The Hunted

by Val Tobin

  She imagined sliding her fingers into a bowling ball for grip. With one hand, she burrowed two fingers up its nose while two others dug into its eyes. That gave her a firm grasp, but it wasn’t over by far.

  Its claws raked across her chest, shredding through her tank top. A second passed before she felt the sting, but she’d been expecting it. Rather than loosen her hold, she tightened it and slammed Thunder’s head against the floor.

  Its claws raked across her arms, her chest. They barely missed her face.

  “Die.” She grunted the word out under her breath. While she fought because she had to, she always kept her vocalizations to a minimum. The crowd loved it when fighters swore, cursed, screamed, or cried. She refused to satisfy their every lust.

  Thunder’s head hit the floor, and its arms lost strength. Even with her blood dripping onto it, it couldn’t rally the strength required to pitch her off. She dragged its head back again, and with a final furious whack, cracked the creature’s skull open. Its arms dropped, and its body went limp.

  Rachel tossed the corpse aside and stood. Her breasts flashed the audience, but she ignored it, refusing to give anyone satisfaction by revealing her humiliation. She stood straight, a neutral expression on her face. Blood continued to stream down her arm and chest. The pain built, and she welcomed it. An injury meant a respite from the fighting to heal.

  The cage door clanked, and Tony and the announcer stepped inside. Tony wrapped a towel around her shoulders as the announcer raised her bloody arm into the air and declared her the winner.

  The crowd screamed its appreciation.

  ***

  The roar of the crowd assured Hound Dog Rachel had won. She’d become a huge draw, and the fans loved her. If she’d lost, they’d be lamenting. He opened his eyes, which he’d closed when she and the grendel had hit the ground, in time to see her stand.

  Fury made the blood rush to his face when he saw her tank top hanging in strands and her breasts visible. One nipple thrust through the tatters. Men jeered and catcalled, shouting at her to take it all off. If only he could leave his seat at the back of the arena and rip their heads off …

  After weeks in Stefan Needham’s labs, giving blood, stool, and whatever samples they wanted from him, Hound Dog had found himself tossed into the grendel-fighting circuit. He’d yet to enter the ring for a real fight himself, but they’d started training him for it.

  At first, he’d taken the news he would fight grendels barehanded as a joke. The creatures found him repulsive. They’d be easy prey for him. Then his captors demonstrated that the vaccine’s potency had worn off. Now when he entered a grendel’s vicinity, it salivated and tried to attack him. Once in the cage with a creature, he’d be in as much danger as anyone else who’d never been vaccinated.

  They’d brought him to the show, chaining him into a crappy seat in the back row. Albert, his coach, sat beside Hound Dog, providing a play-by-play even when his eyes were open and he saw for himself what happened.

  His wounds had healed—at least, the physical ones had. Inside, he was an emotional wreck. Losing control of his entire life made him crazy. He clung to rationality by a wispy grendel hair. The only thing keeping him from either killing himself or going berserk and forcing them to kill him was the knowledge he might reunite with Rachel. Somehow, he had to either alert her to his presence so they could organize an escape or escape himself and rescue her.

  Neither option seemed likely. They kept him chained all the time, even when he trained. He tried to view that as flattering rather than humiliating. They feared him, he told himself. Time to show them they had good reason.

  The shackles holding him secure were the type used to restrain convicts. He had a pair of cuffs on his ankles, which linked by chain to cuffs on his wrists. They used two different keys, but that didn’t concern Hound Dog. A hairpin or wire or something similar would work. He’d kept his eyes open for anything he could use to pick the locks, but, so far, had found nothing.

  What if he never crossed paths with Rachel again? She’d been injured—hopefully not severely. Her coach had escorted her from the cage without having to call for a stretcher, and she walked without leaning on anyone. Even so, they’d give her time off to heal before putting her back in the ring. If he didn’t act now, he might lose his one chance to get to Rachel.

  He slanted a gaze in Albert’s direction.

  The coach, his expression impassive, met Hound Dog’s gaze.

  “Get up.” The fight over, the arena clearing, Albert rose, preparing to escort his prisoner back to the cell. He never got the chance.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When the stadium’s lights came on, she spotted him at the back as Tony guided her toward the exit, and her heart skipped a beat. Hound Dog. Beyond all odds, Hound Dog was here in the arena. He’d watched her fight. They were training him for his turn in the ring. They’d made her watch the fights when they first brought her here, so Rachel knew exactly what her partner’s presence here signified.

  Instantly, she forgot the searing throb of her wounds and the slim chance of escape. She vowed not to leave without him even if she had to kill to do it.

  Too bad she’d killed the grendel. If Thunder were still alive, injured or not, she could have set him loose in the crowd. Probably just as well. She could bring herself to kill her captors to save her and Hound Dog’s lives, but she didn’t want to have innocent people as collateral damage on her conscience.

  Tony had taken time to wrap bandages around her wounds and drape a fresh towel around her shoulders. He hadn’t put her shackles back on, probably assuming her injuries and exhaustion made her less of a flight risk. Perhaps, he was showing kindness toward her or trying to make her feel grateful for the small favour. Whatever the reason, she planned to take advantage of the synchronicities falling into place, including the fact an armed guard manned each exit.

  Most of the seats had emptied by the time Rachel left the ring. A few stragglers made their way toward the other exits. Tony led her to the one used mainly by staff and fighters. When they arrived, he paused and waved her through the propped-open door. The guard stood inside, to the left of the doorway, where he could view those still in the arena and those who exited.

  Rachel glanced once in Hound Dog’s direction to verify his location. He shuffled toward the exit at the north end of the building. In one fluid motion, Rachel snatched the gun from the guard, launched herself backward onto the ground, and shot Tony and the guard before anyone else could react.

  From there, she belly-crawled along the filthy floor, barely acknowledging the wetness and stickiness pulling at her fresh bandages. The screams and the feet pounding toward the exits registered on her radar, but the remaining guards, all armed, concerned her more. She pressed to the ground, using seats and any people between her and her enemies as shields.

  A bullet whizzed past her head, not too close a call. The trajectory was way off. She squinted, focused on the guard, and pulled the trigger. The shot missed and ricocheted off the wall.

  Someone screamed, a male voice, and it echoed and then ended in a thud. A man had fallen from the upper deck. It didn’t sound like Hound Dog, she insisted. More shots fired, but not in her direction. Rachel smiled. Hound Dog had a gun.

  ***

  At the first shot’s pop, Hound Dog dropped into a crouch.

  “Get up. We’re moving out.” Albert shoved his prisoner, which pitched Hound Dog onto his hands and knees.

  When Albert grabbed Hound Dog by the arm to lift him up, he jabbed the coach with an elbow to the teeth. This time, Albert went down, and as the surrounding confusion escalated, Hound Dog jumped on the other man.

  The coach was older than his fighter and not as fit, but Hound Dog had the shackles to contend with. He kept his position of dominance for only a moment before Albert kneed him off. Hound Dog snarled and lunged again, ramming his head into the other man’s chest. They’d trained him to fight dirty when facing a grendel, and he used that
training to beat down his coach.

  He smashed the base of his hand into Albert’s nose, hearing a rewarding crunch. Albert’s head snapped back and hit the concrete floor knocking him out. Hound Dog searched Albert’s pockets for the shackle keys. When he found them, he freed himself from his chains and reoriented.

  Where was Rachel? The guards?

  One guard huddled by the door at the top of the arena. Another one, closer to Hound Dog’s location, crouched behind seats just inside the east exit. They seemed to be all that remained of the security detail, and they focused entirely on Rachel.

  After another scan of the arena, he spotted her crawling across the floor, shielding herself from the gunshots. She wouldn’t last much longer if someone had called for reinforcements. No one would’ve called the cops. If anyone involved the police, they’d shut down the whole thing. Bribes were paid to a select few on the force, but most cops were honest and ethical. They’d arrest the guards—and probably himself and Rachel—but those who ran this slave circus would lose money if that happened. No, the owners would handle it internally.

  So, he had more time than he otherwise would have if this were a legal enterprise, but not much more. He crawled toward the closest guard.

  It was almost too easy.

  With the guy distracted and shooting at Rachel, Hound Dog came at his quarry from below and tackled him. The hard part was knocking the man unconscious—he had a serious instinct to win the fight and Hound Dog still had sensitive areas from previous wounds. In the end, Dog came out on top—literally—and wrested the gun from the guard’s limp hands.

  He leaped to his feet and shot at the remaining guards. Pop, pop, pop. Three blasts from the gun, but they all missed. He snarled in frustration and ducked when the guy spun around to return fire.

  Another guard went down under fire from Rachel.

  Hound Dog scoured the room for her and spotted her near the ring. Too far from the last guard. It would be up to him.

  “I got you covered, sweetheart,” he muttered.

  How he’d missed their partnership. He’d kill to save her—had killed already if Albert died from his head injury. The only kills he’d ever wanted to make were grendels. Now, he supposed he’d committed murder. He tamped down the horror at what he’d done. After all, he didn’t know for sure he’d killed the coach. No doubt, though, about what would be the result if he shot the guard.

  Hound Dog held his breath, aimed, and fired.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The last guard dropped to the ground, dead. Hound Dog pushed the reality that he’d killed from his mind and raced to meet Rachel, who half-sprinted, half-trudged up the stairs.

  Her expression betrayed weariness, but every time they locked eyes, she quickened her pace.

  “Don’t hurt yourself getting here, baby,” he said with a grin. Inside, he ached to see her so worn down.

  “Oh, Dog.” She choked on the next word and almost tripped.

  Her oily hair stuck out in spikes and spindles wherever it had escaped the braid. Blood-smeared bandages covered her chest. She’d dropped the towel she’d worn draped over her now bare shoulders. A gun dangled loosely from her hand, and the glaze in her eyes told him pain wracked her body.

  “You’re doing all right so far, Frosty. Hold it together a while longer.”

  She brightened at his words and, after drawing in a deep breath, she said, “No problem. I’ll get you out of here.”

  He threw a glance at each of the exits. Which way should they go? Two upper, two side exits. Each led to freedom, but which one offered the easiest out?

  The pounding of footsteps on concrete interrupted them. Pursuit approached from all the exits.

  Her face fell, but she held her head high and waved to him, signalling he should come to her. He settled on the eastern side exit and jumped two steps at a time until he reached her side. When he grabbed her arm to lead her to his preferred destination, she gasped out, “No, down.”

  He allowed her to lead. She knew the arena better than he did, and he trusted her. Down they went.

  ***

  As footsteps pounded into the stadium, Rachel urged Hound Dog through a hidden door under the stage, closing it softly behind them. With luck, their pursuers not only hadn’t spotted them but they also didn’t know the trapdoor existed. If she were the praying type, she’d be doing it, but she hadn’t been the praying type since her mother had lost her head to the grendels.

  Beside her, she heard Hound Dog’s soft inhales and exhales. She slowed and quieted her breathing. The racket outside meant the guards hunting for them wouldn’t hear their breathing, but she didn’t dare speak. Dim light under the stage filtered in from cracks in the wood frame and the trapdoors on each of three of the four sides. The fourth side was her destination and the darkest. That portion of the platform on which the stage rested led into a corridor and a possible way out.

  She took Hound Dog’s hand and together they crept into the darkness. The pandemonium outside their shelter told them they were surrounded. No way out but one, and she had no idea if the way would be open when they arrived at the end.

  Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Echoes of footfalls ahead announced the approach of guards. Panicked, she scanned the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

  “Nowhere to hide,” she muttered, more to herself than to Hound Dog.

  “So, we charge them,” Hound Dog replied.

  “What?” It came out a half-gasp.

  “The best defence is an offence. We charge. By the time they realize we’re not guards, we’ll be on them.”

  She gave a nod and, as one, they sprinted headlong toward whatever awaited them.

  ***

  All remained quiet behind them. If anyone had followed them into the passageway under the stage, Rachel couldn’t hear it. Ahead, however, was another matter. Distinctly she heard the tread of boots on concrete and the rustle of movement.

  “Ambush?” she whispered.

  “Here?” Hound Dog responded in a hushed tone.

  She squeezed his hand in the affirmative. “Up. I’m down.”

  He returned the squeeze, acknowledging he understood. She felt a slight breeze as he hoisted himself up to cling to the overhead pipes between the rafters. With luck, they’d bear his weight and his strength would hold out. He wasn’t as tired as she was, but he’d find it a challenge even so.

  The footfalls headed in their direction. No lights reflected on the walls, making her uneasy. The guards probably wore night-vision goggles.

  She caught herself before she looked up at Hound Dog to see how high above her he dangled. Too low and they’d spot him. She crept behind his location by about four metres, lay flat on the floor, and aimed her gun toward the middle of the tunnel.

  A faint swish above her made her glance up, a scowl on her face. She kept quiet but Hound Dog hissed for attention so she leaped to her feet.

  “A vent. Get up here.”

  She welcomed the news but needed to reach it before the guards arrived. Soundlessly, she handed him her weapon and hauled herself up to meet him. As she pulled herself through the opening, her arms quivered, ready to give out. Thankfully, he pulled her the rest of the way. Once she climbed all the way in, he handed her the grill he’d removed, and she pressed it in place.

  In silence they slithered through the ductwork, Hound Dog leading the way, pausing only when they heard footfalls below them. When the heavy tread of booted steps faded away, they continued to crawl forward. Sweat drenched Rachel, and she had to pause for a moment to curb a bout of dizziness.

  Hound Dog must have sensed she no longer kept up because his quiet slithering fell silent. He made no comment, just waited, and when she resumed her forward motion, he carried on. They crawled past several opportunities to climb out of the ductwork and stopped frequently to listen for movement below. Twice, they heard the tramp of heavy boots as teams of guards rechecked the tunnels, but no one checked the vents. What a relief Hound Dog h
ad discovered them. Her desire to hide outweighed any desire to kick butt or get revenge.

  At last, he signalled her they should leave the passage. Rachel inched forward and skimmed metal grating under her hands.

  “End of the line,” Hound Dog whispered. “It curves up ahead. We need to find a way out of here or they’ll find us.”

  He picked at the grate and lifted it out. When she tried to move into the opening, he stopped her. “Me first.”

  She wanted to argue—craved to argue—but let him take the lead. It made sense. Her whole body throbbed, and her bandages were torn and leaking blood. Between the two of them, he was the more agile and energetic.

  She squeezed his hand, and he handed her his gun and climbed down. When she heard his feet touch the ground, she passed both weapons down to him and then slipped into the opening. Hound Dog grabbed her waist and eased her to the floor.

  They stood silently for a moment, getting their bearings in the pitch-dark corridor. Rachel found the wall on either side and faced what should be the direction they needed to head. A faint tracing of artificial light, probably from streetlamps, showed beneath the wall up ahead. A door? It had to be. This corridor, she knew, led from the arena to the parking lot behind it. Guards likely stood sentry outside.

  “This way,” she whispered. “I’ll open the door. You go high. I’ll go low.”

  “Got it.”

  They crept to the door and Rachel tested it. It was locked, but from the inside, so she unlatched it. On the count of three, she cracked it open and peered out into the fading daylight.

  Chapter Forty

  The intercom buzzed. Stefan punched the button harder than he meant to and barked out a “What?” more gruffly than his assistant deserved.