by Paul Tassi
Mark and the rest of the combatants on stage craned their necks to see the building behind them. The sun was now reflecting off its arched windows, making it even hotter than before. Forget a billion dollars, this thing had to cost at least three. Insanity.
“Naturally, construction continues, as you can see, but all this and more will be included by completion for the final tournament three months from now. Not to mention we still have a bit of landscaping work to do where you’re all standing.”
The drew a chuckle from the audience, currently standing in the desert outside the Strip that would have been the kind of place the mafia buried bodies before Crayton came and built a stadium on top of it.
Crayton began introducing the various competitors on stage, who gave a wave when he reached them. Mark noticed the faint glimmer of something shining a few feet in front of Crayton as he spoke. He quickly deduced it was an exceptionally thin shield of bulletproof glass. Crayton was a public figure, sure, but far from the president or someone with similar security needs. Yet he had a bulletproof screen in front of him and was constantly surrounded by a squad of mercs? Mark wondered if Crayton was fearing a very specific threat.
“And next is Mark Wei, Chicago winner, and our first competitor to get his hands dirty!”
The crowd cheered as Mark gave a slow wave and stiff smile. That was a cute way of saying that he’d killed his last opponent. Though, across the stage, the Prison Wars veterans probably had at least a hundred bodies between them if the charges against them were true. And that wasn’t even counting the ones they killed in Crayton’s televised freakshow the past two years. The scrawny kid, Easton, shot Mark a burning look that set his teeth on edge. Meanwhile, Rusakov regarded him with the impassiveness of a city-sized meteor slowly falling to earth. Given how much of a problem Burton Drescher had become, Mark was not eager to see what havoc these new psychopaths would wreak if given the chance. And truth be told, he didn’t know nearly enough about everyone else on stage either. If they’d signed up for this thing and gotten this far, it seemed likely they were not entirely sane, and were almost certainly dangerous.
After Crayton’s conference ended, the scene was something of a madhouse. The combatants were pulled every which way by sweaty employees wearing CMI badges, and Mark had no idea where he was going now. Was he supposed to give the suit back? It certainly needed a good dry cleaning at this point.
Eventually he was herded toward a dust-covered SUV autolimo that had pulled up on a not-yet paved road behind the stage. The gaggle of CMI employees assigned to him said that it would take him to Crayton’s compound a few miles away where there was a private reception for the “guests,” as he and the others were called.
Mark opened the door and was about to step inside when he saw someone was already in it. It was Moses Morton, the enormous, mustachioed man in the white linen suit.
“Oh, sorry,” Mark said. “I can get another one.”
“Plenty of room,” Moses said with a wide smile, spreading his arms. “This is pretty damn big, even for me.”
Mark hesitated.
“And it’s got cold beer,” Moses continued, holding up a drink.
Mark was convinced. He crawled inside and sat opposite Morton. The man tossed him an ice-cold bottle that mirrored his own.
“You’re Moses, right? I’m Mark,” he said, and they shook hands. Morton’s bald head was bright red from the sun and the burn creeped down onto his thick, muscled neck. His shirt had a few buttons loose and showed a forest of chest hair. He took a sip of his beer with rolled up sleeves showcasing forearms as wide as Mark’s head.
“Pleasure,” Moses said. “Feels good to be in the AC, doesn’t it?”
Mark nodded. The limo had started to move.
“You took down that Prison Wars guy, right?” Mark asked. “The Triad?”
Moses nodded slowly.
“Very fast. Very talented. He certainly didn’t make qualifying easy.”
Mark was surprised at the man’s humility.
“Kind of unsettling to fight a trained killer, I have to admit,” Moses said, taking another swig of beer. “Erm, no offense.”
Mark just chuckled.
“Where I’ve worked, most would probably take that as a compliment,” he said. “And yeah, you’re right.”
“Your man. Drescher, was it? He was a real piece of work.”
No judgment, no praise. Interesting. Mark didn’t know what to make of this guy. He looked about forty-five and like a real-life manifestation of Paul Bunyan. Mark just nodded at his statement.
“What did you think of the Colosseum?” Mark said, changing the subject. Moses’s eyes lit up.
“Fascinating design. Really captures the beauty of the original while modernizing it quite well. And the size! Rome’s could only seat about eighty thousand, and this is what, triple that?”
“I think so,” Mark said.
“The original was called Amphitheatrum Flavium. It was built by emperors in the Flavian Dynasty, shortly after Nero. The name ‘Colosseum’ is supposedly derived from the ‘colossal’ statue of Nero that was once planted nearby.” Moses spoke quickly, full of excitement.
“Interesting,” Mark said, eyebrow raised. “History buff?”
Moses laughed.
“Sorry, I tend to go off like that. History professor actually. Brigham Young.”
“History professor?” Mark said, curious. “How did you end up here?”
The desert streaked by them as Moses pulled another beer from the cooler in the seat, and dabbed it on either side of his head. Despite the AC, he was still sweating.
“Always had an interest in two things, history and sports. I have five brothers and two sisters exactly my size, so needless to say it was a physical household growing up. Football, hockey, and such. I got into wrestling, and won a few state titles back in the day. Soon after that, I learned with a body like this, if you stop being active, it will turn to jelly just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“So I’ve been training ever since. I spend some time coaching kids downtown when I’m free. Hard to pry those video games off their faces, though,” he chuckled.
“And history?” Mark said. So far, the combatants weren’t at all what Mark had expected. And had been weirdly friendly to boot.
“That was always my true passion,” Moses continued. “Had a brother in the NFL for a spell. My sister was a professional bodybuilder. All the others mostly moved heavy objects full time. But me? I always loved history. I used wrestling to land a scholarship and double majored in history and classic literature. A doctorate later, and I was a professor at my alma mater.”
“Quite the journey,” Mark said. He reached toward the cooler for a new beer, but Moses beat him to it and tossed him another bottle.
“It’s certainly off the beaten path,” Moses said, nodding.
“And the Crucible?” Mark pressed.
Moses shifted uncomfortably.
“I’m not really one of those people with a ‘good’ story,” he said with air quotes. “A ‘proper’ reason for being here. Like that kid who’s trying to save his wife. Or that actor who’s giving all the money to charity. I’m just here because I was born in the wrong century.”
Moses laughed at what was undoubtedly a quizzical look on Mark’s face.
“It’s something my husband has always said. I’ve always loved the great battles and warriors of history. Growing up, I always wanted to be a knight, a viking, a centurion. But the modern world and its futile wars never held any appeal to me. My husband thinks I’m forever stuck in the past, wishing I’d been born living under Caesar Augustus or King Arthur, cracking heads with maces and enjoying a lack of indoor plumbing.”
Moses turned to glance out the window and took another sip of beer.
“I read. I play VR games. I do historical reenactments. I’m one of those nerds you see running around the forest wearing chainmail and swinging replica broadswords, pretending he’s a Knight o
f the Round Table. Met a lot of fun folks there. But again, in the end it just isn’t what I’m looking for.”
“But the Crucible …” Mark said, following the path.
Moses nodded.
“A true-life gladiator bout for our time? I could hardly believe it. I had to try. I didn’t think I’d get anywhere near the final tournament, but somehow, here I am.”
“What does your husband think of all this?” Mark asked.
“Nolan is … supportive,” Moses said hesitantly. “He’s seen me go through a lot. Aimlessness, depression. He said it was the first time in a long while he’d see me really come alive when I was talking about entering. He said he wouldn’t deny me that feeling, no matter the risks. Calls it my mid-life crisis.” Moses laughed.
Mark thought about the millions that would potentially go to Moses’s husband if (most likely, when) he died, but kept his mouth shut, not wanting to assume anything or be an asshole.
“Anyway, sorry to talk your ear off. I know we just met, but that’s sort of just what I do. Always have. Nolan would be scolding me right about now, as I haven’t even asked a thing about you.”
“You gave me beer, that’s good enough,” Mark said. “And trust me, you’re way more interesting than me.”
“Nolan said I shouldn’t try and make friends here. That it was stupid considering what we’ve all signed up for. But I don’t know, that’s just who I am,” he smiled broadly. “Hard for me to hush-up like a churchmouse, particularly around such fascinating folks like yourself. Where did you serve again?” Moses asked, about to put Mark’s memorized cover story to the test for the thousandth time.
But the limo slowed to a halt. Both of them turned and looked out and saw an enormous iron gate joining together two towering stone walls. Two huge, gold-scripted Cs were embossed on each side of the gate.
“I guess we’re here,” Mark said. The gate slowly parted and the limo crawled inside. It was hard to believe the sight that lay before them.
18
CRAYTON’S COMPOUND WAS EVEN more outrageous than the pictures made it appear. It was a literal oasis in the desert, with lush gardens and rolling hills, and Mark thought he even saw a lake in the distance as the limo drove through the grounds.
Perched on various mounds of artificial earth were the mansions themselves, three “smaller” ones that were multi-million-dollar guest units, and then the larger manor, which looked like an odd fusion of Buckingham Palace and the Vatican, with hints of modernism thrown in there just to screw with the aesthetic even further. A sign of Crayton’s inclination toward the Greeks and Romans, there were a few towering columns. But his style was a blend of an incredibly diverse array of time periods.
Surrounding the entire estate was a wall thirty feet high and meant to keep out everything from the prying eyes of the press to the harsh winds that would aim to sandblast the expensive architecture. As the limo rolled toward the main house through the private drive, Mark saw a fine mist covering the grass and sculpted bushes as they passed. Some sort of advanced irrigation system that ensured the desert island paradise didn’t dry up under the Nevada sun. Mark wondered why he picked this precise spot in the country to set up his fortress, but supposed he understood the appeal of building his own little mini-city in the middle of nowhere. Even cursory research showed that the parties Crayton threw here were supposed to be legendary, and he was known to host political fundraisers on the grounds as well, where more than a few backroom deals were likely to have taken place, among other hidden sins. Mark was on the hunt for all the secrets the gaudy monstrosity held.
The driveway straightened out and they were now flanked on either side by enormous figures carved from stone, wielding swords and spears, angled to hoist their weapons over the road. There were close to a dozen by the time they reached the end, and each was probably three stories tall, planted on a rectangular stone base.
“Incredible,” Moses said, a look of childlike wonder on his face. “I think that one is Alexander the Great,” he said, pointing toward a curly-haired figure. “And that has to be Pyrrhus of Epirus,” he said of a statue with a crested helm. “And that one’s either Sun Tzu or Genghis Khan, I’m not sure,” he continued, pointing again.
The limo stopped and the doors opened automatically. Mark stepped outside and found himself at the base of one of the final statues in the line. A figure towered above him holding two swords. He was face to face with a bronze placard.
SPARTACUS, it read, along with a brief history of the gladiator-turned-revolutionary’s uprising in ancient Rome. On the other side of the car, Moses was gazing up at a spear-wielding warrior. Mark raised his eyebrow in a question, and Moses answered.
“Achilles,” he said, with wide smile. Crayton was a man after Moses’s own heart, it seemed, decorating his grounds with the greatest warriors and military minds mankind had known. All the statues looked brand new, untouched by dust or even bird droppings.
A line of limos had formed near the base of the main manor, and Mark started recognizing other Crucible combatants as they trudged up the stairs. Naman Wilkinson, Asher Mendez, the one they just called “Manny,” looking frazzled and lost in a crumpled suit. Mark saw the Prison Wars trio of Ja’Von Jordan, Matthew Michael Easton, and Drago Rusakov moving as a unit as they exited the same limo. A gang leader, a serial killer, and a hitman walk into a mansion, Mark thought, the beginning of some twisted joke. The three were strange bedfellows to be sure, but it appeared their time at Prison Wars had created at least some sort of bond between them. That probably wasn’t a good thing.
Mark left Moses to stare at the row of statues as he made his way up the stairs. He reached the giant oak doors at the same time as another man, who paused to let him pass. He looked up to nod in appreciation and found himself staring into Chase Cassidy’s steel-gray eyes.
“After you,” Cassidy said with a paparazzi-friendly smile. Mercifully, there was no press allowed inside the compound. The pair of them walked in and Cassidy extended his hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mark,” Cassidy said, shaking firmly. “I’m a big fan of your work.”
It was clever quip, referencing Drescher’s death while also being a line he was probably fed all the time as an actor. In truth, Mark kind of hated most of Cassidy’s movies, but the global box office disagreed.
“Good to meet you,” Mark said. There was an understanding that passed between them that Cassidy himself needed no introduction.
“Crayton’s really added on to this place,” Cassidy said as they walked through the foyer, which was laden with gold and marble. “I was here in ’32 for the Prison Wars launch party. He only had the one guest house then. And those statues outside have to be brand new.”
“He certainly has … interesting taste,” Mark said, uncomfortable in this kind of conversation. He realized Carlo, Diego, and Brooke would all be freaking out to know he was speaking to Max Rage himself at this very moment. While most of the other contestants looked out of place in their new fancy clothes, Cassidy was right at home in red carpet-style attire, assuredly an outfit he already owned rather than one provided to him by Crayton’s stylists. The man ran his hand through his hair, wiping away a trickle of sweat, but the gesture looked like he was posing for a GQ cover shoot. He was about as physically flawless as a human being could get between perfectly symmetrical and proportioned features and a body that could have been a model for one of the statues outside. Way too pretty to be wrapped up in something like this.
“Is that Rakesh?” Cassidy exclaimed, as the lean Indian man walked toward them. He had a similarly tailored suit that probably cost more than the limo that had driven them here.
“Chase, sorry I missed you at the ceremony,” Rakesh Blackwood said. “Dreadful setting. I mean the desert, for two hours? Good lord.”
Blackwood was on eye level with Mark, but was acting like he wasn’t even there.
“I never thought I’d be dragged back to this place again,” he said, rolling his
eyes. “It’s an assault on the senses. If father hadn’t insisted I’d never have stepped foot through the door for that dreadful gala a few years back. And now we have to live here? My god, I thought the torture was reserved for the arena.”
“Oh come on, Rakesh,” Cassidy said, shifting his smile to reveal a hidden dimple. “It isn’t that bad.”
“I’m sure it’s heaven for all these … others,” he said, tilting his head toward Moses, who had just walked in the door and was still gawking at everything he saw. “But I’d rather be in my Bellagio penthouse and commute.”
Clearly not a part of the conversation, Mark started to leave, but Blackwood finally turned and addressed him.
“Which room will I be in?” he said to Mark. “I assume Crayton wouldn’t dare put me in one of the guest houses.”
“Uh,” Mark said, confused. “I have no idea. Why would I—”
Cassidy interrupted.
“This is Mark Wei,” he said. “From Chicago. Killed that Nazi in the ring. He’s not one of Crayton’s gophers.”
“Oh!” Blackwood exclaimed. “I do apologize,” he said in a tone that in no way suggested an apology. “I thought you were a butler. But I see he has us all standing around then.”
Blackwood extended his hand, and Mark was tempted to break every finger on it. But he resisted the urge and only shook it.
“I’m going to find another drink,” Blackwood said. “And none of that swill they were serving in the cars. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Blackwood strode away and Cassidy turned back to Mark.
“Billionaires,” he muttered. “I kind of hope he dies first.”
Mark had to laugh at that. He imagined Cassidy would be a bit irritating, but compared to Rakesh Blackwood, he was a delight. Mark saw Ethan Callaghan walk through the doors, and gave him a friendly nod, which was returned. He started to walk over to him, but an older, bearded man who did actually look like a butler cleared his throat.