by Paul Tassi
That was where Mark knew him from. He recognized Tanner from an interview on the news weeks ago during registration. He had a desperately sick kid and lost his insurance for some reason or another. Brooke was probably already sending him the guy’s file. Mark’s heart sank knowing that he’d be the one to send him home with nothing.
Tanner reached the stage and looked even more uncomfortable than Mark felt. He stiffly shook Crayton’s hand and walked over to Mark.
“These two will face off in the ring a week from tonight. You will not want to miss it.”
Behind them, more fight highlights played, some from Mark’s older fights now, meaning mostly knockout punches and kicks. He got a brief glimpse of Tanner’s style, which seemed to have a foundation in Muay Thai, which was unusual.
Mark turned back to Tanner and found something else unexpected. The man had stretched out his hand toward him.
Mark blinked for a minute, then reached out to shake it. They gave each other a quick nod, and locked eyes for a moment. Tanner’s face was weather-worn, and didn’t look like it belonged on top of a tuxedo. He had a hunted look about him, and Mark was further displeased he wasn’t an asshole. Tanner gave a brief wave to his family in the crowd. A pretty redheaded wife with two kids in tow. The third was likely in no state to come.
“Such sportsmanship!” Crayton said to more applause. “And now, let’s welcome Burton Drescher and Carlo Rivera!”
Finally, Mark saw Drescher wading through the crowd. His jacket was off and he had no tie. His shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a few of his chest and neck tattoos, and there was no hiding the ones on his face. He stalked through the crowd like a grizzly bear, and everyone hurriedly parted before him.
“You all know Burton from his time in Prison Wars, where he amassed an impressive 5-0 record. We were fortunate enough to help him overturn his wrongful conviction at the hands of a corrupt legal system, and Burton decided that his experience on our show would give him an edge in the Crucible, now that he’s a free man. We’re glad he’s back with us!”
Yeah, okay, Mark thought. Drescher and four other ex-Prison Wars combatants just happened to all be sprung from death row, and then immediately turned around to enter another deadly tournament. Mark wondered how much Crayton had already paid each of them to sign up, or if simple threats had worked. Though threats didn’t look like they’d have much sway on Drescher, no matter how much influence Cameron Crayton had.
After shaking Crayton’s hand, he walked over to the other side of the stage, mercifully far away from Mark.
“And here we have young Carlo. One of the top featherweight MMA prospects in the country, and only nineteen! Carlo comes to us from just a few blocks south of here, a second-generation American by way of Puerto Rico, and is using his skills to secure a future for his entire family!”
Crayton was an expert in dancing around the fact that fifteen out of the sixteen entrants would be dead by the end of the year, and that was their way to “provide” for their families.
Still, Carlo bounded up the stage with a big grin and pumped Crayton’s hand enthusiastically. He turned and waved to the crowd who couldn’t help but cheer at the charming young man practically bouncing up and down on stage.
But Mark watched Carlo’s face darken as he walked and stood next to Drescher, who was staring daggers at him.
“Gentlemen,” Crayton said, but no handshake followed. Instead, Drescher leaned in and said something out of earshot to Carlo. The boy’s face twisted with rage and he lunged at Drescher. Mark was milliseconds away from bolting over, but a half dozen dark-clad security staff emerged from the dark corners of the stage to pull the two apart. Eventually both calmed down, but still wore scowls.
“Wow,” Crayton said. “Well if you can’t tell, that’s going to be one hell of a match!”
Mark was worried he was right.
“Now if you please,” Crayton said. “When I said I was throwing a party, I meant a party. Drinks are free, and the dance floor is filled with some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Stay until tomorrow, if you can!”
Despite his professed love for the party he was throwing, as soon as the light was off him and the music started blaring again, he disappeared behind the curtain. Mark made a split-second decision and followed Crayton into the darkness. He needed to make first contact. Get on Crayton’s radar.
“Excuse me, Mr. Crayton.”
Crayton stopped and turned. Again, hulking security personnel stepped forward from the shadows, and one put a firm hand on his chest, preventing Mark from moving any closer. The man touching Mark towered over him. He had a granite jaw with buzzed silver hair and eyes discolored by double S-lenses displaying a dozen readouts on his retinas at once. An old scar was carved over his ear and wrapped around the base of his skull. Mark saw hints of tattoos poking out of the collar of suit, but couldn’t make them out.
“It’s alright, Wyatt,” Crayton said with a smile. “Sorry. As my head of security, he’s a little overprotective. You Glasshammer boys are always on edge, it seems. Might you have served together?”
Wyatt took his hand off Mark’s suit and they stared at each other. Mark hoped he wasn’t sweating, and his stomach felt like it has collapsed in on itself like a dying star.
“Blackfox Unit, Sudan, Kenya,” the man said, his voice deep like an echo in a bottomless pit. He eyed Mark suspiciously.
“Redhawk Unit, Iran, Indonesia, and Azerbaijan. And a few more places I probably shouldn’t talk about,” Mark cracked a smile to break the tension. Wyatt didn’t crack anything.
“Big company, isn’t it? And getting bigger all the time,” Crayton said.
Wyatt nodded, and retreated to the shadows. Mark caught a glint of his S-lenses in the darkness. Glasshammer? Shit. Mark didn’t know that was where Crayton got his private security detail. Gideon and McAdams swore his cover was secure, but needless to say this was an additional complication he didn’t need.
“But anyway, glad to actually meet you, Mark.” He extended his hand again, and Mark shook it. “I’m off to Miami tonight, so unfortunately I don’t have much time to chat.”
“I know, and I apologize, sir,” Mark said more submissively than he liked. “I just had to ask you something. If we get it to Vegas, and don’t … make it to the end, how will our winnings be distributed? I don’t have much family, never married, no kids.”
Crayton nodded.
“I’ve seen,” he said. “Bit of a lone wolf, are you? Well, we have that in common, as I’m sure you know.”
Crayton had never married, and all paternity suits against him had been disproven over the years.
“You’ll sign something to designate where you want the winnings to go in case you … are not the victor. Family, friends, charity … creditors,” he said with a knowing wink. He really had been briefed on Mark then. But Mark doubted that this fictional version of himself would care much about paying his fictional loan sharks if he was dead. His story was that he was going big for the billion, or dying famous, at the very least.
“Thanks, sir. That’s all I wanted to know. Have a safe flight to Florida.”
“Thank you, Mark. It was a pleasure,” Crayton said. “We’ve really got our eye on you.” Another wink.
9
THINGS RAMPED UP QUICKLY. By the end of the next week, Los Angeles was about to crown its champion, the very first deathmatch contender. To celebrate, Carlo had invited himself and his brother over to Mark’s condo to watch the final on his big screen, one of his few possessions that hadn’t been repossessed or pawned to maintain his cover story.
“I can’t believe he made it to the final,” Mark said, shaking his head as he watched the highlights of Chase Cassidy’s previous fights on the screen. “He’s a goddamn actor!”
“And I told you that you underestimated him,” Carlo said. “That dude is wicked good. Look at that form! He’s got round-the-clock training whenever he wants it, and all they had to do was teach him to land p
unches instead of pull them.”
“He’s a total longshot, and he’s still probably going to lose this final,” Mark said, but he had to admit elements of Chase’s fighting style were impressive. Even a few minutes into the fight, he’d managed to land some solid, stylish hits.
The camera swept through the audience of the Staples Center where the fight was being held, and from the signs people were holding, it was clear Cassidy was the crowd favorite. Two billion dollars’ worth of movies at the box office will do that, Mark thought. His opponent was Alontis Sidner, a world champion kickboxer who was the pride of his scene, but had less mass market appeal. Cassidy was tall, but Alontis towered over him, and his reach was insane.
“Max Rage! Max Rage!” Diego chanted as Cassidy danced around the ring, dodging blows from Sidner five minutes into the fight. The Rage trilogy was one of Cassidy’s highest grossing franchises, and the fictional disavowed CIA agent Chase played in them was a pop culture icon. But even cursory research revealed Cassidy hadn’t had a hit in a while, and Mark wondered if the man would actually donate his Crucible winnings to charity like he’d claimed in interviews.
Cassidy darted in with a pair of hard jabs that caught Sidner off guard and split his lip. Carlo and his brothers cheered as blood dotted the mat. There was a knock at the door, and Mark checked the monitor to make sure the Riveras weren’t about to be the victims of another unplanned home invasion. It was Brooke, so he popped the locks.
“Ah shoot, I missed the start,” she said as she walked into the room holding a long glass plate.
“Well hello there,” Carlo said, smoothing back his already close-cropped hair. “Mark, who is this?”
“My neighbor,” Mark said as she moved around the couch. “Brooke. She comes by to bother me every so often.”
Brooke gave him a mock glare.
“You can come bother me any time,” Carlo said with a wide smile. Brooke grinned and set down the plate on the table.
“Thought you guys might want a snack, so I whipped up some chocolate chunk brownies. First batch didn’t go so well, which is why I’m late.”
“Awesome!” Diego exclaimed and dove into the pan practically face first.
“You just made a friend for life,” Carlo said as he reached over and took one for himself. “Mark, we need to talk about where you’ve been hiding her,” he said.
“She’s a friend, Carlo,” Mark said, rolling his eyes. “But she probably won’t be if you keep talking. Watch the fight. Your boy is about to go down.”
Cassidy was on the retreat, half keeled over from a number of kicks to his midsection. Mark turned and noticed Brooke’s T-shirt, which had a DEATHSTRIKE logo on it.
“Aw, you too? Come on!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, are you too much of a snob to appreciate a good blockbuster?”
“If it’s actually good,” Mark said. “Deathstrike is total shit.”
Deathstrike had Cassidy playing a globe-trotting mercenary with the most terrible Irish accent ever put to film. Even his fans regarded it as one of his worst outings, so Mark guessed Brooke was attempting to be ironic.
The man could fight though, Mark was starting to have to admit. Most other fighters would have been on the mat by now, but Cassidy was showing surprising resilience, and seemed to draw his energy from the crowd who hadn’t stopped chanting his name since the bell rang. “Cass-i-dy! Cass-i-dy!”
Normally Chase Cassidy was an extremely good-looking statue of a man, with steel-gray eyes, perfectly tousled hair, a winning smile, and a physique that had landed him loads of shirtless commercial spots over the years. But now his eye was swelling and puffy and his chest was raked with trickles of his own blood, which poured from his nose and mouth. He still had that famous smile, but it was a sickly red.
The camera panned away from the ruin of Cassidy’s face and showed Cameron Crayton himself applauding in a VIP box at the arena. Mark had asked about Axton, Crayton’s head of security, and was sent a very thin file about one Commander Wyatt Axton, who had cleared out some rebel encampments during a few of the African civil wars. Deeper digging into redacted pages revealed that many of the “rebels” may have been women and children, but the CIA hadn’t looked too closely at the oversight. Now a collection of America-friendly dictators resided in their various thrones across the Atlantic, and Glasshammer secured some prime new contracts with the federal government for their efforts. But most pressingly, given how autonomous the divisions were within Glasshammer, Mark was promised that his cover story would stick, despite the uncomfortable connection. Crayton had hired his own wing for his security detail that were miles removed from the company Mark was supposed to have served with. Still, Axton had looked at him like he smelled a rat almost instantly.
Mark turned his attention back to the screen where the screaming crowd was practically drowning out the commentators of the match. Cassidy blocked kick after kick from Sidner and finally drove a stiff punch into the side of the taller man’s knee. From the way he hobbled backward, Mark knew Sidner was hurt. He could barely even put weight on the leg. Most fights would be stopped after that kind of injury, but this wasn’t most fights. As if to prove a point, Sidner lunged forward with a groin punch that Cassidy was barely able to deflect. The actor countered with a quick elbow that stunned Sidner and made him wobble toward the wall before his injured knee finally gave out. He struggled to his feet. Still no bell rang. Only unconsciousness or surrender would end this fight, and neither man had gotten this far to give up.
Sidner lurched upright and flung a few desperate punches toward Cassidy. The man danced back with a broad smile, his fatigue all but erased as the tide had turned his way. He planted a foot into Sidner’s chest and the man bounced off the polyglass and stumbled forward. And then, as if straight out of one of his films, Cassidy launched himself into an airborne tailspin kick, his foot connecting with the edge of Sidner’s jaw as he whipped around. By the time he landed, the kickboxer was sprawled out on the ground unconscious, a few of his teeth littering the mat. The crowd was deafening as Cassidy raised his arms in triumph. A tone finally sounded signifying Sidner was not getting up again, and Chase Cassidy became the first official combatant in the deathmatch tournament of the Crucible. Carlo, his brother, and Brooke were all hooting as loud as the crowd.
“Why are you so happy?” Mark asked Carlo. “He’s your competition.”
“Maybe,” Carlo said, smiling, “But that was fuckin’ awesome!”
The continued roar of the crowd said most of America was likely to agree.
ONE BY ONE, OTHER cities held their own semi-finals and finals within a few days of each other. Soon enough three others had joined Chase Cassidy as finalists and Mark’s potential rivals, though he sincerely hoped Crayton was taken down before he’d ever step foot in the ring with any of them.
Mark watched the Dallas finals at the Blind Watchman, where Rayne had it playing on every screen and the place was more packed than he’d ever seen it. By the end of the night, it was a burly ex-NFL player named Naman “The Wall” Wilkinson who pummeled his opponent into submission. He was a hometown hero to football-crazed Texas, and it seemed he’d bring a sizable chunk of that viewership with him. His most devoted fans seemed quite forgiving that he’d retired before steroid abuse allegations against him could be proven. As if they needed proof. The man was a hulking semi-truck positively exploding with muscle. Mark guessed he needed the cash to pay his team of lawyers who had kept the NFL from coming after his Super Bowl rings.
Next up was Nashville, and Mark joined Carlo at his place for the event. They watched the festivities on an ancient flatscreen as his mother and aunt showered them with food. Mark was surprised to find a woman crowned champion of the region, a former Olympic gymnast named Soren Vanderhaven who had taken home four golds for the US at the 2028 games in Nairobi. Since then, she’d retired and spent years training to become an incredibly formidable fighter. Mark had assumed Crayton opened up the tournament to both genders
for good PR, but he genuinely didn’t believe he’d see any women as finalists. Only something like 8 percent of entrants were female, and putting a woman up against someone like Naman Wilkinson was asking for annihilation. But in the final, Vanderhaven absolutely demolished an ex-Army corporal twice her size with blinding speed and technical sophistication. And she certainly knew how to win the crowd over as well. Vanderhaven was shockingly gorgeous, with cerulean eyes and long, curled blonde hair she hadn’t even bothered to pin up for the fight. She fought in flashy, revealing outfit that was just a few strips of fabric above lingerie, and quite a few below traditional ring attire. For most of the fight, the outfit and the sculpted body it was barely containing were all the commentators could focus on, until they realized that she was dishing out a hell of a beating. Rayne was absolutely in love with her, and informed Mark at the bar the next day that she was sorry, but she was her pick to win the whole thing. “I hope she doesn’t kill you, though,” she added, helpfully.
Mark watched the third and final fight before the circus came to Chicago in the penthouse level of the Crayton building where he’d fought previously. CMI had extended him an invite for every match, but he only accepted it once Brooke told him it could help him get in better with the staff, which could be useful. Vice president Vanessa was there, and wouldn’t stop chattering away through the entire fight. Denver crowned a young, determined soldier named Ethan Callaghan as its champion, an ex-Green Beret who was fighting to pay for his wife’s medical treatment. She had a late-stage brain tumor that could only be treated through completely experimental, wildly expensive drugs. The camera showed Callaghan’s three children in the audience, all blond with green eyes like him. Given the profile this event would give him, someone like Callaghan could probably just start a fundraiser himself to try and pay his bills, but upon closer examination, the contract they had all signed forbade them from soliciting any kind of donations once they entered the Crucible. Smart from Crayton’s point of view, given that such a thing would negate many contender’s motivation for entering in the first place, but impossibly cruel as well. Someone like Callaghan’s wife could literally die because of that clause. Even Mark breathed a sigh of relief when the young man won, before remembering that he was trying to shut down the entire tournament and Callaghan wouldn’t get anything.