Leave Him in Pieces

by August Red

  He comes closer again and her eyes shut on instinct. The wild fire of hate in his stare is unbearable against her will. He grabs her roughly by the chin, digging his nails into the flesh. “If you think you know that man in any way—you don't. If he told you he wanted you—fine. But if Judas made it out to be anything more than to get into your fucking tight pussy—he lied." He finally lets go of her and his eyes trail up her body. She shivers in her skin. “Must've been easy,” he sneers, licking his lips. "I mean, I saw it. When I first met you. Could see you were begging for me to fuck you hard with my big old cock."

  “Fuck you,” she mutters, her jaw hardening. She really dislikes that word. But she dislikes the man standing before her even more.

  “Oooh, girl's got mouth.” Mr. Kulich bends down, leaning his hands on his knees. “I like… Wonder how good it is for sucking my big cock.” His voice lingers in her ears.

  Belle doesn’t like the way he’s talking to her, or looking at her, doesn't like the intention she sees burning in his features, like he’s detaching his soul for the moment, separating himself from whatever humanity he has left inside him.

  She twists, giving him only a small glimpse of her profile. "Judas is not going to like this. You know that much about him."

  “He'll get over it. He always does. And in the end he always sees my side and does what I need. For Christ’s sakes, I’m the great man who fucking saved him from his sick-fuck of a dad,” he laughs, goading her. “Don't think this is about you, Princess."

  “You think he's just going to kill me and my family? Drop our bodies in some river?!” she cries out, but she hears the desperate groove in every crack of her voice.

  “I'll let you in on a little secret."

  She feels his breath on her throat and her body reacts by shifting away. He grabs a chunk of her hair—it hurts so much, she feels a wave of nausea—forcing her to face him, look him in the eye, and take in all the garbage he is spewing.

  “This isn't about you. Judas is a business man. First and foremost. He wanted something from this—but it's not you. It was never you. Maybe advancement, maybe his own territory, who fucking knows. But if you think this whole fucking job is about saving you and your worthless piece-of-shit family, I got news for you, sweetheart—you're wrong.” Yanking her hair again, he jerks her closer. She can't help the yelp that escapes her mouth from the pain. “Dead wrong."

  He lets go, wipes his hand on his suit pants as though she’s contaminated him. He looks down at her, his gaze both pitying and pompous.

  “You’ll see just what Judas is capable of, real soon, Green Eyes… I'll give you a tip though. If you're a betting girl, the odds are stacked way against you. Don't do it.” He shakes his head, glancing at his watch before he looks back at her. “Don't put your trust in Judas. You'll be thoroughly disappointed.”

  Chapter Ten

  THEY CALL HIM DIABLO.

  The Devil.

  For a reason.

  Holding his left elbow tight against the ribs that Diablo’s just splintered with a set of powerful blows, Judas struggles not to wince as his feet shuffle back to the edge of the arena, and out of the blinding light of the torch-topped stone columns that ring the circular center. Wearing dark loose cotton trousers, Judas’ bare feet are cold against the stone floor, his naked torso cool, a stark contrast to the feel of fire burning in his ribs. But he’s not worried, he’s suffered worse. The fight has only just begun for Judas.

  Diablo’s bottom lip is split open, and an angry cut marks his forehead. Judas can happily take the blame.

  This is Judas’ territory, his area of expertise. He does this all the time. Inside the arena there is nothing but him and the pain he inflicts on those who dare enter. But tonight is different. He’s no longer fighting for the glory.

  He’s fighting for her.

  Belle.

  His eyes dart behind his opponent. The sight is enough to make his stomach churn and make his blood boil. That bastard Vladimir has locked her in a dog cage. In her underwear. By his feet. Emphasizing to everyone that she’s on display. A trophy. Nothing more. A symbol of Vladimir’s power.

  Belle’s eyes are wide and frightened to death, her breathing heavy and whimpering as her tears flow. She stares at Judas, terrified. It almost breaks him apart. He wants to put his hands on her face and brush his thumbs along her cheekbones. Tell her everything’s gonna be okay. That no man will hurt her while he’s still breathing. He’d die for her.

  But not today.

  Belle rattles the bars of her metal dog cage. A new visual blazes in Judas’ head when Vladimir kicks her cage, his eyes unnatural and unnerving. Her scream bombards Judas from all angles, echoing through the underground room. That’s all it takes for adrenaline to kick in. The crippling pain in his ribs vanishes as he stares at Diablo through new eyes.

  The Devil is the only thing stopping him from getting to Belle.

  The faces of the men and the half-naked women by their side, watching him, are irrelevant. Judas lets them fade away, focusing on nothing but the space inside the columns. Nothing exists but him and his opponent, and the space in between.

  He has to block Belle out. It’s the only way he can save her.

  Diablo steps back into the light that emanates down from the dome high above, bathing the center platform. His tattooed bald head shines. The Devil has no color in his eyes. They’re pure black. Like staring into a dark hole. Steroid enhanced pecs twitch in anticipation, ugly veins protrude from his neck, his face a hideous mess of blood and ink.

  But Diablo won’t be standing for much longer.

  Diablo grips his fists in front of his chest and flexes, massive muscles bulge as he roars like a wild beast. Judas struts into the middle of the arena, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline course through his stomach, fire through his skin. He breathes it into his muscles, welcoming it like a favorite drug.

  Diablo stands head and shoulders taller than Judas, towering with muscles and malice. He’s big too. Means he’s slow. His face is pale, an ugly mash of features, his nose looking as if it’s been broken more than a few times. He gives a relatively stupid-looking smile that Judas supposes is meant to be intimidating, considering the missing teeth. But Judas isn’t intimidated. Diablo is massive, but it all boils down to the same thing. Seek out the weakness, exploit it, and win. He’s noted a slight limp, the way Diablo favors his right knee, just a touch. And the slow, deliberate movements, and the way his fat fingers struggle to make a tight fist.

  The insipid disrespect on Diablo’s face is replaced with bloodlust then. A primeval urge to kill. He leans toward Judas and roars again, his face flexing. Judas stays calm, prepared. These games are his strength. The giant is all anger and rage. Diablo exudes a desperation to destroy as quickly as possible. Judas can use that. He’s watched Diablo fight before. Kill. He knows how dirty and desperate the Devil plays.

  He looks into Diablo’s snarling features, pins the man’s eyes with his own emotionless ones. They shift a few paces from each other. Diablo’s face twists in fury, his hands curl into claws, the muscles of his forearms and chest bulge. He opens his mouth wide, growling again. Judas breathes deeply. This is combat, the essence of his life. He’ll fight. He’ll win. It always goes down the same way.

  Diablo barrels forward, charging Judas like a bull. Judas calls it, sidesteps, lifting his knee to deliver a heavy turning kick to Diablo’s thigh as the giant passes. It’s the kind of kick that usually causes a significant amount of damage when landed well. Judas lands it well, but feels a shock arc up his shin. Diablo’s leg is like stone. The big man spins, grinning.

  But Judas has learned something about his opponent, and Judas dances back, ignoring the pain, breathing it away. Watching Diablo, he reads the man’s intent. Diablo charges again, swinging one colossal arm to collect Judas. Judas drops, plants one hand firmly against the stone floor, and sweeps his leg around at ground level. He connects with the back of Diablo’s ankle and swipes the man’s
feet out from under him. With a grunt, Diablo falls, hits the ground, but rolls and regains his stance. Judas barely shifts his weight in time as Diablo swings again, huge knuckles cracking into the side of Judas’ head, just above his left eye.

  Pain lances white-hot through Judas’ skull as he ducks and turns. Judas makes a space between them, determined not to press his palm to the throbbing hurt. A warm trickle passes under his left ear and he knows Diablo’s iron-hard knuckles have split his skin just behind his eyebrow.

  “Ready to die, Bane?” Diablo grins.

  Judas feints forward, reading Diablo’s timing. As the giant moves, Judas ducks through, driving the heel of his hand up, letting the power from his hips flood down his arm. Diablo grabs air and Judas’s palm crunches into his opponent’s nose. Dark-red gouts, spray Judas.

  Judas leaps to one side, twisting away as Diablo roars in pain and frustration, his own strike missing. Diablo wipes blood and snot from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You breathing okay?” Judas smirks. “Need a rest, old man?”

  Diablo’s eyes go wide, incredulous, as he flicks the blood away. Judas circles, waiting; he’ll let Diablo make the next move. Let the man’s frustration and anger make him clumsy. But then Diablo pulls something out from the back of his knee-length shorts, and grins. Judas sees something shift in his hands.

  A serrated hunting-knife.

  Judas doesn’t care. He doesn’t need a weapon. He’s more lethal than Diablo with his bare hands. And Diablo’s holding it wrong, Judas notes with a hint of amusement. He’s grasping it like he’s intending to stab with it, but that isn’t prudent. If he wants Judas dead, he needs to hold it downward; he needs to use it to cut through flesh and bone.

  In a fraction of a second, Diablo is flying at Judas. Judas jumps to the side, twisting in the air to avoid his swiping hand. But the knife rakes a deep line across Judas’ abdomen. Hot, searing pain folds through him, forcing him to clamp his elbow and upper arm against his body as he hisses with agony.

  Diablo changes direction, moving quicker than Judas can read. A desperate duck and roll saves Judas, meeting Diablo head-on, but another cut rips across Judas’ back. For a second, his vision swims.

  Gathering all his energy, Judas spins, whipping one foot up and out in a blur. He lets all his strength flow through his body, let it harden his leg like steel. Diablo runs directly onto Judas’s spinning kick, Judas’s heel connecting with the side of Diablo’s head with a sickening crack. Diablo staggers sideways.

  Judas drives off from his grounded leg, sticking with Diablo as if he’s glued there. He draws his power up through his arms and hammers a flurry of punches into Diablo’s face. But the giant won’t fall that easily and he whips his elbow across, and knocks Judas’ head to one side. The elbow catches Judas across the cheekbone; a numb whine of injury sings through his mind, sends Judas stumbling to the side.

  Judas swiftly shifts his weight and circles toward the raging devil again, just out of range of his hands. Tate said Diablo was heavy-handed. Despite his own strength, Judas knows taking his opponent down with punches and kicks to the torso or hips, isn’t going to win him the fight. He’ll have to target the knees or the face. The knees put him in range of the hands, unless Judas gets close. Real fucking close. And the face is out of his range unless Judas lands a high kick, but it’s a risky, difficult move that will leave him open. Which means real fucking close is his best option.

  He slips forward quickly to test Diablo's speed. The big man is a little faster than Judas anticipates, Diablo’s fist almost colliding with Judas's head before he slides back. Tricky. But he notes the frustration in the other fighter’s face. He can use this to his advantage. Judas dances in and out of his range for a full minute, frustrating not only Diablo, but the watchers, and no doubt Vladimir as well.

  And then Judas dodges forward and lands four swift punches to Diablo's midsection. As suspected, the man barely flinches and the muscles are unyielding. Unfortunately, the move proves to be a mistake, and before Judas can duck out, Diablo grabs a fistful of his hair and throws him to the ground.

  Judas tastes copper as his head impacts with the hard stone, but his body automatically uses the momentum of his fall to roll back into a standing position, blocking a thundering punch with his forearm. But the force of it pushes Judas backward against the stone column behind him. His forearm stings and he mutters a curse under his breath. He draws his other arm across his face. His lips and nose are busted, and blood streaks across his arm.

  When they face each other again, Judas and Diablo immediately move toward each other. Judas prepares himself for the hit, but the punch that drives him to the ground carries enough force to knock him out. Would've knocked him out if he had tensed instead of relaxed. He crumples on the platform, blood resuming its gush from his face, and then Diablo makes his fatal mistake. He moves in close, overconfident—thinking Judas is immobilized, surrendering—to deliver a knockout punch.

  But Judas is prepared.

  As soon as Diablo’s knees are in range, Judas twists up on his side, one arm planted firmly under him, chambering his right leg, before throwing his full weight off the ground and into a kick aimed straight at the right knee. He hears the snap as Diablo’s knee buckles, the pain forcing him to drop his knife.

  Diablo falls to one knee, hands waving drunkenly. Judas sucks breath in as deep as he can, staying conscious by force of will alone. Judas’ vision crosses as he tries to focus on his opponent. He has to move first—fast. Has to finish this.

  Judas drives himself forward with one pumping leg, gathering every last bit of strength he has, and drives his other knee up and out. As Diablo shifts his feet, trying to stand, Judas slams his knee up under the man’s chin. Diablo’s head flips up, his teeth snapping shut like a bear trap, and he keels over backward. Judas goes to him, blackness circling in at the edges of his mind.

  As Diablo collapses onto his back, Judas lands over him, collapsing his own knees at the same time he curls his arm in front of himself, his elbow facing downward, and collides cruelly with Diablo's thick skull. Judas may not be as strong as Diablo, but he’s damn strong. Strong enough that a well-placed elbow-to-the-skull will knock any man out. Even a hulking bastard like Diablo. Judas watches the eyes roll back in Diablo’s skull and he knows he’s won the fight.

  Drawing his elbow back, fist clenched, his knuckles like iron bolts, he smashes his hand through Diablo’s head. He hears Diablo’s bones crack as his head snaps to the side with the venomous blows Judas delivers in quick succession. The urge to kill surges inside Judas like a storm. His body, mind, and soul, calling out for murder.

  Judas drives his fist down again and again. His knuckles pound into Diablo’s face and clear through, crushing the giant’s head to mince.

  Game time is over. One more punch and Diablo will meet his maker. Victory and glory will be Judas’. The crowd is fanatical at his display and his eyes sweep over them dispassionately, feeling no pride, no remorse, none of the pain of his beaten-down body, and none of the fanfare or excitement of the swarming mass of irreverent bastards outside the arena.

  He only seeks out one thing. One pair of eyes. One voice that screams to him.

  Belle’s.

  “No!” Belle’s voice lashes into the room like a whip crack, clear over the roaring crowd and the surging rage through Judas’s head. “Judas! No! Don’t kill him!”

  “Kill him!” Vladimir’s cold voice orders. “Do as I say, boy!” Vladimir wants to see Diablo’s skull crush in Judas’ hands; he wants Belle to see the real Judas. The monster Vladimir and his own father had made him into. Vladimir wants death. Always wants death.

  But it’s like Judas’ heart stops beating. Everything around him seems to turn to dust and nothing else matters. Not the fight, not Vladimir, not even his life. Just her.

  Everything’s changing because of her.

  Judas shakes his head slowly, his breathing heavy. Diablo’s just another man. An
other body. Death is just a part of life. This is just a means-to-an-end. And this is who he is. He’s killed all his life. These fights were to the flesh and bone. Fight to the death. This place, his life, it all reeks of death. So why is he hesitating?

  Judas has always felt dead inside. It’s how he kills with no remorse. But the fight feels different tonight. He feels more... alive.

  His thoughts backpedal desperately in his head as he fights to remember how he ended up here. How he came to the decision that this is the only way to live. He has to kill Diablo, right? He came here on a mission to save Belle. To win the fight and then make the exchange, so he has to kill him. It’s the only way to complete his plan. But then why does he suddenly feel guilty?

  His eyes dart to Belle, her eyes all worry and doubt, warning him, ‘Don't kill him. Please don’t kill him.’

  ‘You’re worth so much more...’

  The sickening crunch of Diablo’s skull cracking underneath his fist had seemed alien to Judas despite its familiarity. It’s just never been like this before. It’s never... it’s never felt like this before. And in that moment, Judas realizes with horrifying clarity—there is no reason for this. Senseless killing for money and entertainment. It’s all wrong.

  He... he can’t do it. He can’t kill.

  Judas stares down in a slow, sick shock at the man waiting for Death to claim him. He watches as Diablo's chest somehow still draws laborious breaths, and in that shaky moment, Judas sees fit to do something he's never truly understood before.

  He prays.

  But it isn’t so much a prayer as it is begging. Truly remorseful, wretched, demoralizing, fucking begging, to some superior cosmic force to take away the decision over Diablo's life or death. He begs the decision to be taken out of his bloodstained hands.