Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  The higher they climbed, the faster Veronica’s heart raced. All was coming to a head.

  The two sentries led them into a final unadorned hallway and to a door marked with, “Suite Numero Uno. Solo Personale Autorizzato.” He pushed it open, stepped inside, and closed it. A moment later, it opened and the man beckoned them in with a jerk of his head.

  They entered into the lounge of an opulent private suite high above the stadium floor. The lounge was furnished with divans and settees and short tables; a portion of the lounge’s floor was thick glass, looking down on the cage. Beyond the lounge, only reached by walking over the glass floor, was an open-aired seating for watching the match below. The farthest part of the suite, to the right of the entrance, was a bar and serving area—attendants were bringing out platters of food and the bartender was pouring a dark cocktail into an highball glass.

  Rossi was at the bar by himself, half-sitting on a stool. A corpulent and darkly pink man, every inch an Italian, dressed in white linens and moccasins. His short gray hair was pushed back and held with product. His eyes were partially pinched closed between his cheeks and heavy brow, and his neck spilled over the collar, hiding much of a gold chain.

  Mackenzie, Veronica thought, would crack a joke about him being one of the Sopranos.

  Next to Rossi stood a soldier Marcus recognized as a Gurkha—no mere hotel security guard, but Rossi’s private mercenary. He held a Beretta ARX crosswise across his abdomen and a scowl on his granite face. His head was shaved.

  Making a subtle motion with his thick arms and short fingers, Rossi beckoned them over. In Italian he told Veronica, “You disappeared.”

  A slow phlegmy voice.

  Veronica replied, “That night, over the bar, the meeting with your rich friends was boring. I am a girl who likes action.”

  “Did you find some?”

  “No. I was hoping you would come after me,” she said. She eased onto the bar stool next to him, somehow invading his personal space while looking like she belonged there. She crossed her legs and took a proprietary sip of his drink, all calculated moves signaling she belonged to him.

  Without looking at Marcus, he said, “Who’s this.”

  “My bodyguard. I’d like him to remain.”

  Rossi shrugged. “You think I can’t protect you here? Look at my sentries. They displease me? I feed them to tigers.”

  Marcus, acting his part, took up station next to the door with two other hotel security guards. This wasn’t going according to plan, he thought. Trapped in the suite with Rossi, a fucking Gurkha, and two hotel sentries. Not ideal.

  Through the glass floor he monitored the arena. The stadium was filling with both the wealthy and the violent. The master of ceremonies, Ferrari, identifiable because of his shock of white hair, was running everywhere. Soon his voice issued from a thousand speakers and the orchestra began to play, the strange combination of electric guitar and cello and violin.

  Rossi made a wince and a shrugging motion. “It’s a shame, this thing happening in the middle of the night. We’re all tired. Won’t be as good a show. Not even hungry.”

  “Are you worried about the division in the Camorra clans?” asked Veronica.

  “There’s always division. Part of life, part of the system, division. Good for business. The buildings in Vomero get damaged, we rebuild. You know who gets a piece of reconstruction?” He pointed at himself with his thumb. “More guns bought. Who profits? Me. War is an engine making me wealthy.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Some.” He shrugged again and drank his Negroni, a dark and swirly cocktail. “My helicopter, it’s on the roof, ready. After the fight, we’ll slaughter some of these kids. Enough to scare the leaders. Send them back home to their mamas. I’ll be gone. We’ll be gone. That’s how it is.”

  Veronica made no discernible changes to her face, yet somehow she looked smoky and inviting. “That’s how it is.”

  Rossi’s right hand snatched at her blouse. The wraparound design came halfway loose, revealing her red bra underneath. Veronica didn’t flinch.

  “Red,” he said. A heavy grunt caught in his throat. “I like red.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “I get bored later? I tell you to take it off? You do as you’re told,” he said.

  “Yes Rossi.”

  Standing by the door, one of the hotel’s security guards next to Marcus released a faint snort. Shook his head slightly and stared at the floor. Sensing disgust, Marcus whispered to him, “What happens she don’t wanna undress?”

  The guard whispered back, “My English? Bad. Rossi asshole. Rossi kills her.”

  “Damn.”

  “Kills you too. Feed the tigers.”

  Soon the arena was far over capacity, the energy like a wave ready to crash. Chants caromed off the walls and flags began burning. Ferrari worked them into a frenzy and introduced the champions. The Prince came first, his entourage shoving back the rabble. Rossi and Veronica went to the glass window to watch, while the sentries stayed put.

  In Italian, Rossi said, “The Prince. One of my finest soldiers.”

  “He is loyal to you?”

  “He loses? I kill his whole family. Smart people, they stay loyal.”

  “The American is strong, though.”

  “You root for the American?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “I am from Switzerland. I root for a good time.”

  “The only reason you’re alive, after running away from me, is that we’re going to have a good time. You please me? I’ll make you rich.”

  Veronica took his hand. “You are in good hands. We’ll have the best time of your life.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll make you the happiest man alive. So happy you’ll beg me to stop.”

  For the first time, Rossi smiled. “Begging you to stop.”

  “Yes.”

  “Girls from Switzerland look like you, I might send for some more.”

  Ferrari’s voice changed pitch and he introduced Mackenzie. The crowd ramped up the volume. Camorra soldiers began firing guns into the air, punching out the lights. More flags were set on fire and waved.

  “Look at them, shooting up my hotel.” Rossi spoke to one of the hotel security guards behind him. “Gun. Give me your gun.”

  The man obediently opened his crimson jacket with his left hand and retrieved a black pistol with his right. He placed it in Rossi’s meaty palm. Rossi waddled into the open-aired seating and his face tightened with concentration and he aimed from the hip. He squeezed. Paused and emitted an indignant snort.

  “Next time you take the safety off,” he said and did it himself. He held the pistol belly-height and jerked the trigger five times, shooting down into the crowd in what he considered the direction of the rabble breaking his lights. Veronica flinched each time.

  Marcus and the other guard at the door each shook their head slightly, marveling at the violent and entitled stupidity.

  “Who do you fire at?” asked Veronica.

  “The fuckers shooting up my hotel.” Rossi handed back the pistol and told him, “You, go find them. Any still alive, kill them. Quickly. No peasants get to shoot at my ceiling until I say it’s time.”

  “What if you missed?” asked Veronica.

  “I don’t miss. Trust me.”

  The man left, speaking into a radio. One guard down, thought Marcus. Now only the second hotel security guy and the Gurkha remained.

  Still not great odds. But they’d gotten better.

  Rossi indicated the bar. “Get a drink.”

  But Veronica only had eyes for Mackenzie, making his way through the throng. He looked healthy and energized, a king. He was taller than most, his shoulders heavier, his neck thicker. The people loved him, the security team feared him, that was obvious.

  Mackenzie’s cuffs were taken off and for a brief moment he paused. As if she could read his mind, she knew—he was debating breaking free. It was chaos down there and his h
andlers weren’t paying enough attention.

  “Run Mackenzie,” she whispered. Yet she knew something else—he wouldn’t. He wasn’t a man who backed down from a challenge. He wasn’t a man who ran away from trouble, but towards it. In the midst of his incarceration he would’ve found a way to remain autonomous and independent, and running now would admit he’d been helpless. She didn’t know him well but well enough to understand he’d rather die standing up to cruelty than die running from it.

  He leaped into the ring and her stomach twisted in a knot.

  There came a knock and the security guard cracked the suite’s door, nodded, and threw it wide.

  A man and a women entered.

  The man looked like a younger and less fat American version of Rossi, and the woman was stunning, thought Veronica.

  Duane and Emile Chambers. Marcus recognized them, Veronica didn’t, not immediately.

  The man stopped in the doorway and exclaimed in a raspy voice, “Marcus! The hell are you doing here? Got’damn.”

  Marcus shook the man’s hand, somewhat caught between his role of bodyguard and his true identity, which Duane knew. He grinned and said, “Here with Veronica. Don’t think you know her. We heard about the American, so we figured we needed a vacation.”

  Duane was more animated than Marcus’d ever seen him, hopped up on cocaine. “The American. Mackenzie, you mean. Listen, Marcus, I should have talked with you about that. About him, you understand. It’s my call, but…”

  Rossi, watching the interaction and understanding half the English, made a grunting noise. Veronica squeezed his hand and redirected him in Italian, “The fight is about to start, my dear.”

  “Those two,” said Rossi. “Know each other?”

  “They’ve worked together before, I think. My bodyguard is well known. I don’t know the second man.”

  “Duane Chambers, a King from the States. He brought the American, and he’s about to owe me three million euros,” Rossi informed her.

  Marcus was telling Duane, “Forget it, Chambers. All good. We came to watch August. Win or die, we having a good time.”

  “I’ll be honest, Marcus,” said Duane, taking him by the hand again and squeezing with genuine enthusiasm. “It’s damn good to see another American. These fucking wops? Everywhere. You picked a helluva night to join, though. This got’damn place is in the middle of an uprising.”

  Emile Chambers came to stand next to Veronica, her chin held high. She was an inch shorter and she made Veronica feel underdressed. Veronica hadn’t known she’d be hobnobbing with criminal royalty. Emile eyed her blouse, still open where Rossi had twitched it, and said, “You’re the topless woman from the pool.”

  Her accent was French.

  “That, and more,” said Veronica.

  “You’re a whore.”

  “I’m a good time.”

  “I don’t hate many people, but I hate you, my love. Effortless beauty and those legs. A rare combination.”

  “It only required ten million lunges.”

  “I didn’t know Marcus Morgan took up with whores.”

  “Just the best ones.”

  “Rossi invited you here?” asked Emile.

  “Of course. The man has taste.”

  “You’re quite lovely. Enjoy it while you can, darling. You’ve got a few more years, no? Before you’re too old and you’re forgotten,” said Emile with a tight smile.

  “Nonsense. In another decade I’ll simply buy a new face, like yours,” replied Veronica and the two women laughed, a tight and forced sound.

  Rossi went to the bar. He returned with twelve large bricks of euros, wrapped with cellophane.

  “Duane Chambers,” said Rossi, and he set the stacks onto a cushioned chair. Another trip to the bar and he came back with a white velvet pouch, cinched with string. He upended it onto the stacks of cash and six red-tipped diamonds spilled out. “Il mio lato del patto.”

  Duane paled. He nodded to himself and gulped. “Good, yeah. A bargain is a bargain.”

  Rossi smiled without humor, his eyes almost disappearing, and raised his hands, palms up—and?

  Duane went into the hallway and took a suitcase and a pouch from a man with tattoos up his neck. He returned and closed the door. Set the hard-shell briefcase onto the adjacent seat. Popped the two locks, opened it.

  Barely, Veronica managed to not gasp. She’d never seen so many hundreds. Green for days.

  Sweating, Duane carefully upended his own pouch. Six aurum. If he lost the bet, it’d set him back five years.

  “Three million and six,” he said.

  “Buona,” said Rossi. “Good.”

  “Good.” Duane wiped his forehead. “Motherfucker.”

  The speakers blasted, beginning the fight. Duane grabbed Marcus by the jacket sleeve and dragged him into the outdoor seating area. They stood against the railing.

  “Think August can win this thing?” Duane asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “Can’t believe I let that fat bastard talk me into this.”

  Rossi went to the bar and came back with another Negroni and watched the fight with pale eyes.

  The Gurkha stood at the entrance to the open-aired seating—even he watched the combatants.

  Veronica had a hard time breathing. To her, the fight looked like high-speed gymnastics. The Prince was nimbler, quicker, but he looked like a teenager next to a full grown man. A rapier versus a broadsword. If Mackenzie connected once with all his strength, it’d be over.

  The third round, Mackenzie. Survive until the third round.

  “They are beautiful,” said Emile. “Beautiful violent men.”

  “You enjoy the violence,” Veronica replied and it wasn’t a question.

  “Look at the American. Look at the shoulders, the chest, the blood on his back.”

  “I see.”

  “The other fighters, they are criminals. Cruel but undisciplined. They are hitmen and used to easy victories. But the American, he is like a god, no? He fights not to hurt, but to win. He has people he loves, to get home to, and it makes him…what is the word in English, impervious? Such a man. Like a thoroughbred horse. I cannot break his spirit,” said Emile.

  “You’ve tried?”

  Despite her best efforts, Veronica’s fingers began to tremble.

  “Of course.” Emile’s smile was proud and mean. “The man has been in my possession for a week, chained. A bridled stallion in my pasture.”

  Veronica cleared her throat. “Chained? I like mine to run free.”

  Rossi, admiring Veronica and her deep breaths, asked, “Voi due e il vostro stupido inglese. Che cos’è?"

  You two and your stupid English. What is it?

  Veronica answered, “Lei sta ammirando gli uomini.”

  She is ogling the men.

  The fat man grunted.

  His Gurkha chuckled.

  Veronica asked him in Italian, “Do you always watch the fights alone?”

  “Who is worth watching with? Who deserves the best seats? Only me.”

  The buzzer sounded and the two men separated, each moving a little slower and gasping for air. Maniacs attacked the fence and Ferrari sounded delirious. Mackenzie’s body shone with sweat and his corona of dark hair was mussed.

  “And now,” said Emile slowly. Her skin was flushed. “For electricity.”

  “You’re twisted, Mrs. Chambers.”

  Emile turned to face her, away from Duane. “Without danger, life is nothing, no? If my husband knew what I have done to the American, he would kill me.”

  “What…” Veronica stopped and took the drink out of Rossi’s hands and finished it. The man looked pleased and signaled for another. “What have you done to the American?”

  “His arms were stretched wide, in chains,” said Emile in a hushed tone, oblivious to Veronica’s wide eyes and trembling lip. “Unable to move. Unable to resist.”

  “And?”

  “And I molested him,” whispered Emile.

  “You raped
him?”

  “Not to my entire satisfaction. Yet. But I have it arranged, after this fight. A room specially prepared. With enough money you can buy anything, you know. Or maybe you don’t. He will be taken there and chained. If he wins, of course. Do you not envy me? That muscular monster under my control. I’m weak, thinking about it. And he will enjoy it too, I’m sure, in the end.”

  “You plan on subduing Mackenzie and having sex,” Ronnie heard herself say.

  “Quiet, my love,” said Emile with a wicked smile. “Our secret.”

  “Of course."

  “You think he’ll enjoy? I hope so. My lovers always do. But who cares about the whore, yes?” she asked with a smirk.

  Veronica nodded to herself, as if making a decision. Went to the bar and asked for a white wine. Picked up her clutch purse and walked back.

  Marcus was texting. He looked up from the phone, eyed her, eyed the Gurkha, eyed the purse, and shook his head slightly at her.

  Not yet.

  47

  A member of the security team, just a boy in peach fuzz, sat unmoving against the cinderblock wall under the threat of Carlos’s heavy shotgun.

  “You don’t move,” said Carlos.

  The boy shook his head.

  Manny carefully guided his penultimate rocket into the launching tube until the display beeped and turned green.

  “Ay dios mio,” he said. “Such a sexy sound.”

  In the surrounding neighborhoods, gunfire crackled, but no one bothered them in the dark behind the hotel.

  His phone buzzed. A text from Marcus.

  >> August doing well

  >> Almost time. Get ready to light this shit up.

  Manny grinned.

  48

  The Prince was injured. Even Veronica, a newcomer to blood sports, could see it. Mackenzie had him pinned to the mat with his knees, and the man writhed. Rossi hurled his cocktail glass from the balcony into the crowd below and shouted, “Prendi il cazzo!”

  “Finish him!” Duane sounded like a man dying of tuberculosis. He pounded on the balcony’s parapet. “Kill that wop!”

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee, chanted the crowd.