I didn't ask Lee for details about his own work, though. I didn't want to know his business, and I was glad that he didn't offer the information.
I was also glad that he didn't make any more advances toward me, though I still felt an undercurrent of awkwardness around him.
I was relieved when Saturday came around. The day of Viggo's fight. It marked a milestone—only four days left to go.
Although Lee was at home, and in Viggo's eyes there was no reason for me to hang around with him, Lee suggested that going to his fight would be helpful. I'd seen Viggo regularly up until now, and I needed to keep the momentum going for the last few days.
The fight was due to take place at night, and since Viggo had a number of other things to do before then—PFL formalities, like final weigh-ins and such—he didn't come to pick me up until the evening. The fight was to be held in the same stadium as the Rosen-Cruz fight. I could only imagine how crowded it would be.
As I hopped on Viggo's motorbike and we headed down the mountains, Viggo confirmed that we should expect a lot of people; the tickets had sold out in record time, spurring the PFL to set up screens around the outer walls of the arena so that people could watch from the square and bordering streets. Although the PFL had agreed not to broadcast the fight on television or radio, broadcasting it to extra people outside the stadium was apparently something that they could get away with in the contract.
Something told me that I was feeling more nervous than Viggo for the fight as we rode around the building to a back entrance. He looked calm and collected as ever as we entered the building. His confidence was something that I admired—he wasn't cocky or arrogant, but pragmatic. He simply knew what he was capable of.
A man in a suit was there to greet us at the end of the entrance hallway. He introduced himself as Mr. Doherty, cofounder of the PFL. He shook hands with Viggo before leading us to a changing room—certainly a step up from Viggo's previous room. It was more than twice the size, everything more luxurious, from the front of the door engraved with his name in gold letters, to the soft, fluffy towels, to the air-conditioning, to the tray of refreshments waiting on a table. My eyes lingered on the padded, fingerless gloves hanging from a hook by the door.
Viggo nodded briefly in appreciation before Mr. Doherty left us alone.
I wandered about the room and approached the frosted window. I opened it just a little to gaze outside at the crowds already forming.
Viggo dumped his bag down and fished out his fighting shorts, also a step up from his previous fights. These were black with gold trim, sporting the bold letters "PFL".
Viggo headed to the ensuite bathroom to shower and change. When he emerged wearing the shorts, he removed the gloves from the hook and sat down next to me on the bench. I watched as he strapped them on. Finally some decent protection for his knuckles.
"Those look good," I commented.
He flexed his fingers in the gloves. "Yeah."
He stood up and began swinging air punches.
"PFL makes a huge fuss about everything," Viggo muttered as he continued to warm himself up. "There must have been over fifty journalists at the weigh-ins. My picture will be everywhere tomorrow." He scowled. "Then there's all the trash you're expected to talk about the opponent… Can't stand hype."
"Well, you don't have to play along," I said to him. "You can do whatever you want. You're Viggo Croft, remember?"
He scoffed.
"What happens after you win this fight?" I asked. I was confident that he would win. It seemed silly to use the word if.
"Then I suppose I will wait a week or so to see what the aftermath is like. If the buzz is somewhat bearable, I guess I'll sign up for a second fight. If it's intolerable, I won't."
Someone knocked on the door. Some guy in black PFL uniform, one of the event organizers.
"A gentleman from The Sportster would like to have a few words with you in the final lead up to the fight," he said. "Would you be willing to talk to him?"
Viggo's expression darkened. "Is that the same guy who brought Miriam up earlier?" he asked.
"Uh… yes."
"Then you can show him the exit."
The organizer looked disappointed, but didn't press. He backed out of the room.
Miriam.
"Who's Miriam?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't mind the question.
Viggo turned his back on me, busying himself in his locker. "My late wife."
I regretted asking. We both went quiet.
Another interruption came barely five minutes later. As Viggo opened the door, it was another man in black PFL uniform, blond with a scratchy beard and holding a clipboard.
"Sir," he said, his eyes passing me as they swept around the room, "you need to come to meet Cruz now. The referee needs to have his final word with the two of you together."
"Okay." Viggo sighed. He glanced back at me, indicating that I follow, but as I headed with him to the door, the employee objected.
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Croft," he said, "but if your female friend could wait here in your changing room…"
Viggo's jaw twitched in annoyance. Then he exhaled. "Okay. Violet, wait here. Don't go anywhere."
"I won't," I assured him.
He left the room with the man, shutting the door none too gently behind him.
I roamed around the room a second time, stooping to pick up a bottle of chilled water from the refreshment basket. Then I approached the window again and peered through the crack. We were on the ground floor, so I couldn't see the full extent of the crowd, but it had ballooned since the last time I'd looked out just a few minutes ago.
After finishing my water, I needed the bathroom. I locked myself inside, and realized I'd been sweating in spite of the air conditioning. It was the buzzing stadium, being surrounded by crowds of people, the atmosphere wrought with tension and excitement.
But the second I stepped out of the bathroom, a heavy fist flew at me from nowhere and caught me square in the face. I reeled, pain searing through my nose. Stars circled before my eyes. Before I could attempt to defend myself, a heavy weight was flung at me, knocking me from my feet and pinning me facedown against the floor. As I tried to yell, a hand clamped around my mouth, and then a second hand, lined with some kind of pungent-smelling tissue, folded around my nose.
My brain became foggy. I could no longer struggle. And then all went black.
26
I woke up to a splitting headache and a coppery taste in my mouth. Blood. My own blood. I was lying flat on my back, the floor hard and rough beneath me. And cold. Terribly cold. Prying my eyelids open, I sat upright. Metal clanked and I realized that my wrists and ankles were fastened with chains—chains that were fixed to the wall behind me, immovable, no matter how hard I strained against them. And my clothes were ripped, my hair a matted mess.
I sat in a small, windowless room, whose walls and floor were stone. The only light emanated from a dim gas lantern on the floor.
Where am I?
My heart pounding, I fixed my eyes on the opposite wall, where jagged words had been scrawled in red paint.
"WELCOME TO PORTEQUE."
I stopped breathing.
Attached to the wall, beneath the words were… photographs? I squinted in the gloom. Each depicted a woman, curled up in a fetal position on a floor that looked very much like the one I was currently sitting on. Behind, and looming over her was a man. His body was cut off at the waist, so all I could see were his legs and heavy boots. Just as every woman was different, so appeared to be every man; different leg heights and shoe sizes. Then, as my eyes fell to the lowest photograph on the wall… I recognized the clothes the girl was wearing.
That girl was me.
What is this?
Before I could consider yelling, I heard footsteps.
The heavy wooden door opened and in stepped a man whom I had seen before. He wore different clothes—unkempt, Porteque-style clothing—but I recognized that scratchy beard. It was the PFL atten
dant who had taken Viggo away and insisted that I stay behind in the changing room.
A second man entered behind him. He had a tattoo beneath his right eye. I recognized him too. He was the man who had seen me take down his friend in the road—the man who’d gotten away.
They moved toward me, their leering eyes raking me over.
Arriving in front of me, the tattooed man lowered and grabbed my throat. I attempted to fight him off, but there was only so much I could do while my hands and feet were bound. I’d never felt more vulnerable and powerless in my life.
He tilted my head upward and gestured to a shadowy corner in the room that I had not paid much attention to until now. Fixed to the wall was a camera, pointed directly at me. They had been watching me.
"What do you want?" I breathed. The men seemed to be deliberately keeping their backs to the camera.
"First," the tattooed man replied, his voice as scratchy as his companion's beard, "to teach you your place."
His right hand balled into a fist. Gripping my hair with his left hand, he dealt me a crushing blow in the gut. Once, twice, thrice. Winded, I coughed and spluttered, clutching at my sides. I collapsed as he kicked me in the kidney, curling myself up into as tight a ball as I could.
"Ada!" the second man shouted, his voice resounding in the chamber.
I dared glance up as more footsteps echoed.
A short woman entered the room; she was bone-thin, with lanky mousy-brown hair. I didn't think that she was any older than twenty-five, yet she had deep lines around her mouth and forehead. Beneath her right eye, she, too, sported a triangular tattoo.
The moment she laid her dark eyes on me, she lurched forward. Her fingers dug against my scalp and ripped at my hair, forcing me into an upright position.
She bent down to my level and spat in my face.
"You know that it was my husband you took down?" she hissed.
I tried to protect myself as she dealt me a stinging slap across the face. Her thinness was deceiving—she had muscles in those arms.
She struck me again and again, her bony fingers like whips against my skin. Then, reaching for a belt around her waist, she clasped at a handle and drew out a knife. Holding the back of my head, she pulled me closer to her.
"Stop," I wheezed.
She ran the tip of the blade against my upper cheek, beneath my right eye socket, in one sweeping crescent motion.
I cried out again, tears leaking from my eyes.
"Stop," I rasped. "Stop it!"
She came at me again with the knife, but before she could make a second contact with the blade, one of the men gripped her by the arm and snatched the weapon from her hand.
"Enough," he said gruffly. "We don't want her so cut up just yet."
Ada, eyes still glimmering with rage, grabbed my neck and forced my head downward, toward the feet of the tattooed man. She squashed my face against his boots, their grime soiling my skin.
"Know your place before a man!" she hissed.
She held me there for five seconds before releasing me and stepping backward.
I pressed my back against the wall in a feeble attempt to distance myself from the men I was left with.
"The second reason you are here," the tattooed man went on, as if there had been no interruption, "is to assist us in sending a message to any other bitches like you who have managed to leech their way into Patrus."
He moved to me and, holding my hair, panned my head to the camera again. "Say hello," he whispered, his mouth inches from my ear. He snickered, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a strip of brown fabric with two holes gouged into it. His male companion produced the same and so did Ada. They tied them around their heads so that the upper halves of their faces were obscured but for their eyes.
Another man entered the room, both of them sporting similar masks… and one of them carrying a hot iron bar.
The man carrying the bar handed it to Ada. She waved it around before my face, taunting me with it, bringing it closer until its heat caused my skin to break out in a heavy sweat.
She gathered a strand of my hair and trailed it over the hot iron, singeing it and producing a sickening burning smell. She waved the frayed ends of my hair before my face, pressing them to my nostrils.
"Imagine what your skin will smell like."
She grabbed my arm and extended it before glancing at the camera. An oily smile glided across her face as she addressed the lens. "This is for every woman out there who thinks it's okay to shout back at her man."
She lowered the iron bar against my sensitive inner wrist.
My skin exploded in agony. A screech erupted from my throat. I was sure that I would pass out.
Still eyeing the camera, the woman went on, "For every woman who thinks she can cheat, or talk behind his back."
Another strike of the iron bar, a few inches further up my arm. Somehow, it was even worse this time, knowing what was coming. Tears spilled from my eyes as I struggled to break away from her grasp.
Still, she went on addressing the camera, "For every woman who thinks she knows better."
Another burn, climbing up my shoulder. My entire body, drenched in sweat, had begun to shake uncontrollably.
"And this," she said, in a lower voice, a terrifying sense of finality to her tone, "is for every bitch who thinks she's equal."
I was sure that the madwoman was going to strike me in the chest, maybe even drive the sharp end of the rod through my heart… So it came as a surprise when she stalled, and instead placed the rod down on the floor.
The runaway criminal standing behind Ada gave me a knowing smile, relishing my fear.
Bastard. I saw your cowardly ass run away from me back on that street.
He bent down to my level and I flinched as his hand gripped the side of my face, his calloused thumb touching my cheek.
"It's a shame," he said. "Look at you—young, blessed with good looks, a nice body… We don't treat all female visitors to Porteque like this, you know. Some of them we even make wives out of, like Ada. We found her at sixteen."
"Why are you telling me this?" I croaked.
He sighed. "I'm not telling you as much as I'm telling the women who will watch this."
He let go of my face and rose to his feet. He addressed his companions surrounding us. "Bring in the table."
One of the men exited and returned a few seconds later, pushing along a rickety steel table on wheels. It had wrist and ankle holds attached to either end of it. Ada manifested a key and freed me from my current chains one at a time. I immediately leapt for the door, but it was a hopeless endeavor. My captors crowded around me, wrestling me into submission. They dragged me to the table where they strapped me down. These restraints were tighter and it felt like they stopped the blood flowing to my feet and hands. Maybe that was the idea.
As they gathered around me, the runaway man spoke:
"Cut her."
I writhed as they reached into their belts and withdrew knives. They used the steel edges of the table to sharpen the blades, Ada on my right even gouging me in the thigh as she did so, deliberately careless.
These people are insane.
"Stop!" I begged. "Please, I'll do anything! Just stop!"
That I had resorted to begging these animals cut me to the core, deeper than any knife could. It felt like renouncing any semblance of dignity I had left.
These people needed to be lined up and shot. If only I had a gun. Ms. Dale's last-minute training would've actually been useful.
"How do you want to do this?" Ada asked the runaway. They appeared to have finished sharpening their knives.
The runaway, standing closest to my head, replied, "Same as the last."
His answer brought a dozen nightmarish visions to my mind. As their knives descended on me, all I could do was close my eyes and pray. I thought of Viggo, about the chance I’d never have to see him again, and about the mission and my lost opportunity to reunite with Tim.
As the blad
es began to press into me, piercing skin, a man yelled outside.
"EVACUATE!"
The door burst open and in stepped another man, face shining with sweat, eyes alight with alarm. "Wardens!" he panted.
The word sent relief rolling through my body.
"WHAT?" the runaway man yelled back. "Impossible! They can't have reached us so quickly!"
"They're here!" he insisted.
Ada and the men surrounding me swore. Shoving their knives back in their belts, they loosened me from the table before grabbing hold of me. The tallest man—the runaway—hauled me over his shoulder, dangling me upside down, while a second man grabbed my wrists and held them tightly together. That didn't stop me from thrashing my legs. As they carried me out of the dank room and up a flight of grimy stairs, the man holding my wrists connected his knee with my face, sending my head into another tailspin.
I could no longer keep track of where we were going or who was around me. All I knew was that their route was dark and bumpy, and then the air suddenly became a lot colder. A chill wind caused my skin to break out in goosebumps. We were outside.
I caught the glare of headlights to our right, and a loud roaring noise in the distance. Then came gunshots. We reached some kind of vehicle and I was shoved into a spacious trunk and locked inside.
I had no idea how much time had passed since I had been kidnapped. But the man had said that the wardens' arrival was quick. I had no idea how the "wardens" had managed to locate me so quickly, given that Porteque was supposed to be tucked away in the depths of the mountains—somewhere even Viggo seemed hesitant to enter.
I was rolled from side to side as the vehicle picked up speed, in spite of the hard bumps in whatever road—or track—we were following. I tried to grab hold of something to avoid more injury, but soon we were traveling so fast, the bumps so wild, it was impossible to avoid getting banged about.
What's going on?
Where are they taking me?
The ground tilted in a slope. I rolled to the other side of the trunk. My stomach dropped. We were going downhill. Fast.
The gunshots grew louder behind us.
The base of the vehicle vibrated, then we shuddered to a stop that sent the back of my head smashing against the trunk's side wall.
The Gender Game Page 22