by Paul Tassi
Unfortunately for him, his heel caught his flesh-filled cape.
He stumbled and fell on his armored ass, dropping one knife in the process. Aria sunk down in order to leap on top of him and end the fight on the error.
But even dazed from the fall, Easton’s remaining knife flashed forward, and planted itself straight through Aria’s foot before it left the ground.
She cried out, stuck to the sandstone floor, and Easton scrambled upright, pulling out two more knives. He dove forward, but even with her foot trapped, Aria swung upward with one of her swords in desperation.
Easton was close enough where the blade swung clean through the front of his pig mask, cutting off the entire snout. The near miss stunned him for a second, and it was enough time for Aria to whip the other sword around and ram it straight through a crack in the armor plating on his left side, between two empty knife sheaths.
A ghastly shriek spewed out of the hole in the pig helm as Easton dropped a knife and sank to his knees. He brought the remaining blade overhead and tried to stab it down into Aria’s abdomen, but she flung her second sword outward and cleanly sliced off his hand at the wrist. The blade and bloodied gauntlet went spinning into the sand as Easton continued screaming. Everyone in the box was yelling and clapping, drowned out only by the rest of the stadium doing the same.
Aria pulled the bloody sword out of Easton’s ribs and stood all the way up, returning both blades to their sheaths on her back. She bent down and wrenched the knife out of her foot, taking a few gingerly steps backward. Leaning forward, she reached into the hole she’d created in the mask and pulled the entire contraption off Easton’s head.
Underneath were the saucer-sized eyes of a lunatic, mouth contorted in an unhinged smile, teeth crimson. Aria’s expression was unreadable under her helm; only her lips were visible, tightly pressed together. She towered above the crippled man, and raised Easton’s bloody knife.
She didn’t stab him. Instead, she brought the blade to his forehead, where his wet hair met skin. She curled the blade around, drawing a sharp line of red, and with her gauntleted hand, yanked hard on his hair and started sawing under the flap with the knife. She peeled back the skin to expose a round mess of gore and grizzle where his scalp used to be. She tossed the matted, bloody trophy to the ground.
“Oh my god,” Moses exclaimed, hand over his mouth. Lily looked like she might pass out. Ethan’s eyes glinted with almost gleeful malice.
This was her justice.
Aria pointed to a line of nearby fans in the stands who had brought in the large signs with photos of Easton’s slain girls. She leaned down and said something out of earshot to the convulsing man, and then drove the knife straight into his throat.
It was brutal. It was horrible. And Mark was on his feet cheering.
31
THEY LIVED. THEY ALL lived.
It was hard to believe that Mark, Moses, Ethan, and Aria had all made it through the first round. It gave Mark hope that with the recent break in Crayton’s case, they could move on the man before the next phase started. But until then, they were content to all celebrate in Moses’s box during what amounted to the closing ceremony of the first round, which the media was calling the “Clash of the Titans.” The final fight was between Prison Wars god Drago Rusakov and NFL Hall of Famer Naman Wilkinson, the two most physically massive competitors of the tournament.
The four fighters in the box were nursing various wounds from their fights, each of them comparing recently sewn scars and boasting about how many milliliters of drexophine they’d been pumped up with. Aria’s fresh wounds required the most meds, and she hopped around on an injured foot with a large bandage wrapped around her shoulder. Moses’s scar by his ribs was pretty wicked, but everyone agreed that Mark’s U-shaped forearm gash from Cassidy’s katana was the ugliest wound. It was all horribly morbid, but they were flush with painkillers and ill-advised amounts of alcohol.
Mark cast a glance to a nearby TV rebroadcasting an interview with Miriam Easton, the dead killer’s grandmother.
“Mrs. Easton. Did you watch the fight yesterday?”
“Oh yes!” she said, smiling with gray teeth. “It was a lovely play.”
“Play?”
“I thought Aria and Matthew put on a wonderful performance. I think it’s fantastic that so many people are taking an interest in the theater again!”
“Mrs. Easton, it isn’t …”
“Matthew always wanted to be an actor. He has such a flair for showmanship! That silly mask was delightful. And those knives! I think he missed his calling to join the carnival.”
“I don’t think you …”
“It was a lovely time. I can’t wait to see the third act.”
Mark looked over at Aria, whose cheeks were red from drexophine and white wine.
“If only we could all live like her,” she said. “Inventing our own reality.”
“It’s dementia,” Mark said.
“It’s bliss,” Aria said. “A mind unbound. Shaping everything to your own narrative.”
“And what’s your narrative?”
“One where I don’t have to fight the world’s largest Russian next round.”
The fight started, and Aria’s expression quickly shifted from liquored-up peace to a look of looming dread. Wilkinson, in his shining silver and blue armor, mimicking the colors of his old NFL team, had a broadsword as wide as his waist. But like some of the other athletes who had fallen, he didn’t have the skill to wield it.
Rusakov was something otherworldly in full black plate with an infernal-looking helmet with giant, twisting bull horns sprouting from it. His greataxe had to be eight feet long, something that no mortal man should have been able to wield. But Rusakov used it with brutal efficiency, making the final fight the shortest yet.
Wilkinson had deep gouges all through his armor by the time the first minute ended, all of them leaking blood. At ninety seconds, he was on his knees, missing his entire right arm, its twitching fingers still wrapped around the grip of his broadsword, which lay uselessly in the sand.
One final swing of the mammoth axe, and Naman Wilkinson ended the fight without a head. Fifteen feet away, his helmet danced and tumbled through the sand, and a dark, round shape rolled out of it, staining the earth. Rusakov raised his red axe high and screamed a primal roar that shook the very foundation of the Colosseum.
And then there were eight.
VEGAS HAD BEEN ON the verge of becoming a ghost town before Crayton’s Crucible circus arrived. The city had been dying for decades, its former patrons either resting in nursing homes or six feet underground. Of course, the vices the city was famous for hadn’t gone anywhere, but interest in showing up in person to play cards or see women strip had dwindled. You could get a lap dance from an S-lens and a few well-placed stim patches. You could lose your house playing poker, blackjack, or slots on anything with a screen. Vegas was redundant, and decaying.
“I got my start in Las Vegas,” Cameron Crayton said in a recorded interview that had been playing non-stop in the city for months now. “I was a young kid with nothing. A torn $20 bill to my name. I prayed to the gods of luck and fate, and when I got off the bus, I walked straight into Caesar’s and put it all on black. I won once. Twice. I won eight times in a row. I walked out of that casino with $5,000 in my pocket, enough to invest in my first business. I swore I’d never take another dollar for granted after that. I owe this city everything. I wasn’t born here, but for the Crucible, I knew I needed to come home.”
Mark suspected it had more to do with the massive tax breaks the state had offered to Crayton to build the Colosseum within city limits, but it had been a worthwhile bargain. With fans flooding the city to either attend Crucible matches if they were lucky enough to snag a ticket, or simply to see the stadium and watch the matches on the Strip, Vegas had come alive again.
The streets were packed as Mark took his seat on a small soundstage outside a recently built casino, though “recent�
� in Vegas lingo lately meant that it was about a decade old. Across from him was a redhead swimming in makeup who was one of the co-hosts of SportsWire. Crayton’s PR team had finally ordered him to plant his ass down in an interview chair now that he’d made the quarterfinals. All the combatants had to, apparently. Mark wore a trim blue suit, and he’d been swarmed by hair and makeup in the run-up to the interview. The lights were sweltering in the heat, but he fixed a grim smile and listened to the woman babble.
“Welcome back!” she said to the camera. “I’m Melanie Mitchell and this is a special late-night edition of SportsWire. We’re camped out at the base of Emerald City Casino, where Cameron Crayton is celebrating the eight quarterfinalists who are continuing on in the Crucible. Joining me is one of the most fearsome competitors left, Mark Wei!”
“Thanks for having me, Melanie,” Mark said.
“Mark, we’ve heard a lot about your military service, both for the US and for private corporations. Has that given you an advantage in the contest over those without military backgrounds, like the recently departed Chase Cassidy?”
“It’s different for everyone,” Mark said. “The training I’ve gone through in the Navy and with Glasshammer has been extensive. There are a few veterans here, but I’ll go out on a limb and say I’m probably one of the most seasoned.”
Careful.
“Seasoned. Were you seasoned fighting in northern Africa a few years ago during the controversial Glasshammer operations there?”
Mark kept smiling.
“Melanie, you know I can’t discuss the specifics of my missions. And I think my former employer was unfairly maligned in that whole episode. But that’s all I’ll say on it.”
“What does it feel like to kill a man like Chase Cassidy? A person so beloved by millions? A true hero?”
“A true hero?” Mark said, eyebrow raised. “I think by definition he was a fictional hero.”
Melanie’s eyes narrowed.
“His ten million in winnings were just donated to a children’s hospital,” she scolded.
A privately owned children’s hospital where his business manager was on the board. That’s what Brooke had told him, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Of course,” Mark backtracked. “I didn’t mean to imply … Chase Cassidy was a worthy opponent and certainly will be remembered as a legend.”
Just tell them what they want to hear.
“Have you spoken to Soren Vanderhaven since the fight? Since you killed the man she loved?”
Oh god. Mark gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to roll his eyes on camera. The woman’s clear agenda was starting to annoy him.
“I have not,” he said slowly. “But I am sorry for her … loss.”
“She has a match against your friend, Moses Morton, next week,” Melanie said.
“That she does,” Mark nodded.
“So you’d like to see her dead as well, then?”
Mark couldn’t stop the eye roll this time.
“All I can say is that I will be rooting for my friend.”
“And Shin Tagami,” Melanie pressed. “The fanbase seems to think he’s one of the bravest competitors in the tournament. He’s nearly twice your age, and competes without armor. Do you think that’s a fair fight?”
“From what I’ve seen, Mr. Tagami is more than capable of handling himself. I’m sure it will be a close match,” Mark said, staring sternly into Melanie’s malevolent green eyes.
“There have been reports that you and Aria Rosetti are something of an item,” Melanie said, her lips parting into a smile.
“She’s a friend,” Mark said firmly.
“There are also reports that Matthew Michael Easton was attacked before his match with Aria. Attacked by another combatant on Cameron Crayton’s estate.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Did Aria Rosetti enlist you to attack Mr. Easton in order to cripple him before the match? So that she could win?”
“What?” Mark exclaimed, caught off guard. “No! Look—” He tore off the skin-mic from his throat. “This has been great, but I’ve got a party to go to. Thanks so much.”
“Mark!” Melanie called after him, reaching out with manicured fingers, but he pushed past two production assistants and headed up toward the towering doors of the Emerald.
“That was bad, man,” Ethan said as Mark walked onto the cordoned-off casino floor, which was alive with light and sound.
“Oh god, that was live?” Mark said, burying his face in his hands. He looked up and saw TVs broadcasting a live feed of Melanie who had moved on to an interview with Rakesh Blackwood, who was being asked things like “Who made your suit?” and “Who are you here with?”
“Yeahhh, you’re not exactly a media guy, huh?” Ethan said.
“It was that obvious?”
Ethan laughed.
“Yeah, me neither. I just speak from the heart and hope it comes out okay.”
God, Ethan was charming even when he wasn’t trying to be charming. That was a useful trick. For the first time, Mark wondered if Ethan might make a good agent. He was too bright to be just another Ranger grunt.
Mark felt a hand clasp his arm. He turned and saw that Cameron Crayton had snuck up on them.
“Boys!” he exclaimed. “So good to see you!”
“Mr. Crayton,” Ethan said with a thin smile.
“Cameron,” Mark said.
Crayton wagged his finger at him.
“See, Ethan, this is what I’ve been telling you. Not so formal! We’re all friends now.”
Friends don’t let friends murder each other.
“Sorry, sir,” Ethan said. “I mean, Cameron. Old habits.”
“Of course,” Crayton smiled.
Mark scanned the room to see if anyone was watching them, profiling specifically for Asians who might be MSS, though that didn’t narrow it down. Unlike visitation weekend and the debaucherous End of the World party, there were far more guests all over the casino floor, fewer family and friends and more of Crayton’s influencers and their entourages. Mark noticed one athletic looking Asian kid who was maybe about twenty-five and kept glancing their way as he chatted with a few guests. But given their profile, it wasn’t unusual for people to steal glances at them or even stare outright. Still, Mark filed it away for later.
“A hundred million watched that Rusakov fight,” Crayton said, raising his glass and inviting Mark and Ethan to toast with him. “That’s a quarter of the country.”
“No pressure then,” Mark said.
“Just do what you do best,” Crayton said. “Are we missing the lovely Lily tonight?” he asked Ethan.
“She wasn’t feeling well, and wanted to stay with the kids,” Ethan said.
“Give her my best,” Crayton said. “Oh, before I forget. Your credits.”
He handed them each a small stack of chips. Each one was $5,000. Fifty grand in total.
“Hell of a buy-in,” Mark said.
“All for charity, of course,” Crayton said. “Miss Rosetti has been tearing up the poker table since she got here. I’d stay away from that one.”
With a nod, Crayton slid away, deeper into party, and was mobbed by a sea of admirers. Mark noticed the Asian kid from before watch him leave.
“Moses,” Ethan said as the big man lumbered up. He shook his hand, but Moses winced.
“Ach,” he said. “They finally got the fingers back on. Was worried they’d kept them on ice too long.”
He flexed his fingers and Mark saw that the pinky and ring finger Mendez had sliced off had indeed been reattached and were wrapped in skin-colored pressure bandages.
“Side’s actin’ up too,” he said, patting his ribs. “Quit a slice he gave me.”
“Drexophine isn’t helping?” Mark asked, curious. His own pain was still completely muted by the drug, which he had been pumped into him every day.
Moses shook his head.
“They said in some cases, you can develop a
tolerance. Last few doses only seem to make it worse. But I’ll be fine. Just stings a bit.”
“Nolan make it out?” Mark asked.
“Yes, and he’s currently losing most of my free money playing pai gow poker.”
Mark looked over and saw Nolan playing with a few other tuxedo-wearing guests. At the end of the table, easily overlooked, was Shin Tagami in a plain silk shirt. Mark scanned the room and saw Soren Vanderhaven in a provocative midnight-blue dress commanding an entire craps table, blowing on her own dice and charming a bunch of rich-looking men who laughed uproariously at everything she said. She caught his eye from across the room, and he immediately averted his gaze.
His eyes kept circling the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Crayton was the sun, the party constantly in orbit around him, so it didn’t help that half the eyes in the room were on him at all times. Mark lost track of the young man he’d been scoping out earlier.
Rakesh Blackwood walked through the doors in a blinding silver suit with three models in tow, and it looked like he’d cross their path on his way to try and steal some limelight from Crayton.
“Ugh, let’s go find Aria,” Ethan said, clearly not wanting to run into Blackwood, his opponent in the next round. They didn’t move fast enough, and Blackwood lowered his shades and raised a drink toward their group as he passed.
“See you next week, soldier boy!”
“Cheers,” Ethan said, all smiles, raising his glass, before turning back with a look of uncharacteristic contempt on his face.
They found Aria lording over a castle of chips in the private poker room, a half million dollars in faux-money laid out in stacks before her. Mark recognized at least one congressman at the table with her, and a Glasshammer board member as well, but a few hands later and more or less the entire field was cleared.
“Your turn,” she said as she motioned to the newly empty chairs. Her hair was done up elaborately, and she had on gold eye makeup and a tight black dress.