by Paul Tassi
“I asked my old friend from Homeland Security, General McAdams, if he knew anyone in the CIA willing to part with an operative, current or former. They would be the most well-trained, the most ruthless. And they would have the most skeletons.
“He found an over-the-hill handler, Gideon Gellar. Fresh off a messy divorce, drowning deep in debt and alimony. He had run one of the men who had made China fall, a ‘Spear,’ as they say. His was the triple-agent. The one who survived years of torture, and ended his mission by taking out an aircraft carrier, sinking a country with it. It was quite a story, and one I’d heard many times from the MSS directly.
“But now, the man was shattered. He’d lost his family to the Chinese, and was on his way to drinking himself to death after pissing away millions in recompense. But he was also an idealist, and wouldn’t sign up for something as crude as the Crucible, no matter how well-suited for it he might be.
“So I manufactured a mission.
“This entire affair was my creation, Mark. A way to get you to stick around long enough to get to this point. I fed you little pieces of my story, my true story, and you gobbled them up, thinking the CIA would pat you on the head when you reached the end. Didn’t you learn anything from Spearfish? Apparently not. But we’ve now reached the point where if I wasn’t arrested, you’d suspect something, or just try to kill me outright. And we couldn’t have that, hence the charade coming to an end.”
Mark’s head was buzzing angrily. This couldn’t be happening. It was too massive. The scale of the thing was impossible. Wasn’t it? And what about—
“Brooke,” Mark said breathlessly.
She couldn’t have.
“The rookie handler was harmless, and didn’t have a clue, same as you. She believed in the mission. But more interestingly, she believed in you. Everything you fed her went to a private team Gideon ran, and ended up coming straight back to me. The CIA and Homeland got nothing. Not a thing.”
Crayton paced across the hardwood in front of the black glass. His hands were crossed behind his back, and his chest swelled with pride.
And that goddamn smug smile.
“Between you and Brooke,” he continued, “you actually ended up plugging quite a few holes in my own little ‘cover story.’ A useful side effect of the mission, and more than Beijing ever did for me. I know now I need to clean up my early business ventures, destroy that infernal wooden keepsake box and execute a certain chatty Chinese agent. And this week you actually saved my life, standing between me and the MSS. How serendipitous!”
“You’re insane,” Mark spat. “Why would you do this? Why the hell would you go to all this trouble to rope me into your disgusting game?”
“When I heard about who you were and what you’d done in China, I knew I’d found you at last. We have similar stories, as you surely realize by now. We suffered greatly at the hands of the Chinese, and were turned against our own countries, but only temporarily. And in spite of it all, we accomplished great things. I saw much of myself in you.”
“I’m not your goddamn gladiator hero,” Mark growled.
“Oh, of course not!” Crayton said, looking surprised. “You’re my villain. My perfect villain.”
“What?” Mark said, taken aback.
“Can’t you see now?” Crayton said. “Everything you’ve done to get to this point? Yes, you had a brief brush with heroism when you killed Burton Drescher, but after that? Slowly, you’ve become the most loathed man in America. And that’s even before what’s coming next.”
Mark didn’t understand. He’s literally out of his mind.
“The bracket was not as random as it appeared to be,” Crayton continued. “Pitting you against Chase Cassidy, a beloved national treasure, was no accident. You slaughtered him without quarter ‘for the mission,’ as you liked to tell yourself. Then the old man, the monk, the war hero. You taunted him, and killed him too. And after that, Cassidy’s better half, Soren. The woman all of America was in love with. You butchered her as a hundred million watched. And Christ, you even have a damn eyepatch now!” Crayton laughed. “That certainly wasn’t planned, but it’s delightful.”
“None of this makes sense,” Mark said, shaking his head slowly, hoping that he was in a coma or dead and none of this was real. “You recruited me, you forced me through the bracket and now—” something dawned on him. If he’d been out for days … “Ethan. What happened to Ethan?”
Crayton smiled and gestured. The screen lit up with a replay of a fight. It was the other semifinal, Ethan versus Rusakov, and the two were locked in furious combat. Ethan was ducking and rolling under the massive axe, and Rusakov was struggling to keep pace, possibly still reeling from the wounds Aria had inflicted on him in the last round. Still, he fought with unholy fury, and Mark thought that Ethan was about to lose his head at any moment, which made him cringe in anticipation. But this was a tape. Whatever had happened had already happened, which was even more terrifying. The video froze.
“Don’t worry, Mark. I made it out alive.”
The voice came from behind him. Ethan’s. Mark twisted and turned, but his restraints and the high back chair wouldn’t let him see the rear of the room. Instead, Ethan walked slowly around the row of outward facing seats and stood next to Crayton, clad in his blue armor undersuit.
“Ethan, what are you doing here? Crayton—” Mark didn’t even know how to begin.
“Cut in the right places, and any giant will fall. I hacked him down to his knees, and made him faceplant into his own axeblade,” Ethan sneered. Something was off about him. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the man he’d spent the summer with, training, laughing, and sparring. This wasn’t his friend.
“Still catching up, Mark?” Crayton said, amused. “Well, if you think I went to a lot of trouble crafting the ideal villain for my little show here, imagine all the work it took to make myself a hero. Fortunately, my son has been as determined as me to see this through.”
“Son?” Mark said, feeling dizzy. “Are you fucking—”
“Bright little chap when I first met him a decade ago. Tried to blackmail me for a million dollars. Somehow got ahold of my DNA, and proved I was his. His mother was a model I’d slept with back in ’09 who ended up throwing herself off a penthouse balcony when she was sky-high on coke.”
Mark looked back and forth between Crayton and Ethan, who stood next to the mogul with his arms folded. He’d never seen it before, but there it was. Not the same eyes, nose or mouth. That would have been obvious. But the line of their jaw. The shape of their ears. The cut of their cheekbones. The barest hint of a resemblance hidden in plain sight.
“I could have let him simply become another tabloid rumor, but I kept him around. Took him under my wing, in private, of course. And when the Crucible first became a spark in my brain, I started training him. He started with the sword and shield before he even got his driver’s license. He understood what we could do together.”
“But Lily, the kids—” Mark stammered. Gideon. Ethan. Where did it end? This was a waking nightmare.
“Actors,” Ethan said with thinly veiled disgust. “Who signed a very unique contract they will never want to break. Don’t get me started on those brats. But they were necessary for the story to work. The war hero with the dying wife. The only competitor that everyone has to root for.”
Mark thought back to all the times Lily had seemed nervous, bordering on terrified out of her mind. The kids so polite and rehearsed. Except little Kellan …
“I want to see my daddy!”
Mark’s brain felt like it was melting.
“Haven’t you seen Ethan’s rise, Mark?” Crayton said. “It’s the opposite of your own. He’s killed one horrible, spoiled billionaire and two of my Prison Wars monstrosities, one of whom was famous for not being able to die. Ethan has been on the hero’s path from moment one. It’s a classic tale, through and through.”
“And now you,” Ethan said, pointing, “are the last dragon to slay.”
“What is the point?” Mark yelled. His entire body was shaking with rage. “What the hell are you hoping to achieve through all of this?”
“Billions of dollars and public approval numbers that would make any sitting governor or senator in this country nervous,” Crayton said with a twinkle in his cold blue eyes. “But those are just the obvious perks. In order to cement a lasting legacy for the Crucible, I told you, I needed that story.”
“You’re crazy,” Mark said. “China broke you. The Beijing pits. The fights. The White Devil. That’s why—”
Crayton acted like he didn’t even hear him.
“Don’t you remember what I told you in this very box weeks ago?” Crayton asked. “How America has been thirsting for a war, something that Cold War II never gave them? Well, this is it. This is America versus China at last. A fight out in the open, not lurking in the shadows. This is what they’ve been waiting for all this time.”
Mark laughed.
“That’s it? That’s your master plan? Make me out to be a stand-in for China, when you’re the one working for them?”
“I used them like they tried to use me,” Crayton said flatly, betraying a hint of annoyance. “I took their money and built an empire. I have done nothing to betray this country. I love this country. That was their mistake in sending me here. No matter what horrors you’ve experienced, or what they drill into you for a decade, once you get to America, you can’t help but adore it.”
“So I’m the Chinese villain because what, I’m Asian and I killed a movie star and a Barbie doll? Fucking pathetic,” Mark said.
“Fortunately, all the greatest lies have truth twisted into them,” Crayton said, his smile growing wide. He motioned to someone behind Mark. “Wyatt, I think it’s time. Let’s take a look out the windows, and kill the dampeners.”
There was a dull rumbling that Mark thought was an earthquake, but suddenly understood. It was the crowd. The window lost its tint and Mark could see out into the stands. 250,000 fans were roaring with anticipation. For the grand finals of the Crucible. Across from them on the big screen were portraits of Ethan and Mark with a countdown timer. Only minutes left.
“I should head down,” Ethan said. “Have to armor up and start working on some tears for the cameras.” If Mark could, he would have ripped himself out of the chair and strangled Ethan right then and there.
“Why?” Mark said, turning back to Crayton. “Why tell me any of this?”
“If I wasn’t incarcerated after Zhou’s confession, you would have been spooked and either run for the hills with your perky little sidekick in tow, or you’d be out in the crowd somewhere, drawing a bead on me with a rifle.”
He paused.
“But you had to know about Ethan too, because I want the cameras to see the hate in your eyes as you try and kill my son. Now that you know the truth about your ‘friend,’ you will fight like you’re supposed to. Like the cornered savage trying to murder the wholesome American hero.”
“I won’t fight,” Mark said. “I’ll stand there and I’ll die before I let you finish this abominable ‘plan’ of yours.”
“Oh you will fight,” Crayton said. He pulled up a new screen on the window. Mark suspected no one in the crowd could see in at the moment.
Mark’s heart sank as he saw what was on the monitor. Carlo and his family were in Mark’s box, along with a worried-looking Brooke who kept checking her phone. The Riveras were excited and chattering away, sipping soda and eating popcorn.
“If you don’t fight, Mr. Axton will slip something into Carlo’s next soda. A few days later, he will die after a massive stroke. Complications from his injury. And though you won’t live to see it, Brooke will disappear from the face of this earth. I might send her to my Chinese adversaries as a peace offering so we can put all this messiness behind us. I imagine they’ll have plenty of use for a pretty blonde CIA officer.”
Mark strained against his restraints, which only dug into his wrists and ankles. His eye hurt, his old wounds hurt. The drexophine had been purged from his system, it seemed. Out on the sand, Ethan’s heartwrenching intro video played once more, and a few minutes later he strode out into the arena, dressed in American crimson, sapphire, and silver, burnished brightly for his final bout. The crowd chanted his name endlessly, and he waved to them with tears in his eyes. With Lily in a “coma,” only his fake children were in attendance, and the camera showed them being held by relatives, who were no doubt actually CMI caretakers.
Suddenly, more men entered Crayton’s box. Armored Glasshammer guards bringing several large cases. Leading them was Wyatt Axton. Mark’s handcuffs clicked off, but before he could lunge forward, Axton had his Desert Eagle aimed directly at his forehead.
“Don’t.” The gun clicked menacingly.
The other men opened the cases and started pulling out pieces of Mark’s thin black armor, attaching it to his undersuit. When they were done with his torso, his leg restraints were lifted and they fastened the rest of his armor to his lower half. After, he stood next to Crayton and all the cuffs went back on. Only then did they slide his sword into the scabbard on his back, but his body was bound too tightly to reach it. He watched the video of Brooke and Carlo on the glass. He felt the end of Axton’s gun brushing the hair on the back of his neck.
“And now, there’s only one last thing to share,” Crayton said, seeming almost downright giddy. “The true face of evil, revealed.”
Mark expected his entrance video to play, but something else appeared on the screen instead. It was a grainy, older video, filmed in a dark room.
Suddenly, a face came into focus. His own. The video cut to black.
MARK WEI IS A SPY, the caption read.
The video returned. Mark saw himself gaunt and pale, wearing the officer’s uniform he’d worn in China after he’d gotten out of the hole.
MARK WEI IS A TRAITOR.
This time, the camera panned out. It showed a man tied to a chair. Mark was leaning over him, tearing into his flesh with a curved knife.
No, no, no. no. There’s no way.
MARK WEI IS A MURDERER.
“Where is the rest of your squad?” the Mark in the video barked before cutting into the man again. He’d been at it for a while, judging by all the blood. Zhou stood behind him with a thin smile on his lips. “What is your extraction protocol?”
The man’s voice wavered, but he said the same thing he always did.
“Lieutenant Marcus O’Connor. United States Army. Service Number 8355521. D.O.B. 6/22/2002.”
The crowd gasped at the footage. Their screams were deafening, an angry hive agitated to a frenzy. And who could blame them?
How the hell …
“I told you,” Crayton said with that sick smile. “The best lies are twisted with truth. And this truth came courtesy of the MSS data archives a few years back. This was the video that convinced me you were my man. You are everything they hate,” he said, gesturing outward to the riotous crowd. “And now this entire country is on their feet, screaming at their televisions, waiting for you to die. No, demanding it.”
“I—I,” Mark stammered. “I had to. It was for the mission. I won that fucking war!”
“While I understand you’re a true patriot, the rest of the world will not. And the CIA, the real CIA will deny all of this until the end of days, as you well know. China too, for their part.”
Mark couldn’t escape the fact that he had done it. That he had tortured and killed this innocent soldier to keep his cover. His sins were eating him alive right before his eyes. He tried to steel himself, and turned toward Crayton. Axton’s gun pressed deeper into his neck.
“You want me to fight, I’ll fight. But I’ll kill him. I don’t care how long you’ve been grooming him to be your little gladiator psychopath. He will die.”
Crayton gestured to one of the guards.
“Even if you could defeat him in your current state, which I doubt, I’m not planning on leaving anything to
chance. This bracket has been difficult to shape, but it’s worked so far.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s worked?”
“Whoever needs to win is often flooded with an overabundance of my miracle drug in their system.”
“Drexophine,” Mark said. He understood instantly. He thought about Rusakov shrugging off Aria’s blades like they were nothing. He thought of Soren taking a maul to the ribs and staying on her feet. Hell, even a few of his own injuries he’d been able to push past with relative ease.
“But there’s another side to that coin,” Crayton continued. “The lab boys call it nuravine.”
Mark winced as a small needle was jabbed into his temple, right outside the borders of his eye patch.
“My bio-dev team tells me it can amplify the sensitivity of pain receptors up to fifty-fold. It can make a papercut feel like you’ve just cut off your finger. I can only imagine what it’s going to do to your poor eye socket.”
The burning hit Mark like he’d just stuck half his face onto a hot grill. The pain was excruciating, unbelievable. What had been a dull throbbing was now a crashing wave of needles jabbing into every square millimeter of flesh around the wound on his face. He felt it in his other injures, his cracked skull from the Tagami fight, his forearm slice from Cassidy. He swore he could even feel it in his old scars, the ones Zhou had carved onto him years ago. He almost lost his balance, and the guards had to steady him.
“Heavy dose,” Crayton said. “But I told Ethan to make it look convincing. And you should too, for the sake of your friends.”
Mark thought back to Moses wincing from his gut wound and talking about his drexophine ‘allergy.’ Aria fighting on a foot that wouldn’t heal. Hell, he’d probably even done it to Rusakov, to help him lose against Ethan. This was how Crayton stacked the deck. He made one fighter oblivious to pain, and hobbled the other.
Crayton took Mark by his armored shoulders and looked into his watering, remaining eye.
“I just want to thank you for making all this possible. It’s been such a journey, and I’m sad to see it end. We’ve done a great thing here, whether you see it or not.”