The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  ‘I thought your Sergeant-at-Arms was supposed to be some kinda mean son of a bitch,’ he replied. ‘Kruger was a fuckin’ pussy, just like the rest of your boys.’

  Jonah’s expression darkened. ‘I’m gunna make you pay for killing him. He was my brother.’

  ‘Does that make it incest then?’ Brad sneered, and Jonah frowned, confused. ‘You know, when he was bouncing on your cock.’

  Jonah’s face went dark and he rushed in fast and hard, swinging and jabbing in a blur.

  Brad took a couple of hits but blocked or dodged most of them, until he felt a slice across his left bicep. He glanced down and saw a clean cut had opened up, and it was as he danced back that he saw the box cutter knife in Jonah’s right hand.

  ‘How d’you like that?’ Jonah snarled with a grin, blood still dripping from his chin. ‘I’m gunna stick you like a pig, bitch.’

  ‘Bring it on then, sweetheart,’ Brad rasped. ‘Let’s boogie.’

  He feinted a couple of strikes and let Jonah grab his right wrist, seeing the knife come up for a slice, before he clamped a paw on Jonah’s right wrist and locked the hand still in mid-air. He squeezed hard enough to make Jonah’s hand go white and pink, twisted his own wrist free, and turned Jonah’s right wrist back on itself.

  The box cutter fell free as Brad twisted the wrist until he heard a snap, smacked a back hand into the gang leader’s face to keep him occupied, and wrenched the arm in and around, getting it up behind Jonah’s back.

  Jonah let out a scream and scrabbled at him with his free hand, trying to get a hold. Brad forced him to his knees and slammed a knee into his back, arching him backwards.

  He let the man go and moved around him again. Jonah forced himself unsteadily to his feet, his right hand hanging limply at his side. His face was bloodied and he was in obvious pain, but he wasn’t giving up.

  Brad quickly checked the cut to his bicep – it was deeper than he’d first thought, and needed stitching. He wiped blood from his eye and readied himself.

  Jonah scooped up the box cutter in his left hand and stayed low, weaving like he knew something about knife fighting. Brad moved, keeping space and assessing the options.

  Suddenly Jonah charged in, slashing with the knife and forcing Brad back. He bent and threw a handful of dirt in Brad’s face, temporarily blinding him. Brad felt his back hit the pit wall and knew he was on the ropes.

  He dodged left and felt Jonah impact his right side, then another cut to his right hip. He hissed and kept his eyes closed, reacting instinctively.

  His left came through in a thunderous hook to Jonah’s head and he seized the collar of the patch vest and yanked his opponent forward, slamming a knee up into his gut.

  He stepped away from the wall, dragging Jonah like a doll, and landed another knee to the gut. He felt Jonah sag and quickly wiped his eyes, blinking rapidly to get some vision back.

  Jonah’s left came up with the box cutter again, going for Brad’s face. Brad blocked the strike and gripped the wrist, twisted hard and drove his fist into Jonah’s eye, opening up a gash on the eyebrow. With his opponent temporarily dazed, he ripped the knife from Jonah’s hand and seized him by the hair again.

  Drawing Jonah’s head back, he exposed the throat. He stared into Jonah’s eyes from inches away. He saw the fear there, and the realisation. They both knew what was going to happen.

  ‘I told you,’ Brad whispered, and drew the knife straight across Jonah’s throat.

  The carotid artery was severed immediately and a jet of dark arterial blood shot across the pit.

  Brad pushed the dying man away from him and let him fall to his knees, Jonah’s eyes wide with terror and a dark stain showing at the crotch of his jeans. Blood flowed down his bare chest and his artery continued to pump out jets as his heart raced.

  It took several seconds before the body slumped over sideways. Brad watched it fall and looked down at the knife in his bloodied hand.

  The door opened again and Mitchell appeared this time, coolly aiming his Beretta at him.

  ‘Toss the knife,’ he said.

  Brad tossed it to him and the former SEAL kicked it back behind the door. Prasong came through now and dragged Jonah’s body away. A large blood stain remained on the dirt where he’d lain.

  ‘Well done,’ Chambers called down, ‘I thoroughly enjoyed that one. Very gladiatorial, well done indeed.’

  ‘You know you’re fuckin’ mental, don’t you?’ Brad rasped.

  The Englishman smiled back, placating. ‘Oh believe me, Mr Travis, I am very self-aware. Now, you may have a rest and gather yourself.’ He gestured to Mitchell. ‘Bring in the next one.’

  Mitchell turned to go, and Chambers spoke again.

  ‘Oh, Johnny. Make this one a double, would you?’

  Mitchell nodded and guided Brad out of the pit, back to the cell.

  Travis gave his nephew an enquiring look. ‘You alright?’

  Brad nodded briefly. ‘Kruger and Jonah,’ he said. ‘Both dead.’ He glanced back at Mitchell, waiting impatiently at the door. ‘Apparently you’re getting a double.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘Fuck off, dickhead.’ Brad had just killed two men with his bare hands; he was beyond caring what the ex-SEAL thought.

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘I can’t wait for my turn with you, buddy.’ He gestured with his gun barrel to Travis. ‘Come on, old timer.’

  Travis scowled at him then turned to Brad. ‘Really? I thought I was having a young day.’

  ‘Don’t get sensitive,’ Mitchell told him with a sneer, ‘your day’s about to get worse anyway.’

  ‘Why, do I have to have sex with your Mum?’

  Mitchell’s nostrils flared but he held his tongue. He waved Travis out and escorted him to the pit, shutting the door behind him.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Travis took in the pit in a glance, noting the blood stains. He wondered who his two opponents were going to be; presumably Prasong and Terry. Brad’s efforts had obviously whittled the list of candidates down somewhat.

  He looked up and saw Chambers gazing down from his throne.

  ‘Enjoying the show up there?’ he asked sarcastically.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m having a lovely time,’ Chambers purred, making a steeple of his fingers before him. ‘I’m particularly looking forward to this round. I have the feeling it will be quite…scintillating.’ His smile got wider and he clapped his hands loudly. ‘Let the games begin!’

  The door opened and two men entered. First was Prasong, clad only in gym shorts, his body completely devoid of any fat. He was all hard muscle and sinew. Travis’ eyebrows shot up when he recognised the second man.

  Philip Stephenson smirked as he strolled into the pit. He was also clad only in shorts and was leanly athletic with a hard torso.

  ‘What, surprised?’ He rolled his neck, loosening up. ‘Didn’t know I was a fighter?’

  The two men began to circle him. Travis felt over dressed in his jeans and singlet.

  ‘Easy mistake. I never was, until I met my friend here.’ Stephenson tossed his head towards the silent Thai. ‘I lost a bet, the cost of which was a round with this guy.’ He shrugged. ‘Needless to say, he wiped the floor with me. I took him on as his manager and he taught me. Of course I’m nowhere near his league, but I’m no slouch either.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Travis replied evenly.

  The Pastor nodded and smiled. ‘We will.’ He put his hands together in mock prayer. ‘Let us pray.’

  He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a brief moment.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Travis said, rolling his eyes at the theatrics. ‘Stop jerkin’ off and get on with it.’

  Stephenson’s eyes snapped open and he turned his gaze on Travis. He had taken on a new demeanour and Travis could feel the purpose and murderous intent emanating off him.

  ‘Prayer time,’ Stephenson whispered.

  Prasong and Stephenson approached him in
tandem, keeping wide enough for Travis to have to use his peripheral vision to keep an eye on both.

  Prasong made the first move, a blur of strikes and kicks as he worked his way in closer. Travis ducked, blocking and parrying but getting a couple of decent hits to the torso before his back hit the wall. Stephenson moved in then too, snapping a front kick to Travis’ right hip and a side kick to the gut, both good solid hits. Travis sucked it up and blocked a burst of punches from Prasong, each blow like being hit with a hammer.

  Stephenson took his turn, a flurry of strikes coming at Travis as Prasong edged back. Travis took a good hit to the jaw but blocked the rest, and slipped sideways past an over-zealous jab, slapping the punch away and landing a hook to the side ribs. He followed it with a jab to the kidneys as he worked past Stephenson and drove a knee into the former spy’s left thigh, causing it to buckle.

  Realising his boss was in trouble, Prasong moved in but Travis gripped Stephenson’s shoulder and shielded behind him.

  Stephenson slammed his elbow backwards into Travis’ ribs, breaking his hold, and whirled with his other elbow, going for a head strike. Travis ducked under it, hooked him in the ribs again and drove the heel of his hand straight up under his arm into his jaw.

  Stephenson’s jaw slammed shut and his head snapped back. Travis delivered a brutal short side kick to Stephenson’s right knee. The knee folded inwards and he started to drop, gasping with pain.

  Prasong came over the top with a hammer blow to the side of Travis’ head, knocking him away from Stephenson. Prasong moved past, closing in with a double side kick to Travis’ back which sent him staggering across the floor.

  Stephenson hobbled to the wall on his damaged leg while Prasong continued the attack.

  Travis turned to confront him and copped another kick in the chest, slamming him back against the wall. He covered in time to block a burst of punches and pushed Prasong away, but took another couple of good hits to the face. One opened a cut on his left cheekbone, which felt like it was cracked.

  Prasong stepped back to quickly check his boss, just for a split second, and Travis moved fast.

  His front kick to Prasong’s gut knocked the man backwards and he moved in with a double cross to the jaw. Prasong recovered quickly, landing blows to Travis’ head and forcing him back again. Travis rolled with it and got the Thai’s right hand, locking it securely in his grip and pulling him forward. Prasong twisted to get free, Travis’ hand slipped with the sweat on their skin and Prasong landed a nasty shot to his neck.

  Travis took it, seized the hand again and turned, locking it under his arm and getting his back against Prasong as he swung on the arm to hyper-extend it.

  Prasong knew what he was doing and fought to get free, slamming his elbow repeatedly into Travis’ back. Travis gritted his teeth against the pain and hung on.

  With a surprise twist, Prasong turned and got his left hand up into Travis’ crotch from behind, gripping onto his testicles and crushing. White hot bolts of agony shot through Travis and he let go, staggering away. Stephenson moved in from his right, hobbling fast but getting to Travis before his opponent could defend himself.

  Stephenson drove his fist into Travis’ ribs first then his kidneys as he turned away, following with an elbow slamming into his back.

  Travis dropped to his hands, feeling his singlet rip open as Stephenson hung on. He caught himself and took a kick to the side of the head from Prasong. He drove his foot back, connecting hard with The Pastor’s left knee cap, blasting straight through and folding it completely inwards. Stephenson screamed and went down on his face.

  Prasong flew in with kicks to the side, sending Travis into a rolling collision with Stephenson. The Pastor was still screaming as Travis rolled over him and pushed himself up fast enough to downward block another kick. He caught Prasong’s foot and heaved, flipping the Thai up and back.

  As Prasong went with it into a perfect back flip, Travis returned to where Stephenson lay writhing. He delivered a solid kick to Stephenson’s jaw that drove his head into the dirt, knocking him out cold. Travis’ balls throbbed with the effort. He yanked the ripped singlet off and tossed it aside.

  Prasong gave a flying roundhouse kick that would have taken Travis’ head off had it connected, but Travis got his hands up in time and caught the foot high in mid-flight, twisted and pulled to defeat the fighter’s recovery attempt. Prasong was falling when Travis slammed a heel into his crotch and braced himself with his hands up, keeping Prasong’s right foot high.

  Prasong landed on his hands and ignored the pain in his groin, pushed up and kicked back with his left foot, catching Travis on the shoulder but failing to break his grip. Travis kicked him again to the gut, landing three strikes then twisting the foot again and flipping Prasong a complete 360. The little Thai broke free and vaulted to his feet, half spun, and smashed him in the face with a back kick so fast Travis never even saw it until it landed. He crashed back into the wall, tasting blood from his nose and his eyes filling with involuntary tears.

  Prasong saw him on the ropes and came in for the kill. His hammer-like fists slammed into Travis’ chest with a tap-tap of jabs, then he stepped back and threw himself into a spinning roundhouse kick to the head.

  It was the sort of shot that could snap a neck or put a target out cold, if it connected.

  Travis sensed it coming, dropped and caught the fighter’s right foot as it sailed above his head, and drove his own right foot out in a low side kick. It slammed into Prasong’s left knee side on and blew through it, ripping the knee apart and bringing a sharp cry of pain.

  He held on tight to the right foot, braced himself and caught the back of Prasong’s hair as the man fell backwards. Travis’ right knee was hard and rock steady on the ground, and he added his own strength to Prasong’s weight in its downward fall.

  Prasong landed square on the knee in the centre of his back, the impact fracturing his spine with a loud crack. He kicked and flopped and Travis withdrew his knee, rolling him face down and dropping on him again with a bent knee.

  Despite his crippling injury Prasong snatched hold of Travis’ left wrist in his own and tried to bite down on it.

  Travis ripped his hand free and locked it under Prasong’s chin, the other hand on the crown of his head. Knowing what was coming, Prasong let out an animal screech and tried to buck his opponent off his broken back.

  Travis ignored the resistance and finished it. He wrenched hard and snapped Prasong’s neck then let him drop to the ground.

  He pushed himself up and stood over the dead fighter, breathing hard. He checked Stephenson, who was stirring back to consciousness. His left knee was bent at an unnatural angle and he was weakly trying to reach for it.

  Travis crossed to him, lifted his head by the hair, and drove a fist into his jaw. The jaw cracked and The Pastor slumped into unconsciousness again.

  Travis straightened and looked up at Chambers, who was leaning forward in his throne and peering down into the pit.

  ‘Is he dead?’ the Englishman called down.

  Travis put his hands on his hips and sucked in some deep breaths. ‘It’s over,’ he managed.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Chambers repeated, louder this time. His face was getting pinker.

  ‘It’s over,’ Travis repeated. ‘Let her go.’

  Chambers leaped to his feet. ‘It’s over when I say it’s over!’ he screeched, his robes flying around him as his arms thrashed. ‘Kill him!’

  Travis spat on the ground. ‘I’m happy to kill him,’ he said coldly. ‘Release her first.’

  ‘You don’t make the rules,’ Chambers bellowed, drawing his Browning from under his robes and taking aim at Travis. ‘I am the King, and I make the rules!’

  He fired a shot, the echo loud in the enclosed space, and dirt kicked up a metre from Travis’ feet.

  ‘I said kill him!’

  Travis’ lip curled with disdain. ‘I can’t kill him if you shoot me, can I?’ he pointed out.

&nb
sp; Chambers waved the gun angrily, his face a mask of frustrated rage, before he let out an angry ‘Aaaaagghh!’ and stomped out of sight.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Mitchell unlocked the cell door, his Beretta casually aimed at Brad’s gut.

  ‘Out.’ He moved back and gestured with the gun barrel towards the door to the pit.

  Brad came out and paused, eyeing him carefully.

  ‘It’d be the last move you ever made,’ Mitchell told him softly.

  Brad turned his back and made his way back into the pit. He saw Jack there, now shirtless and grimy, bleeding from the nose, cheek and knuckles. Prasong lay dead with his head rolled at a strange angle. Stephenson lay unmoving, his chest gently rising.

  The two men looked at each other.

  ‘I heard a shot,’ Brad said.

  ‘I think Chambers has flipped completely,’ Travis replied. ‘Don’t know where he’s gone now.’

  The answer came a second later, when Mitchell appeared over the lip of the pit. He was holding a chain and dragging something heavy. He got to the edge and jerked on the chain, then leaned down and heaved something over to the edge.

  It was Susie, her hands tied behind her and the chain secured around her neck like a noose.

  She was conscious and her face was grimy and sweat stained.

  Chambers stepped up to the side of the pit, a triumphant look on his face. ‘Now,’ he smiled, ‘let us stop the schoolyard nonsense and get down to business.’ He looked down pointedly at Susie’s prone form. ‘This is a business arrangement, Mr Travis. You kill him,’ he jabbed a finger towards Stephenson, ‘or we kill her.’

  He smiled like it was an everyday agreement. ‘Quite simple, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘He’ll kill you anyway, Jack!’ Susie shouted. ‘He’s bloody mad!’

  ‘Shut up.’ Mitchell jerked on the chain like she was a dog.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she snarled back.

  Chambers spread his hands and gave them a questioning look. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  Travis and Brad looked at each other. An unspoken agreement passed between them.