’s chin. The whites of the giant’s eyes roll in pain, and he suddenly looks desperate.
One arm closes around the kid’s neck, locking him in an embrace, while the giant’s other meaty fist closes on the blade sticking out of his ribs. The giant rips the machete out of himself and with lethal swiftness tilts the kid’s head back and swipes the blade across his jugular.
The crowd roars and the giant jumps up and down in victory.
“Motherfucker!” Mr. King curses, slamming his fist into his own thigh.
Vomit burns up my throat and it takes everything in me to swallow it down. Disbelieving, I look back into the ring and see that the kid is, in fact, bleeding out in the center.
Dying.
Dead.
“Mr. King, please.” My voice is gone. It’s only a whisper. “Please get me out of here.”
“You’re alright, Miss Clark,” he says firmly. “Just a bit shaken up. We’re not finished yet. Get a hold of yourself.”
I stare at him and see he’s serious, his cold blue eyes unyielding and merciless. With a trembling hand, I reach in my purse for a napkin or maxi pad or anything to wipe my face. Mr. King is watching me coolly, and when I finish, he takes a firm hold of my elbow.
“Well done, Clark. Let’s go.”
We stand up, and I have a better view of the arena. They’re carrying the boy away like a sack of potatoes. More sand is poured and raked. And two women are thrown into the cage, trembling and sobbing, each of them clutching axes.
“Please, no!” Screams one. “Help me! Somebody help me!”
I can’t feel my legs. Adrenaline and terror and Mr. King’s forceful grip are the only things making it possible for me to walk.
Mr. King leads me through an aisle to another room, this one lined with plush couches. A few richly dressed men are lying down, tended by scantily clad and startlingly beautiful women carrying trays with syringes, pipes, and bongs.
“Jesus,” I whisper. It might just be an actual prayer.
Mr. King marches us to the back and raps loudly on a wooden door. An eye appears in the peephole, and I hear the sound of a latch turning.
“Paperwork,” Mr. King hisses at me.
Behind me, from the arena, I hear a woman scream bloody murder.
Shaken, I scramble to hand him the documents as the door opens and he drags me inside with him. This room is an office in an English library style, with dark leather chairs, bookshelves, and brocade wallpaper. Did I just step into fucking Wuthering Heights? What the fuck is this fucking place?
“Mr. King,” says a dark voice. “Not your best night, I’m afraid.”
The voice belongs to a hulking man with a weathered face, high cheekbones, gray hair, and imposing build. He’s sitting with his feet up on the desk, smoking a cigar. One eyebrow is missing, replaced by a burn scar. “Your dog was a pussy and your boy is dead, which means you still owe me seven million. I sincerely hope you’ve come to settle your account. Otherwise, your night might just go from bad to worse.”
Mr. King is licking his lips. I’ve never seen him agitated like this before. He extends the paperwork that I spent the afternoon typing up. “Here, Jack. It’s the deal we discussed. One hundred thousand shares, the property in Newark, and the shell company.”
Jack snaps his fingers. One of the leather-clad giants at his side steps forward and takes the papers from Mr. King, walking them over to the desk and laying them out. With a terrifying squint, Jack moves his gaze from my boss to my documents and starts to read.
A clock ticks on the wall. My nerves are stretched thin. I swivel my head and see it’s a grandfather clock with a skeleton figure at the top and the same letters, D.L.
“Hmm.” Jack stirs, fixing his gray eyes back on Mr. King. He smiles and starts to laugh, and Mr. King smiles back. Then Jack’s face goes hard and he rips up the papers. Mr. King blanches. “No deal, King. Looks like you still owe me. Which is how I like it.”