by Alan Lee
“Take off the cuffs, Ernst. I’ll give you no trouble for the next hour. Soon enough I’ll escape and kill you. But not in the immediate future.”
He grinned and removed a small silver key. “You still believe you will escape.”
You still belief you vill escape.
“Sure.”
“How will you?”
“Extemporaneous chicanery.”
He fitted the key into the lock. I heard a click.
“That means?”
Meg stood in the corner. She watched me with no small amount of concern, the bracelet’s activator in her hand. Ready to zap. She answered Ernst, “It means he doesn’t know yet.”
Ernst shot me another glance. Looked as though he momentarily had second thoughts but took off both cuffs.
I did the thing every prisoner has done throughout history—I rubbed my wrists. It was the first time my hands hadn’t been cuffed in three days and the freedom felt alien.
Meg, Ernst, and the guards seemed to hold their breath. Was this idiot in the American shorts about to kill them all? Or die trying?
To put them at ease, I lowered onto the couch. I spread my arms along the back cushions and enjoyed the range of motion.
The room relaxed.
Ernst tossed a set of grappling gloves beside me, the kind with fingers cut off.
Before long Niccolo Ferrari’s voice began thrumming through the walls. A muffled thunder. He spoke in Italian and an English translation followed. Anyone who didn’t speak those languages wore the headphones, I bet.
Fighters were introduced, a process which lasted four minutes. The first round began, unmistakable due to the rise in pitch.
I watched the analog clock on the wall. The fight began at 9:30pm.
“Il Principe combatte,” whispered one of the guards to the other. In a dazzling display of unprofessionalism, they bumped fists.
Ernst said, “The Prince is fighting. The crowd is loud, do you hear?”
“Yes I hear, Ernst,” replied Meg, breathing heavier.
Two minutes in, the audience issued several short blasts of emotion, followed by thunderous applause. The walls shook and dust drifted from the ceiling.
Good grief.
“Two minutes,” gasped Meg. “How do you terminate a human body in two minutes without some sort of tool?”
The guard whispered again. “Il Principe.”
Mackenzie August, a little spooked. I wished for a television so I could watch.
Soon new fighters were introduced.
At 9:45, the next fight began.
The second hand slowly fell through the Roman numerals for five minutes, and then there was a lull. Break in the action. Fighters to their corners, probably. Take water. Talk with trainers. Catch their breath. Ferrari’s voice blared out and at 9:53 the fight rejoined.
The second round passed without incident.
Three minutes into the third, the volume ratcheted up. Meg put her hands at her ears.
At four minutes, a burst of sound—screaming and groaning and boos, and then Ferrari’s voice returned.
“The second fight,” said Ernst, “is over. With the weapons, it doesn’t take long.”
“Holy shit, this is terrifying,” said Meg. Her face had lost color but hives swelled on her chest and neck. “I can’t believe I agreed to help with this.”
I stood up and began hopping. Better to exercise the nerves than let them stress and fester.
The guards and Ernst watched the ceiling, their heads involuntarily tilted to the side as they listened.
The door burst open. A man stood there, panting a little. He wore a radio headset. He shouted something in Italian and we were moving.
We plunged through dark tunnels and up a staircase, into another small room. The sound of dense humanity grew more intimate.
Ernst said, “My advice? Get him to the mat. The Mexican is smaller than you. Don’t let him reach the weapons or Fraulein Doctor will have nothing to patch up.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Meg was telling herself. “This is absurd. I don’t want to do this.”
Soon Ferrari’s voice boomed out again. The door rattled.
I thought Meg would pass out.
The Mexican was introduced first. I caught his name as Jorge.
Ferrari’s voice ramped up for me. Had I become popular? Maybe stabbing the sumo wrestler in the eyeball had been a great career move.
I heard my name.
Our door flung open. We went through the tunnel and turned into dazzling brilliance. The stadium, which had been less than half full for the Drawing, rose like sheer cliffs of sound and color. Spotlights twirled, radiating a multitude of hues.
Yan-kee!
Yan-kee!
Yan-kee, chanted by twenty thousand.
That was unfortunate.
The orchestra played louder, accompanied by an electric guitar.
Ernst walked beside me, shouting.
“Once the cage closes, it won’t open until the fight finishes. I stay in your corner and give you water. The doctor cannot help until the end.”
I nodded.
We stopped at the stairs leading into the raised cage. Ferrari chattered but I couldn’t listen. My sensorium was struggling to stay afloat.
Next to the stairs stood an enormous man wearing an executioner’s black mask and shroud. Tattoos were sleeved up and down his arms. In one hand he held the haft of a double-bladed axe.
Struck me as unnecessarily theatrical.
I thought about telling him traditional executioners didn’t wear the shroud or mask, but this seemed an inopportune time to dispel myths.
Ferrari was dressed in a white tuxedo and he circled the arena outside the cage, reading from cards into his wireless. His hair glinted with Macassar.
Meg pressed a boxing mouth guard into my hand with trembling fingers.
“For your teeth,” she cried.
I nodded.
She continued, “Don’t die, Mackenzie! Finish him quickly!”
“I agree with the doctor.” Zee doct-air. “Kill the bastard! I hate the Zetas.”
I jumped up the stairs and the cage door closed behind me. In the corner I saw a crimson stain on the mat.
Jorge wasn’t a big man, but he also wasn’t little. Thin with corded muscles that flexed and bunched as he breathed. His hair was a little shaggy. He was being restrained by a strap, pinned to the cage wall by handlers on the outside. He wore loose brown linen pants.
I turned in a circle, fighting against a drowning sensation. The crowd was mostly blinded out and to my eyes it acted like a single entity. The throng breathed and heaved and roared as one. In the front row, the same elderly couple cheered and waved their arms.
At the top of the stadium, the halo of private boxes kept an imperial watch. I glared against the spotlight, searching until I found the American suite. Duane looked tiny from the distance. He’d taken off his jacket and stood with hands on his hips, ignoring the others with him.
I raised my gloved hand. Gave him a thumbs up.
It seemed like one of those moments frozen in time. Thousands of onlookers watched and wondered at it, and I felt I was having an out-of-body experience.
What was the American champion doing?
Duane shook his head.
I shrugged.
Ferrari said things I didn’t listen to.
I jumped and paced my side of the cage.
Dear God. Let me live. Keep both of us alive.
Reduce this temple to a junkyard.
An electronic bell rang and the crowd roared.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
The strap around the Mexican’s chest released and he bolted forward. I dropped into a shallow squat, a forward stance.
He halted just beyond my reach and shouted. Jumped up and down and smacked his forehead with the palms of his hand. His body was crisscrossed with scars and his face bore burn marks.
“Take it easy,” I shouted. “I got an idea.
And we both get to live.”
He frothed at the mouth and drool dribbled down his chin. What had Meg told me? He was probably insane, and had mostly dithered during his interview. And now he was bursting with narcotics, I bet.
He snapped a few kicks at me, easily blocked. Circled and backed away again.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
Jorge jumped and punched at nothing.
He was mentally unstable, no doubt about it. He’d been brought to die, not to win—a condenado, condemned to die by the cartel. Kinda like me.
“Jorge,” I shouted. “Get over here. Trust me.” I crept closer to him, staying defensive.
He danced away.
“What’s Spanish for—stop acting like a dervish?” I asked.
I got too close and one of his kicks connected. Caught me in the temple and I staggered.
He saw an opportunity and leapt. We collided and toppled, me underneath. He threw punches and elbows faster than I thought possible.
Meg was screaming to get up.
“So listen,” I told him, dodging and blocking and getting hit in the ears. Had he been a professional fighter, I’d be dead. “Here’s my idea. It’s called a non-violent protest.”
Jorge screamed and tried biting my neck.
That was a little much. I shoved him hard enough to toss his body to the side. I rolled to my feet.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
But now the crowd wondered if I was a wimp. Were they rooting for a foregone loser? Their tone sounded less confident.
My ears hurt. That was the longest sixty seconds of my life.
I glanced at the American suite. Flashed Duane a thumb pointed skyward.
He didn’t respond. Only watched, fists clenched in his hair.
By now the crowd knew something was up. They glanced back and forth between Duane and me. I’d announced that Duane planned to have me executed even if I won, which reduced some of his bargaining power.
Some of the audience raised their thumbs.
Hah.
Ernst shouted, “Kill him, American! Now!”
I needed to cause Duane more pain. Keep up the public negotiation. The Mexican presented no true danger, not until round three. But I could act.
I resumed the stance and crept closer to Jorge, who danced and backpedaled cautiously. His eyes looked wild in every direction.
“New plan,” I called to Jorge. “Kick me again. That worked great.”
The Mexican bicycled beyond my reach. Would he run for the next nine minutes until he got a weapon?
No es bueno.
I lowered to my knees, kneeling in the middle of the ring. Jorge paused. Glared suspiciously. The audience’s volume lowered a notch.
“C’mon, Jorge. I need a solid kick.” My words came out slurred because of the mouth guard. “I need some blood. Duane’ll hate that.”
The Mexican’s trainers screamed at him, but their fighter refused to approach.
“Fine.” I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. “Now Jorge, come kick me before—”
He didn’t kick me. He landed like a jaguar from a tree. Drove his knees into my back and his strong right arm wrapped around my neck. He bent me backwards, my spinal column arched.
A choke hold. Hadn’t expected this. Zero oxygen flowed.
Meg and Ernst shrieked.
From my position, I could see Duane’s box. It was inverted, far far below me.
I held out my hand. Thumbs up.
What’ll it be, Duane? I can only hold this for twenty seconds or so.
The crowd erupted. Ten thousand people stuck up their thumbs.
Yan-kee! Yan-kee!
Duane jumped up and down and fumed. His wife swatted him with her clutch purse. Marital drama acted out in miniature.
Jorge’s grip tightened. My spine cracked and popped painfully.
Starting to panic. No air.
My hands went to the arm around my throat. Like I was in trouble. Which I was.
The crowd watched me. Watched Duane. Watched me. Frantically pumped their thumbs. Watched Duane.
Finally…
Duane raised a fist.
Stuck his thump upwards and waved it desperately.
You win! Now get up, August, you idiot, he shouted.
I assumed.
Jorge’s hold, while effective and dramatic, was not executed well. The man had never received training. I twisted and rolled, enough to get my elbow into his face. Hammered him once, twice, and he released. Busted nose.
I got up. Gasping sweet delicious oxygen.
How much time left? Maybe a minute and a half? I didn’t want to reach round two.
I closed, strafing right and left to pen him in.
“Don’t take this personally.” I coughed, a little light-headed. “You’re going to lose. But at least this way you’ll wake up.”
He tried to stay away but couldn’t. I boxed him in, got him in a corner. Smaller and untrained and scared, he had no chance. I blocked a kick and punch, and put a major league uppercut into his jaw. Followed with a hard left into his cheek. A combination Mike Tyson would be proud of.
He dropped. Knocked clean out. No movement, other than twitching fingers.
The throng, which had been on its feet, jumped and roared loud enough to rattle my ears.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee!
I went to my side of the cage and lowered into a crisscross sitting position. Spit out the mouth guard.
Ernst shouted, “You must kill him!”
“I don’t have to do anything,” I said. Tugged off my gloves. “Fight’s over.”
I panted and sweated and rubbed at my neck.
It became clear that Jorge wasn’t going to move soon.
The electronic bell rang. Round over. Niccolo Ferrari’s unctuous voice filled the stadium. In his box, Duane made emphatic gestures.
The Executioner opened the cage door. He lumbered in, followed by Ferrari. The silver-haired master of ceremonies shouted happily into the microphone and I understood: I was declared the winner. And no one had died.
A commotion stirred the stands, somewhere on the border of the Kings’s section. A fight was breaking out. A big one, dozens involved. Guards swarmed that direction, including the head of security. He was easy to spot, with the flashing Bluetooth headsets.
“Ignore them,” shouted Ernst through the cage. “Happens all the time. Twenty thousand criminals? There will be fights. You did well, American.”
Meg came into the cage. Knelt beside me to examine my ears and neck. She said, “Your tattoo is bleeding. So stupid.”
Ferrari smiled and indicated me, and his voice kept droning on.
“I was so scared,” said Meg, her breath hot on my ear. “That stunt of yours was bullshit.”
Ferrari lowered the microphone long enough to clap for me. Everyone else did too.
I raised my fist and pumped it.
That’s when I noticed the Executioner standing over Jorge. His double-bladed axe dropped—a sick thunk.
Jorge’s head neatly rolled free.
12
“Pop, bam!” Duane threw a faux punch combination at me, ducking and weaving. “Upper cut, right cross. Lights out for the Mexican.”
“Left cross.”
“Whatever. It was gorgeous. I could kiss you on the mouth,” said Duane in a soft rasp.
I sat on my bed. Meg kneeled on the bed behind me, toweling my hair dry, while Duane, Emile, Ernst, and Tattoo Neck watched—a weird celebratory post-fight debriefing.
It was almost midnight. The adrenaline had worn off and was souring my stomach. Sounds of a raging party throbbed through the walls. Or maybe it was a rave. I never knew the difference.
“How is he, doc? How’s our cash cow?” asked Duane.
“Without injury and almost entirely unhurt. And this is the freshest he’s smelled in days.”
“First of all,” I politely corrected her. “My natural scent is divine. Secondly, my neck is sore. Third, I don’t love t
he cash cow nickname.”
“You’re a monster, August. An absolute monster. Can’t believe how quickly you dismantled the Mexican.” He grinned so broad that his eyes disappeared inside puffy cheeks. He wasn’t fat, just swollen. “You played me; I know you did. Faked the fight to get your release. But it worked. I caved, August. You won, fair and square. And I’ll keep my promise.”
An Italian boy wheeled in a large cart of food, including a thick white china plate stacked with cannoli. He rolled it to a stop along the wall.
“Thanks, Gennaro,” I said, the lone avuncular adult.
He grinned, shot me a thumbs up, and left.
“How about that, August. All the cannoli you can eat. The chef out there doesn’t make it, so I ordered some. You’re welcome. That’s what you get. I’m cashing maybe a million tonight. How about that? I need to make a call. What time is it in DC? Got’damn, I’m in a good mood.”
“I can tell. You won’t shut up.”
“I did you another favor. Immediately after the fight, I put you up for bidding. You’re gonna get laid tonight, August. You’re welcome for that, too,” he said.
“I decline.”
“You decline. Hah. That’s good. Girls bidding good money for you. If she’s ugly? Well, close your eyes. Or maybe it’s a guy? I dunno. Emile, you know?”
Emile was watching me. A predatory gleam in her eye. I tried not to shiver. She said, “A silent auction was held for each of the four victors. Bidding closed twenty minutes ago, and the results were delivered to our door. Mackenzie fetched…a surprisingly high amount.”
“Surprising?” I frowned.
“Oh yeah? A big number? Good for you, August. You survive this thing and I gotta share some of the winnings with you. Maybe I should kill you myself, then.” Duane kept smiling, drunk on his good fortune. And his powerful narcotics. “You know who won the auction?”
Emile nodded slowly. “I do. She will be here soon."
“Here soon. Good. August, you get laid and I get paid. Hah. What a life this is. To the victor go the spoils, am I right?”
“Duane,” I said. “I suggest you snort less cocaine. Also, send the girl away.”
He didn’t pay attention.
“Good thing I put the bed back in. C’mon, let’s go. There’s a party on every level of the Teatro di Montagna tonight. I hear the Colombians are furious. Gonna be half a dozen fights. Girls so thick you could walk on them.” He stopped at the door. “Meg, take the night off. Ernst, stick around. Mackenzie tries to escape? He hurts the girl or uses her as a hostage? Zap him. Got it?”