Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  She asked, “In the cage, will you fight?”

  “Artfully phrased.”

  “I know you’re fighting Mr. Chambers and Ferrari outside of it, as best you can, but what about the Yakuza champion?”

  “I won’t kill him,” I said. “Even if he’ll never taste pizza again, he shouldn’t be thrown into a cage to die.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I have a plan. It’s the best plan.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Under no circumstances, foul physician. You are party to miscreants.”

  She groaned and elbowed me. “I’m in your corner, Mackenzie. Literally. You can’t win if you won’t kill him.”

  “I can try. And that’s almost as important as the outcome.”

  “In what universe is trying and failing almost as important as living?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, the outcome concerns me. But I’m equally concerned with how I handle adversity. What would it profit me to win the tournament but lose my soul. Write that down.”

  She rubbed at the furrows between her eyes and sighed. “Let’s deal with facts and imminent realities, Mackenzie. Blood, sweat, bones, and injuries, not philosophy. What will you do when he attacks? He’s immense.”

  “Duck.”

  “Duck?”

  “I’ll duck.”

  “You’re an ass,” she said. “How can you be so intelligent and use the sophisticated vocabulary that you do, and say duck? Be serious. This terrifies me.”

  “Me too.”

  “Maybe you need cocaine. I might snort a line myself.”

  “No thanks. Clear eyes, full heart.”

  “You’re quoting that football show.”

  “Friday Night Lights? I’ll never tell.”

  She stomped her foot. “Why are you so maddening? This is not the time to be eccentric.”

  “On the contrary, this is the best time.”

  “I hope you win,” she said. “But maybe the giant could smack you first. A good bell ringing might be what the doctor ordered.”

  15

  Duane’s retinue escorted me to the same white room as before. The number of guards had tripled, Duane said, “Because I don’t trust those fucking Japs.” Above and around us, it sounded like the Rose Bowl was gearing up for kick off.

  Duane’s nerves had got the best of him again. He paced and sweated and swore. Beneath his nose, flecks of a white powder had embedded into stubble follicles.

  “August, the Italian Prince, you know the guy?”

  “I do. Handsome fellow. Excellent manners.”

  “Excellent manners. Whatever. He’s going to win tonight. Quick. You hear me? He’ll go into the final fight without a scratch,” said Duane.

  “Which means,” said his wife Emile, wearing what looked like a luxury bathrobe made out of silk. She also wore heels. Her eyes drifted over me. Like a predator examining a meal. “You should defeat your opponent quickly. With all body parts intact and functional.”

  “The other night at the pool, Rossi was there but I didn’t talk to him. Bastard hung in the shadows with his new girlfriend. But Ferrari mentioned to me,” said Duane, and he wiped his forehead. “Ferrari told me, Rossi has taken note of the American. The head of the Camorra, talking about August. Hear that? I knew this trip was a good idea.”

  “Release me,” I said. “And you may yet still live, Duane.”

  “Christ almighty. Maybe you should focus on killing the Jap.”

  “I won’t kill him.”

  He made a shrug. “Yeah. Whatever. Choke him out, let the Executioner do his thing. I don’t care, long as you don’t die.” He shook his finger at me. “I’m letting all the winnings ride tonight. Understand?”

  “A fool and his money.”

  “Stop saying that. It irritates me.” He paused, looked like he wanted to say more, but changed his mind. He straightened his tuxedo and shifted uncomfortably.

  “You’re dismissed, Duane,” I said.

  “You don’t tell me what to do.”

  “I dismiss you. Leave.”

  His face did a glower. “I’m going. But not because you say to.”

  “Take Emile with you. Hold the door for her. Treat her well.”

  “I do that anyway,” he said and she scoffed.

  They left, looking strained and uncomfortable.

  Ernst pulled a German KM military knife from his belt and pressed the point into my throat. The four guards tensed and their hands went to their electroshock sidearms.

  Meg squeaked. “Ernst, what! Knock it off.”

  “I wish to gut you, Herr August,” said Ernst. His nose was almost touching mine. This close, his face and eyes looked swollen and liverish. I bet he’d put on five pounds in the four days we’d been in Naples. “But I am not allowed. Yet. You try to escape again? I open your windpipe. And enjoy it.”

  I whispered. “Gross.”

  “The noise. It makes the concussion worse.”

  Zee concussion vorse.

  “Tylenol, German bounty hunter. Works wonders.”

  “The Yakuza giant,” said Ernst, backing up and sheathing his knife. “He squeezes you. I will laugh as you die.”

  “What an ugly thing to say. Does this mean we aren’t friends anymore? You know, Ernst, if we aren’t friends, I don’t think I could bear it.”

  Meg said, “That’s another quote isn’t it.”

  “Yes but I’m botching it.”

  Ferrari’s voice filled the world and the tumult above our heads increased. The wall sconce shook and the light vibrated.

  At 9:30, judging by sounds, the Prince and the Russian joined in combat.

  At 9:32, judging by sounds, the Russian lost.

  My guess, the Prince bet on himself through a shell investor for the second minute. Long enough to land a few punches, get position on his severely wounded opponent, choke him out, and make a fortune.

  Two guards near the door bumped fists.

  The man wearing a radio and mic arrived in a huff and beckoned us follow. We trudged through the dark hallways, chasing the chants, and into the same little holding cell as before. The roof rattled from footsteps above and dust filtered down.

  My praetorian guards drew their electroshock weapons. Ernst jammed a key into my ankle and wrist shackles, setting me loose.

  “Don’t be a hero, American,” he said.

  “I cannot help what I am, German.”

  “I mean, don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Of course. I’d hate to get into trouble.”

  Ferrari’s voice shook the floor beneath my feet.

  Riku was announced first. A smattering of cheers and a cascade of boos. I kept my head down, eyes closed, listening and tugging on fighting gloves.

  “Signore e signori. Ora ti presento…” called Ferrari. “Dall’america, Il tuo combattente preferito…”

  The crowd had already started.

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee.

  I took deep breaths, steeling myself as if ready to leap into freezing water.

  He announced my name and we walked into the living arena. The crowd had grown, I thought. The volume of bodies looked impossible. And dangerous. Screams and cheers rained down, as did roses and batteries. I kept my head lowered. Focused on my feet.

  Ferrari maintained the soliloquy.

  The orchestra played. It’d sound like The Godfather except for the electric guitar.

  Ernst and Meg chattered in my ear but I didn’t care.

  I stopped at the stairs, face to face with the Executioner. His cowl mostly hid his face. From what I could see, he’d applied eye black. I punched him on the shoulder and said, “See you in round two.”

  I jumped into the ring and the gate crashed closed.

  The sumo wrestler had inexplicably grown taller. Didn’t seem fair. He had five inches on me and fifty pounds, at least. Maybe closer to a hundred. That was hard to do. In my head I kept referring to him as a sumo wrestler, so seeing him sporting a mawashi loincloth w
as no surprise.

  The coiffed master of ceremonies jabbered. I stayed in my corner, hopping, Riku in his. Fights were already breaking out in the throng. Guards ran past the cage and dove up the stands.

  The electronic horn sounded.

  He made a ceremonial bow and dropped into a traditional sumo stance.

  “Riku,” I called. “Don’t you think your superior reach and size puts you at an unfair advantage? Be a sport, put one hand behind your back.”

  He didn’t. The black band on his left hand blinked. How much medicine would have to be pumped into that Goliath to subdue him? I’d suggest a two-liter.

  I got to the center of the cage first. He came on slowly. A bulldozer picking up inertia.

  “Riku. Please tell me you understand English.”

  The crowd shouted so loud I barely heard myself.

  “Wait. That was uncouth. You can’t say things. Because of they cut your tongue out. Blink once if you understand English, how about that."

  For a giant, he moved well. His lunge caught me off guard—a heavy shoulder slamming into my midsection. I went over backwards as before an avalanche.

  “Round two,” I wheezed manfully. “Let’s survive until round two. Deal? I got an idea.”

  He was on top. Slowly covering up more of my body with his mass. Like being suffocated by a two-ton bean bag.

  The audience ramped up the delirium.

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee, Yan-kee.

  Get up, Meg screamed.

  Riku’s modus operandi was effective. Lesser men would be subsumed easily. I’d misjudged his weight; he weighed closer to four hundred than three hundred. He laid in a superman pose, me prone beneath. He channeled his weight, focusing on my chest, and rolling—soon he’d be covering my mouth.

  Nasty way to go.

  If Kix learned his father had died because a fat guy sat on him, he’d never have enough confidence to become a starting pitcher for the Nationals.

  I got my hands under his shoulders and essentially did a bench press. I pushed on him until my arms were straight, not easy because he squirmed and pressed at my elbows. But it gave me enough room. I got one leg from underneath his bulk and squirmed free.

  I stood, drank in oxygen freely, and decided not to almost suffocate to death in these fights anymore.

  Ninety seconds gone.

  The flaw in Riku’s plan became apparent. It took the man a while to regain his feet, a period of time I didn’t allow him. Anytime he got one knee up, I was there to knock him down. I rammed him, kicked him in the head, shoved, got behind and punched. No trick in my arsenal was too juvenile.

  “Stay down,” I told him. “It’s all gonna be great, Riku. We’re going to laugh about this one day. Round two, okay?”

  I badgered him for the remainder of the five minutes. Our bloodthirsty fans wanted violence and they grew irritated.

  At four and a half minutes, sudden bursts of noise got my attention—pistol shots. Two of them.

  Someone in the stands firing a weapon.

  At me.

  The cage wall in front of me sparked. The second shot whined angrily past my shoulder, like a bumblebee moving a thousand miles an hour. The bullet tore into the cage’s mat. The shot had originated from the cheap seats.

  I circled to my right. No easy and immobile target, I.

  This never happened to Tom Brady or Maximus.

  Ferrari ran across to the stadium, shouting into the microphone. He pointed high towards the Yakuza section. More gunfire. His chief of security charged. The spectators there contracted and expanded like a living thing. I hoped for mob justice.

  The electronic horn sounded. Round over. And then Riku decked me from behind. An illegal sucker punch.

  I staggered forward, dazed. Two enormously strong arms wrapped around me. Pinned my arms and lifted me off the ground.

  Oh crud. The squeeze of death. Like a blubbery vice clamping.

  The first thing to break would be my humerus. Both of them. Or maybe ribs? Hard to pinpoint the agony.

  Or maybe my head would pop off.

  The Executioner watched this with mild interest but he made no move to intervene. Not a stickler for the rules? The round was over. And someone had shot at me.

  “Riku,” I said. But no sound was created.

  I jerked my head backwards. My skull connected with his nose. Cartilage crunched. Again and again. He couldn’t evade the battering because his fat shoulders, holding up his arms to suspend me, created a valley in which his head was trapped. He rotated his face side to side but not enough.

  No one came to stop the fight.

  I kept hammering.

  No air. I grew weary of suffocation. Though I supposed it was the simplest way to terminate a life without tools.

  I got him again. His nasal bone broke. His sinuses and turbinates had to be filling with blood. Soon his face and gums would be pulped enough that he’d start losing teeth. The pressure on my arms had stopped accumulating.

  Even if my skull cracked, I’d keep punishing him. I had no choice. And I had no more than a few seconds anyway.

  The orchestra wailed, and the electric guitar screeched, somehow making it worse. How I hated them.

  I hit him again. Felt like his face caved inwards.

  He didn’t want to release but pain caused his strength to abate just enough. I twisted and dropped free. Crawled to my corner.

  Riku’s face was ruined. He knelt in the middle, hacking. Beneath him, a spray of red.

  “Mackenzie,” cried Meg. I heard her as if in a tunnel. She pressed a bottle of water through the small opening in the cage mesh. “Holy shit, Mackenzie, I thought you were dead.”

  “Give me time. I can still manage it.”

  I drank some. Squirted some on the back of my head. Tender and bloody.

  The Executioner stood in the cage, baring the axe. I hadn’t seen his entrance. Took him long enough. He seemed satisfied that Riku and I had come to an understanding that round one had concluded.

  Ferrari babbled.

  The crowd seethed and Riku splattered.

  Ernst was listening to Ferrari. He said, “Careful, American. The fence is turning on.”

  Meg stepped back.

  I felt the charge. It sort of ignited the air with a corporeal hum. Like listening to air molecules melting. The speakers blared fake crackling, a crowd pleasing indication that the electricity had activated.

  “It might kill you,” Ernst reminded me. “But if it doesn’t, Riku will.”

  The Executioner grabbed the cage door, stepped out, and pulled it after him.

  So the cage door wasn’t electrified. Interesting.

  I panted. “This is no longer fun.”

  “Was it ever?”

  “The amount of things which are illegal yet permissible in Naples is breathtaking.”

  The horn sounded.

  Round two.

  Riku hadn’t bothered to retreat to his corner. He stood in the middle, a nightmare with no nose.

  “Hope this works,” I told the cosmos.

  The cosmos intimated maybe I shouldn’t have blindly followed the cute restaurant entrepreneur down the stairs a week ago. Or before that, not threatened to kill Darren Robbins.

  He who lives by the sword.

  “Let’s end this, Riku,” I said.

  He came. I kept my feet going sideways, step over step, circumnavigated the humming wall. The hairs on my neck raised. He closed the distance, following me and inching nearer.

  I slipped.

  Or I pretended to slip.

  His eyes sharpened. Sensing opportunity. He charged. Heavy steps, intending to fall on me. But I hadn’t lost my balance, merely a ruse. I dove at his feet. He stumbled over me, his momentum out of control. Hard to stop four hundred pounds of blunder.

  He roared. Put up his hands. Plowed into the fence.

  There was an audible snap. His connection flared a brilliant white. The black wristband exploded off his wrist, corkscrewing over t
he cage’s wall. I felt the discharge in my bones.

  The audience gasped. Inhaled disbelief, exhaled approval.

  Riku’s body slumped away from the metal fence. An electrical burn was already raising on his hands and face.

  He moved not. It hadn’t been a graze with the fence—it had been a big time connection.

  The stadium shook.

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee, Yan-kee.

  That’s right. Say my name. It was growing on me.

  I sat crisscross at his feet. Close enough to the wall to tingle. Two steps from the cage’s gate.

  “American,” cried Ernst. “You must—”

  “Nope. I won’t.” I shook my head. Stayed seated. Head bowed. Tugged off my gloves.

  Ferrari waited. So did the Executioner. Watching…

  Men in the Yakuza corner shook their heads, shoulders slumped.

  Riku wouldn’t rise soon. And if he did, I’d push him into the fence again.

  Three heartbeats later, Ferrari’s voice erupted from a hundred speakers. Our spectators responded.

  I was declared the winner.

  I gulped. This part I’d been dreading.

  Meg looked as though she wanted to collapse. Ernst nodded with grim approval. Still I sat. As serene as Gandhi, I hoped.

  The Executioner ascended with heavy steps. He threw open the gate. His axe rested on his left shoulder, gripped tightly in his fist.

  Dear Lord. Let me live.

  He stepped into the cage. The Grim Reaper himself, come to finish the grisly job.

  “Not sure you deserve this, Riku,” I said.

  I slapped my left hand against the exposed flesh of the Executioner’s right ankle. With my other, I grabbed the metal mesh of the cage.

  Pow.

  A brief sensation, like snatching hold of a category five tornado. The Executioner and I both jolted. Immense pain.

  My black bracelet burst.

  My bones started to shake apart.

  The breakers in my mind tripped and the world reset…

  16

  When I came to, I was crying. Or I felt like I had been.

  I sat in a chair. Back in my room. My bed had been removed—more punishment from Duane. My arms were shackled and stretched tight to either side.