by Alan Lee
His normal rasp was hoarse and verging on hysteria.
“And Darren’s assassin?” I asked.
“Never mind that. Forget about it. That’s got nothing to do with me. Your best chance at staying alive? A truce. Find me after. If you’re alive. Which, probably, you won’t be.”
He turned and grabbed the sleeves of two guards and filtered into the crowd—fleeing the peasants and heading towards the comfortable and air conditioned quarters of the privileged.
The crowd jostled us. Ernst was distracted, and Meg too frightened to function well. Neither had their trigger out.
The moment I’d been waiting for had arrived. The moment to escape. It would almost be easy. Clunk their heads together. Take Ernst’s gun and bracelet trigger. Move into the throng.
And yet…
And yet.
There was still Darren’s assassin. Here. Watching and waiting. And if I ran, I’d be followed.
Furthermore, the Prince had told me he’d help.
Furthermore, the haberdasher had told me the blonde girl was working to release me.
Something was afoot. And if I ran now, I might be spoiling things.
Part of me wanted to go into the cage. Part of me fed off the crowd’s mania and thirst for blood. Some of my inner dams were breaking and I wanted to smash things. Wanted to charge through the crucible. The Prince couldn’t finish me in two rounds—I could survive until the third.
Probably.
The functional overhead spotlights found us and my world turned dazzling and brilliant. The mob made a path.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
The Prince waited. He looked a little like the Statue of David, but with gloved hands resting through the wire mesh. His torso was long and ridged with muscle. Broad shoulders, trim waist, ramrod back, knotty calves.
“Good luck, American,” called Ernst. “Maybe you will make the second round.”
Vill make zee second round.
“Stay alive, Mackenzie!” cried Meg the blonde girl. “You can do this!”
The Executioner stood by the door. Despite the mask, I could tell this wasn’t the same man. No sleeve of tattoos. And this guy was even taller.
I jumped up the stairs and into the cage. Nobody forced me. I did it volitionally. Temporary bout of insanity.
Mackenzie August, going off the rails.
Deep breaths. Slow the pulse. Think clearly.
I pulled on fighting gloves, which scraped against my electrical burns.
The audience got loud enough to create a localized quake in the Theater on the Mountain, shaking the cage’s floor.
The Prince prowled back and forth on his side. Men in his corner clapped and screamed.
In mine, so did Meg.
Ferrari kept jabbering.
The man with flashing Bluetooth ears was circling the cage. Sneering. He carried a pistol now. His men were not above thinning the herd.
More flags began to burn in the stands.
Half of the luxury boxes were empty. Many of the wealthy debutantes had fled, leaving the final fight to the rabble.
Thousands held their hands in the air. Thumbs thrust high.
For me.
I raised my fist. Thumps up. The audience roared. A sonic embodiment of madness. Hurt my ears.
The Prince met me in the middle of the ring.
“American, you should have fled by now.”
“These colors don’t run. And waking up this early’s got me truculent.”
“I will kill you, I am afraid."
We were having to shout and I still barely heard him. Ferrari had finished the introductions, I could tell. Was about to sound the horn.
I shrugged. “I’m also afraid of that.”
“But. You reach the third round? You’re a free man.”
“Why?” I said. Loudly. “Tell me that, I need to know.”
He shook his head. Backed away to his corner.
“Roma victa,” I said.
The electronic buzzer rang.
Five minutes.
Then five more minutes. I could do this.
21
He came on in a mixed martial arts fighting stance I recognized. Which meant he’d been trained. Ah nuts. He’d be versed in submission moves. The choke hold most likely. A broken arm or leg wouldn’t stop this fight.
I dropped into my forward stance. A defensive crouch. Fists up. He came straight at me. I circled to my right. He was right handed and it made his life harder.
In my periphery I noticed spectators rush the cage. They’d been held back by threat of gunfire but the oncoming crush was too much. Humanity flowed to the base of our platform.
The Prince peppered me with jabs. Easy blocks. I held my palms up, catching them.
He snapped exploratory kicks. I twisted to let them slap harmlessly against the side and back of my thighs.
“You won’t get a choke hold,” I called.
He grinned. Only a madman would grin during this fight.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not.”
He moved in. Impressive combo. Right left right, but I caught them on my hands and shoulders, and then he was behind me. So quick, and I’d been focused on parrying. I think he planted a foot on the mesh to spring off, got higher on my back.
He went for a grappling move called a rear naked choke hold. Feet around my waist, one arm around my neck, locked in place. It would mean death but I didn’t let him. I bunched my shoulders. Caught his right wrist in my right fist, and I pinned his left arm.
“Ahhh,” he breathed in my ear. “You are trained, no?”
“Sexy, yes?” I said.
I tossed us both backwards. Landed hard. I had thirty or forty pounds on him and he lost his air.
The onlookers released a throaty roar.
I squirmed enough to get my shoulders and neck onto the mat, which meant safety. Like a good grappler, he tried to get superior position above, but I got my knees up and shoved him away.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
It had been a furious thirty seconds. Might’ve looked a mess to untrained eyes. But to me and the Prince, much had been communicated. Each was facing a skilled combatant. Each had done everything correctly.
He bounced in his corner, reclaiming oxygen.
We met in the middle again. He was quicker and I adjusted, playing defense. He jabbed, a pop from his left hand. I caught and deflected it with my left, a small motion. Another jab, but it was exploratory. The Prince was testing my reflexes—was I a skilled boxer? More jabs. I parried or let them fall ineffectually.
He telegraphed his big combination—squared up so I saw it coming. A jab, uppercut, left hook combo, tight and furious. Lot of power coming through technique. The uppercut missed, the hook caught me a glancing blow.
My counterattack would’ve killed a lesser man. I move well for a bull, and I drove a right over his shoulder. Caught his jaw and he fell back, my left nearly taking his nose off. He scrambled away, his bell rung. I gave no quarter, attacking like Tyson used to do in his heyday. Thumped his body, hammered his head, which he managed to mostly block, but he would sink like wet sand soon.
The crowd seethed and steamed.
My mistake was I forgot we weren’t boxing. I fell into old routines, going for a knockout. The Prince kneed me in the groin, illegal in every other fight I’d ever had. But not at the Gabbia Cremisi.
Holy smokes.
I’d suffered gunshots that hurt less. A cold hollow feeling radiating between my legs, then a wave of hot pain.
I backed off, trying to remain upright. Knock-kneed and hunched wasn’t a good look. The crowd roared with laughter and fury.
Neither of us was standing well. Wobbly for different reasons. He shook his head and winced. I got my hands on my knees and tried not to vomit.
The cello and electric guitar wailed and Ferrari called, "Due minuti rimanenti!”
He recovered first, coming my way and shaking out his arms. I forced myself to stand, resulting in a
masculine whimper.
Wary of my fists, he tried to get me in a clench. He wanted to outmaneuver me, use his experience on the mat, but I’d spent years cage fighting in Los Angeles and knew enough to stay alive.
Unlike my previous opponents, an insane dervish and an obese juggernaut, the Prince didn’t make foolish mistakes. So staying alive was all I did, weathering his storm.
When the alarm sounded, he was clinging to me in a back mount. Boos and cries rained down. More flares burst to life.
Ferrari switched on his wireless and chattered, “Il primo round è completo! Né il combattente ha subito molti danni…”
Gunfire in the audience. Screams. Flashing Bluetooth man bolted that direction.
I panted. “Round over. Leggo and I won’t bust your nose.”
“Very well, American. You survived.” He still hadn’t released, talking directly into my ear canal. “But now comes the electricity, no?”
“A shocking development.”
“A joke? At this time?”
“When better.”
He released and went to his corner.
Meg snaked an arm through and handed me a bottle of water.
“Keep it up, Mackenzie! You’re doing great! Anything injured?”
“Everything’s injured,” I said.
I drank and pushed the bottle back through.
Be nice to sit down. Be nice not to worry about electricity. Get a few more hours of sleep. At home. In America. With my wife.
I had a wife.
Ferrari said dramatically, “E adesso! Quello che hai aspettato. L’elettricità!”
“Back up, Herr August,” said Ernst. “The power is turning on.”
Zee power!
Simultaneously several men surrounding the cage screamed and jolted backwards. They’d been touching the metal.
Artificial crackling noises issued over the speakers.
“Sports fanatics in Italy are lunatics,” I said.
“It’s more than that,” said Meg. “They think tonight is the start of a revolution.”
“Oh good. We’ll be martyrs. That’s something at least.”
“You’re their rallying cry, Mackenzie. They’re here for you. They might carry you out on their shoulders.”
The loud buzzer sounded.
Round two.
Goal—stay away from the power.
The Prince came on. Low.
I saw his move—I knew it before he began. He was ready to end this. He was going to shoot for my feet. Kind of a power dive at my knees, a wrestling move. Drive me backwards. He expected to catch me by surprise.
He shuffled. Side stepped. Grinned.
“Truce?” I said.
“A truce once you are dead, American.”
And he shot at my ankles.
I was prepared. I dropped to my knees. My right knee fell onto his left shoulder. Our combined weights and force met at that juncture, a jarring collision. Instead of catching me by surprise and tossing me off balance, his momentum arrested, like a football player trying to tackle a wall, and his shoulder broke.
I felt it give. A dislocation or a tear. Or something. I didn’t know much about shoulder joints.
He screamed into the mat. Something withering and accusatory.
I asked, “How do you say ‘I bet that hurt’ in Italian?”
He tried to shift from under my weight, maybe two hundred and thirty pounds on a good day, but my knees had him pinned hard. Each twist made him wince.
“Why will you help me in round three?” I asked.
“Va' a farti fottere!”
“Was that deeply vulgar?”
“Yes,” he said. Panting. Eyes shut.
The audience was rowdy enough that the noise offered us privacy.
I asked again, “Why will you help in round three?”
“I promised to free you.”
“Then why are you trying to kill me in round two?”
“I promised to kill you,” he said.
“You’re a conflicted guy, Prince. I’m unsure how to proceed.”
He winced. Ground his teeth and pounded his right hand on the mat.
He said, “You win, American. I know I cannot beat you with one arm. I played the loser’s game too long, no? You must kill me.”
“Why? This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“If you don’t, they will know. They will suspect treason and kill us both,” he said.
“In that case…” I said. I hammered him in the head a few times with both fists. The punches were theatrical, not as vicious as they looked. The crowd enjoyed them. “Why are these Camorra clans here?”
“The whispers. You are rumored to kill Rossi tonight. That is why you were brought, they think.”
“I’m flattered. And I might. Who started that whooper?”
“We don’t have time for this, foolish American! Kill me or get up.”
“Not gonna kill you but we need to make this look good. Hit me as best you can.”
He did. Better than I anticipated. I was bent over to hear him and his good fist snaked all the way up to my throat and popped me good.
A disaster.
I fell back. My hand shot out to stop my fall. Meg screamed. My black wristband connected with the mesh cage.
The world went white and hot. Felt like I’d been bit on the hand by a lion. Without a direct connection, the effect was mitigated but hurt like hell.
The black band exploded. Smoked and corkscrewed along the cage wall to the far side. It landed in a sizzling pile of twisted metal.
I regained a shaky defensive stance. Took me a second to remember where I was. The mat tipped and tilted beneath my feet. My arm hurt and I shook it but that increased the pain. The muscles tingled and quivered.
I heard a buzzing somewhere.
Needed water. So thirsty.
The glove on my right hand was on fire. That struck me as significant. But I stared stupidly at the flame a full three seconds before realization dawned and I tugged it off.
Meg and Ernst made noise but they were miles away.
The Prince hit me. A hard right, in the teeth. I staggered and stayed standing.
“Fucking American,” he said. “Why can’t you die.”
My lower lip began to bleed. Blisters were raising on my wrist.
His left shoulder joint pushed at the skin in abnormal spots, and he held the arm to his abdomen. He came again but only had his right arm to battle with. I caught the punch with my forearm, running on instinct. He tried to knee me in the groin but I twisted.
Around we went. He wasn’t dazed but operated in extreme pain. I wasn’t injured but my judgment was returning slowly. I was engorged with adrenaline and cortisone but had no ability to direct it. We were a mess.
An eternity passed and the buzzer sounded. End of round two.
The speakers issued an artificial sound of the walls powering down.
Men in the crowd began leaping onto the fence. The guards hauled them off or stunned them with electroshock weapons.
Ferrari’s voice thundered from everywhere like Mars, the god of war.
I smiled. That was a solid simile. Needed to relay it to Timothy August; he’d enjoy it.
Meg and Ernst waved me over.
“Hey guys,” I said. “I don’t recommend the electricity.”
Meg thrust water at me. I drank some and spilled some down my chest.
Ernst said, “The Italian, his shoulder is broken. Why did you not finish him?”
“I only kill my captors.” I handed the water back. “Speaking of, it’s time for you two to go.”
“Go?”
I held up my wrist. There was no black band.
“Your power is gone. Now so should you be. Before it’s too late.”
“Why? What’s going to happen?”
“The temple pillars will fall.”
I hoped. Grandiose words with only a prayer behind them.
I turned my back on Me
g and Ernst. Raised my fist to the audience. Thumbs up. Pumped my arm. The crowd reacted like I was an orchestral conductor.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee!
Seams I’d never noticed in the center of the mat opened. Like a trap door. A new section of floor rose in its place, bringing weapons for our use.
There were two hammers and two knives.
The hammers were heavy medieval-looking things. The head was covered with small spikes. One good whack would kill a man.
The knives were Italian cinquedeas. Almost a short sword, broad at the base.
The Prince stood close enough to the weapons that his toes touched them. Arm cradled. He took deep breaths.
“I admit it,” he said. I barely heard him over the din. “You are worthy.”
“Worthy of freedom?”
“Freedom, yes. And worthy of her.”
“Her who?”
He used his foot to slide a heavy hammer my way. Keeping my eyes on him, I crouched and rested my forearms on my knees, the hammer between my feet.
He bent to retrieve a hammer and sword. Moved like an old man. Raised up, grimacing. The long knife he shoved under his belt. The hammer he held in his right fist.
“There is another rumor,” he said. “There’s an assassin. Sent by your countrymen.”
“I heard. We’re a nation divided.”
“I cannot help you with that, American.”
“I know.”
Ferrari’s chatter intensified.
Ernst the German bounty hunter called, “The fence, Herr August. It turns on again.”
The Prince nodded to me. Closed his eyes.
“Good luck, American. Who knows. Maybe we meet again one day,” he said.
The fence buzzed.
The horn sounded through the speakers, like an alarm.
My mouth bled.
The crowd raged.
And that was when the power in the Teatro di Montagna went out.
Part II
22
“This is torture.” Veronica Summers sat on a kitchen stool at the home of Timothy, Mackenzie, and Kix August and Manny Martinez. Her legs were crossed and she drummed her manicured nails on the counter. She glanced at her watch again. She got up, stretched her arms over her head, and said, “I despise waiting. This is absolute torture. Where is he?”