by Paul Tassi
“Burton Drescher. One of the most powerful figures in the Aryan Brotherhood. Ran the entire federal pen in Terre Haute, Indiana. Rumored to have dropped more bodies inside than out, but only the latter were ever proven. Until recently.”
Mark slowly started to recognize the man.
“He’s one of Crayton’s.”
“Bingo,” Gideon said, swiping the picture away and bringing up a video. It was footage from Prison Wars, and showed Drescher stomping a black inmate into pulp on the cement floor.
“Crayton had him transferred to one of his private shit show jails, and by the time they shut it down he’d racked up five bodies on camera.”
“But he’s out,” Mark said, remembering vaguely the news report he’d seen earlier in the month.
“Crayton broadsided a judge with bogus corruption charges, and his lawyers tap danced their way into getting him released.”
Gideon swiped again, and a gallery of surveillance photos of Drescher appeared, some satellite, some ground level. He was in Chicago. Mark was sharp enough to catch on.
“Wait, are you telling me that Drescher is enrolled in Crucible qualifiers?”
Gideon nodded.
“And not just him. Crayton got five out, including that nutjob serial killer and that big ugly Russian hitter. I knew the guys who took him down a decade ago, and as you can bet, they’re mighty pissed.”
“Don’t tell me all of them are in qualifiers.”
He already knew the answer.
“Five of the sixteen cities, yep. Including our precious little patch of land here. Drescher is your problem. I know you’ve been blowing through these other chumps like wildfire, but he might be an issue.”
“I’ll need a sheet on him,” Mark said, rewinding the Prison Wars footage with a gesture.
“Already done. You can look it over, but the highlights include a stint with Special Forces before he heard Hitler’s call and went KKK full-time. Got locked up downstate for burning a Pakistani family alive in their car. His lawyer’s defense was that it was a malfunction with the gas tank, and he was at the scene because he was racing to help them. And most certainly was not pointing and laughing as they cooked.”
The screen now showed the charred remains of an SUV and a few dark skeletal shapes inside of it. Gideon shook his head and closed the file.
“Just greenlight him,” Mark said, thoroughly disgusted. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Can’t,” Gideon sighed, clearly wishing it wasn’t the case. “He’s high profile after his stint on TV, and him taking a bullet would set off an alarm. Even staging an accident would spook Crayton and make him look hard at whoever wins Chicago. That’s why you’ve just got to kick his ass the old-fashioned way.”
“Fine. Not a problem,” Mark said, actually looking forward to the opportunity. “Why let them out? Why have them re-enlist?”
“I’m not a TV exec,” Gideon said, “but audience appeal, name recognition, all that shit maybe. Or he just wants his own ringers so he can shape the finals however suits him. You know damn well every reality show in history has been halfway scripted, if not all the way.”
“Well, at least I can throw one wrench in his plans,” Mark said.
Gideon scoffed. “Soon enough you’ll get to throw the whole damn toolbox. Just wait.”
MARK STOPPED BY THE Blind Watchman for a quick beer or three, and spent an hour filling in an astonished Rayne that he’d actually signed up for the Crucible. She seemed more excited than concerned, which worried Mark a bit, but he would take all the support he could get, even if she had no idea why he was really doing it. He promised he’d buy her a less shitty bar to run if he won.
When he got home, he opened his door and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the back of Brooke’s head peaking up over his couch. After years of coming home to no one, it was always jarring when she let herself in for one of her little pop-ins. He’d liked her better when she was just his doe-eyed neighbor.
“Good, you’re back,” she said, turning around. “A girl can only spend so long watching TV these days without wanting to blow her brains out.”
“Long day,” he said, tossing his bag into the hall. His place was slowly starting to fall back into its usual state of mess, despite Brooke attempting to tidy up whenever she stopped by. For her own sanity, she said.
“You hear the news? This thing is starting to heat up.”
“What are you talking about?” Mark asked.
“Chase Cassidy just entered the LA Crucible qualifiers.”
The actor? Mark was confused. “Well hell, this is going to be easier than I thought.”
“I don’t know, you see that scene he did in Bloodrace? He took out forty-five guys by himself!”
“That was all choreographed! No one actually got hurt,” Mark said as he slumped down on the couch.
“True, but I heard he does all his own stunts,” Brooke said. “I watched a special on him where it said he trains for eight hours a day when he isn’t filming, and he has his own private dojo at his pad in Malibu. He’s flown in trainers from all over the world to teach him every kind of martial arts there is. His fansites all say he can punch through brick walls.”
Mark scoffed.
“That sounds like another one of his movies.”
Brooke shrugged.
“His whole life is a movie. In any case, the Crucible just got its first celebrity endorsement. I have a feeling this is going to end up bigger than we can imagine.”
8
THE NEXT DAY, CARLO had invited Mark to his house for dinner, and Mark couldn’t think of a plausible reason to say no. Messages from Gideon and Brooke flashed in his alerts, but he was starving and ignored them. He supposed he could go for some Mexican food.
“I’m from Puerto Rico, you asshole,” Carlo said after Mark said that out loud. “Just smile and say you like Mom’s cooking. That’s all it takes to be in with my family.”
Despite being only a ten-minute jog from their shared gym, Carlo’s house was in a rough part of town. Lawns were left untended and full of trash, and there wasn’t a car on the street less than ten years old.
Carlo’s place was in better shape than most, and at least looked like it had been painted within the past decade. But if what Carlo said was true, they were on the verge of eviction. Inside, there were already a lot of taped-up boxes, preparing for the coming storm.
Carlo was greeted by his mother and aunt. Mark was introduced around.
“Nice to meet you, Mark, I’m Maria Rivera,” Carlo’s mother said in heavily accented English. She was short with Carlo’s brown eyes and a warm smile. “This is my sister, Isidra, and her daughters Chella and Nicole.” Two girls about ten and twelve giggled and avoided eye contact while whispering in Spanish. Mark understood “he’s so handsome!” well enough, but was content to smile and nod, pretending not to know what they were saying.
“I’m Diego, Carlo’s brother,” said a young, lean boy of about thirteen. He gripped Mark’s hand as firmly as he could.
“I’ve heard a lot about you all,” said Mark with a smile. “Thanks for having me.”
Mark was ushered into the family room and it was clear dinner was already in progress, as the table was lined with delicious-smelling food that practically resembled a Thanksgiving feast. But given how many people there were that had to share it, doing the math revealed that it still wasn’t all that much per person. Mark was careful not to take more than a small share, even as Aunt Isidra kept piling more onto his plate. “You need your strength!” she maintained, as they knew he was competing alongside Carlo. His mother tsked disapprovingly, and it became clear that she was not a fan of Carlo’s involvement with the Crucible.
“Why you in this craziness?” she asked Mark as they were all finally seated and eating.
“Need the money,” Mark said, half-shrugging.
“Money, money, money, that’s all I hear. More important things than money!”
“We need a roof
over our heads!” Carlo said. “We need school clothes and food!”
“God will provide,” Maria said, and crossed herself. Carlo just shook his head. “You two need nice girls, that’s all. All this fighting for money. Just some nice girls, and you’ll be settled right down.”
“I’ve dated plenty of girls,” Carlo said.
“I said nice girls,” Maria shot back, waving a wooden spoon. “Not these girls with their short shorts and their attitudes. It’s the damn TV. All the S-E-X,” she spelled out in a hushed whisper so the children couldn’t understand.
“Then we better move, ’cause that’s all the girls we got around here,” Carlo said, laughing. “When I win the Crucible, we’ll go back to Miami. Get set up real nice.”
Maria made a dismissive motion and went back to serving the younger children.
“You fight too?” Diego asked.
“I do,” Mark said. “But not as good as your brother.” He tapped his bruised cheekbone.
“No one’s as good as Carlo,” Diego said, tilting up his chin, and his cousins on either side of him nodded in assent. Carlo beamed from across the table.
“Maybe you someday, eh?” he said, and reached over to ruffle his hair, a gesture Diego tried to fight off. The table laughed.
Carlo’s phone chirped and he casually fished it out of his pocket to check it. He broke into a wide smile seconds later.
“I’m in!” he shouted, turning the phone to show a congratulatory message from CMI that Mark couldn’t quite read. As Carlo waved the phone around, he made out the word “semi-finals.” The table erupted in cheers. Mark smiled and started clapping, before feeling a buzz in his own pocket.
He took his phone out, glanced at it, then tossed it across the table to Carlo. He read the message aloud.
“Congratulations on your admission to the CHICAGO Crucible Qualifier semi-finals. Only four competitors have been chosen for this honor, and your exceptional ability in the ring has earned you a place among them. An event is scheduled for 9:00 PM at 5587 Michigan Avenue. Black tie is optional, and a car will be sent.”
“We did it, bro!” Carlo yelled, running around the table to hug Mark. “We did it!”
THE EVENT IN QUESTION was a lavish party thrown at a downtown club called La Machina. Carlo had insisted he and Mark share a limo to the event and CMI was happy to oblige. When they arrived they found a literal red carpet had been rolled out for them, leading up to a club that looked like a crashed spaceship from the outside.
A few minutes later, Mark was still seeing stars from the flashing cameras that had assaulted him on the way inside. He’d ignored all the questions shouted his way and made his way through the doors, escorted by refrigerator-shaped security guards who were smart enough to be wearing sunglasses to reflect the flashbulbs. Carlo, naturally, bathed in the attention, and Mark lost track of him as he stayed outside to pose for the cameras. He’d stayed long enough for the two of them to be photographed about ten thousand times with Carlo’s arm hanging over his shoulder. It was supposedly something of a story that two friends and training partners had both made it to the qualifier finals together. They’d each face separate opponents in the semi-final, but if they both won, they could meet in the final itself.
Inside was the kind of high-end nightclub that made Mark instantly uncomfortable: thumping music so loud he couldn’t hear himself think, a constant parade of free drinks that more often than not led to disaster, and now about two hundred girls in skin-tight, two-thousand-dollar dresses making eyes at him. He quickly realized it wasn’t just because of his natural charm. At least one of the screens in the room was showing highlights of his fight with the bodybuilder. Another had Carlo’s bout against the farmboy, and sure enough, soon Mark saw another screen showing Drescher hammering a muscled opponent into submission. He was the third then. There was still no sign of the fourth. He wished Carlo had followed him in; he shuffled around feeling lost.
That only lasted about ten seconds however, as a woman strode straight over to him and greeted him with a pretentious double cheek-kiss like they were old brunch pals.
“Mark, looking dapper as ever,” she said, “I’m CMI vice president Vanessa Redgrave. I am very familiar with your work.”
Mark felt like he’d seen her at his final fight, which had drawn more of an audience than the others.
“Pleasure,” he said, nodding.
“You like?” she asked, gesturing outward toward the party, but in a way that also hinted that he was supposed to check her out as well. She wore a high-slit emerald dress with a tight corset top that showed off what was assuredly a $30,000 pair of breasts. Mark kept his eyes on the party.
“Very, uh, festive,” he said.
“I would have thought this would be right up your alley,” she said with a tinge of disappointment. “High roller that you are.”
Mark had almost forgotten his degenerate gambler cover story. He really was rusty. He smiled and nodded.
“Absolutely.”
“We have roulette and blackjack somewhere around here I think,” she said. “All proceeds to charity of course,” she said with a wink that could have meant any number of things. “Where’s your partner in crime?”
“He’s outside working the press,” Mark said. “You know him.”
“Absolutely,” she said, “That’s one of the things we love about him.”
“And Burton Drescher?” Mark said, motioning at one of the screens where the man was now stomping on his downed opponent’s chest. “What do you love about him?”
Vanessa’s smile dimmed. “Mr. Drescher has proven himself a formidable competitor in Prison Wars, and we are grateful his wrongful sentence was overturned. It’s fantastic he has decided to rejoin the Crayton family as a Crucible contestant.”
That all sounded very rehearsed. Maybe Vanessa wasn’t as soulless as she looked.
“Alright, enjoy yourself!” Vanessa said, clearly wanting to avoid any more uncomfortable questions. “Oh, David! Hello!” And she floated away, leaving Mark to endure more stares from a hundred different partygoers.
Brooke buzzed him, and he fished the translucent phone out of his jacket.
“Cameron Crayton is there.”
FOR AN UNSETTLING HALF hour, Mark dealt with strangers swarming him, asking about his fights so far, his life, and so on. It was the first time his cover had been truly put to the test, but he knew about fifty pages of backstory by heart at this point, and once he got into it, it all came second nature. He told a few of his faux wild gambling stories and had those nearby roaring with laughter. Sometimes, he peppered in a few somber war tales, one of which actually brought a girl to tears. Most of the stories were real, and could be verified if anyone went poking around. Most just weren’t originally his. He had a private laugh as he imagined actually telling them all the highlights of his life.
Eventually Mark escaped and managed to reunite with Carlo and his family. He took turns dancing with his mother and aunt, before being kidnapped by his cousins Nicole and Chella, who blushed constantly as Mark twirled them around. Carlo’s brother Diego was around somewhere, no doubt in a teenage boy’s paradise with so many stunning women around. Given the atmosphere, Mark really didn’t think children should have been invited at all, but he saw a few other kids around, presumably more guests of guests.
And then, it was time. The lights all turned toward the large stage at the edge of the main dance floor. Rear curtains parted, and Cameron Crayton walked out into the light, arms extended, smile wide as ever. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Mark forced himself to clap. Crayton, clad in a silver tuxedo, moved with the grace of a shark, and his bright blue eyes were electric. After the applause died down, he spoke into an invisible mic embedded in his collar.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “I can’t make it to all sixteen cities, but I’m sure as hell glad I didn’t miss Chicago!”
The hometown roared in assent for another minute.
“As you know, the
Crucible is now nearly ready to air. The first broadcasts will be the semi-finals and finals of our city qualifiers featuring contestants who have been battle-tested for weeks now. The Windy City’s four champions are here tonight!”
More cheers, and a few people he’d been talking to clapped him and Carlo on the back.
“To introduce them, I’ll be announcing their pairing for their upcoming semi-final. First, we have Mark Wei, who will be taking on Josh Tanner! Come on down boys!”
More cheers and shoulder pats and Carlo yelling encouragement in his ear, and Mark slowly lumbered toward the stage, his heart hammering. He muttered curses under his breath. That meant Carlo was going to face Drescher in his semifinal. He wanted to get Drescher out of the way first, and have a friendly final with Carlo. But now? Carlo had to face the Prison Wars killer, and Mark was fighting … who exactly? Tanner. The name sounded familiar.
“Mark Wei is a former Navy SEAL who has served all over the globe before being recruited by prestige military contractor Glasshammer during peacetime. You’ve seen some of his highlights tonight, and he’s one of the most brutally efficient and effective fighters I’ve seen around the country!”
Applause, as Mark reached the steps for the stage. On the wall was a giant picture of his face, and next to it, Tanner’s profile shot. Mark suddenly remembered where he’d seen him before.
Crayton reached out his hand. Up close, Mark could see the tiny lines threatening to crack through his perfect skin. The smile was even more blinding up close, and the look in his eye was unreadable, and disquieting.
Mark shook his hand firmly, imagining how easy it would be to snap the man’s neck in the next two seconds. It was tempting, but it wasn’t the mission. Though it would certainly send a goddamn message to the rest of the country watching this shitstorm.
He released Crayton’s hand, and the CEO motioned for him to stand stage left.
“And now here comes Sergeant Josh Tanner, formerly of the Chicago Police Department! He fights with an incredible amount of spirit and skill, and is entering the Crucible where he hopes to pay for his son’s medical care. A true hero and role model for fathers everywhere!”