SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  “Come now, child.” He tsks his tongue. “It’s not like you ever had a chance to tell Cort anything until four months ago.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t tell Lazar I knew either.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re a survivor, Anya Bokori. You know when to hold a card close. You understand better than most that the moment of illumination is almost never the time to throw that card down.” He flips a hand in the air. “But your opportunity is gone now. You missed it, nyuszi. You’re never going to get close enough to Cort again to spill my secrets. He is no threat to me. He never has been. He’s going to lose. He’s washed up. Regardless of what I told Lazar, we all know that the only reason Cort won that last fight is because you helped him.”

  I nod. “Mmm. Probably true. On both counts. But I’m not telling you this as a threat. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve figured it out.”

  “Have you?” He tips his juice glass to me. “Tell me then. What have you figured out?”

  “You… men.” I use the word hesitantly. Because they are not men, they are all demons. “You have to control everything, don’t you? Up to, and including, each other. And you use blackmail to do that.”

  Udulf’s breath escapes as an involuntary huff.

  “You do things. You film them. And then you hand that over to someone to hold over your head. It is a pact. A declaration of loyalty. And in this case, Lazar gave his over to you. That film you showed me that night. That was what you were holding over Lazar. It took me a long time to piece that together because you both look pretty guilty if you ask me. But even in your world, raping a child and skinning a child alive are two totally different things, aren’t they?”

  Udulf is silent for yet another moment. Then he laughs. “What do you want? A pat on the back? None of this matters, girl. It’s all water under the bridge.”

  It’s not. But I let that go and just move this conversation forward. “And Lazar had something on you too. Didn’t he? What was it?”

  “Again,” Udulf says. This time with honest disinterest. “None of this matters. The secret Lazar was holding is gone. It has been… cancelled.”

  Cancelled. That word makes me sick and I have to swallow hard to keep the bile from rising up inside me. “Not yet,” I say. “Because whatever else you may have done in your life, your secret was Lazar’s secret too.”

  He shakes his head. But he knows I’m right.

  “It’s not even the rape. It’s who you raped and who you didn’t want to know about that. Because if Cort knew, then, at the very least, he would stop fighting for you. He’d probably find a way to kill you as well, but that’s not even the point. The point is… you would have no fighters in the Ring. Would you? All your best fighters came from Cort’s camp. And he is their leader. One word from him and you lose them all.”

  Udulf actually guffaws. “They all want to live, Anya.” I smile at him for using my name instead of the derogatory nyuszi. “They don’t really care about him. Just look at Maart. He will kill Cort tomorrow. And he thinks he will set the camp free. Fine. Let him think that. Let them all think that they have a choice. But then, you only have to look at Rainer to see how it will end up.” He shrugs with his hands. “My boys, my camp. They are all mine. And that will never change because they are slaves, Anya. They are nothing but slaves.”

  I nod to move past this, but continue. Because I’m not quite done yet and he’s getting impatient. “But that night of the fight on the ship. That night I was supposed to be cancelled too, wasn’t I? Lazar wanted me dead because I knew his secret. You told him that I knew his secret. And even if I did know seventeen languages, and even if I was still able to spy for him, I was no longer worth the risk, was I?”

  “Anya.” He says my name sharply now. “I’m a busy man. What do you want? You’re wasting my time and I’m tired of this conversation.”

  He already knows what I will say. But I say it anyway. “I want to live, Udulf.”

  His breath escapes slowly. Like he might’ve been holding it. And then he smiles.

  “You want to live with me, you mean?”

  I nod. “With you.”

  “I bet you would.” He grins. Udulf van Hauten might be a sick, diabolical citizen of the uber-elite class who live in a world where there are no limits and his disgusting appetite for children is always satiated, but he is still just a man.

  I am not his preferred flavor, but I am still a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl. And he is still a man with an ego.

  I smile demurely as he gets up from the breakfast table, walks over to me, kisses my hand, and says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO - CORT

  My humble training village has been nearly empty for three days since Maart claimed all my fighters in his little coup and only left me Zoya, Rasha, and Irina.

  This is all I think about in the time between his betrayal and the fight.

  And I’m still thinking about it as my private, never-before-seen-or-photographed base camp is infiltrated by the other nine men in the world who own fighters in the Ring of Fire, and, of course, that pushy bitch of a reporter who tried to corner me for an interview back on the Bull of Light four months ago.

  I didn’t exactly agree to the interview. Udulf insisted. But I’m trying not to make waves here, since pretty much everything is on the line, so I don’t kill her outright when she saunters up to me, sticks her microphone in my face, and tells her cameraman to roll film. “Tell me, Sick Heart. Did you ever think you’d be back in the ring after that disastrous last fight?”

  “Disastrous?” She is enthralled by my voice, I can tell. She’s never heard it. No one outside of my camp, and Udulf, of course, has ever heard it. Because I have never given an interview. Maart was always there to do my talking. And now he’s not.

  “I’m still here,” I say, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice. “So I would not call it disastrous.”

  “Some say the only reason you won is because Anya Bokori helped you. Some even say she is the rightful winner of that fight.”

  I just blink at this woman. She is too old for that revealing red dress and heavy makeup. And if I were to touch her hair, it would be stiff and sticky from all the product. She is a shadow of the beautiful woman she was twenty years ago and I feel sorry for her. She was probably a whore. A very alluring one, for sure, but I can see the slave girl in her eyes. I can hear her history playing on repeat in her head. She probably started her life much like Anya did—a cherished toy as a child, a young girl just a little too pretty to throw away at the proper time, a woman to be used out in the wider world, and finally, when no one quite knew what to do with her, a reporter.

  It’s not her fault she ended up here. She was born into this. She doesn’t even know better. But she is a grown woman. So she should know better.

  “Anya Bokori’s name wasn’t on the playbill,” I say. “She didn’t give an interview for the Ring of Fire magazine.”

  “Neither did you.”

  She’s got a point there. “And yet you pulled one together. Anya Bokori is a simple, stupid girl who managed to stay alive longer than most. But her time is up.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I’m tired of this woman, so I narrow my eyes at her. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe your time is up.” I look her up and down in a demeaning way, then find her eyes again. “I mean… you’re getting a little old for this gig, don’t you think? Maybe Anya Bokori wants your job? The future belongs to the young, isn’t that what they say? And your youthful days are definitely over.”

  She huffs, then lowers her microphone, motions for the cameraman to stop rolling with a slicing motion across her throat, and says, “You’re a dick, you know that? No wonder they don’t let you talk. Good luck today.” She looks me up and down the same way I did her. “You’re gonna need it.”

  She’s not wrong. I am going to need it. I haven’t been training the way Maart has. I am not in shape. There is no way I could beat Maar
t in a fight today and my mind is swirling with anxiety about Ainsey.

  What are they doing with her? Who has been taking care of her? Will they bring her today? Will they make her watch?

  I think Rainer is taking care of her. I think they will bring her today. And I am positive they want her to watch me die. They want her to see it, be traumatized by it, learn from it. That’s how they get us when we’re young. It took me longer than I’m proud of to realize that, but it’s not my fault. It’s easy to deceive children. Way too easy.

  I don’t think they’re doing anything to Ainsey. Yet. But if Lazar takes her home—and he will, if I can’t stop him—then my little girl’s life will end soon, and it won’t be quick. He will go slow. He likes to go slow.

  The rage building up inside me is so thick, I almost can’t contain it. But the loud sound of a bus rumbles through camp. And when I walk over to the edge of the porch, I catch a glimpse of the front end through the trees.

  The invited guests are already here. This is not a sanctioned Ring of Fire fight, so that guest list was fairly small. Only the other owners were invited, and that number is exactly nine, plus Udulf and Lazar, and the mercs, doubling today as drivers since Udulf wants to keep this little party as elite as possible.

  Ego man, it never fails.

  So they have a grand total of thirty. Plus the reporter and her cameraman, that’s thirty-two. But I’m not sure they really count.

  So this bus rolling up holds my camp.

  I glance over at the nearest hut where Zoya, Rasha, and Irina have been staying. They are waiting it out on the porch as well, their eyes all tracking the movement over by the bus. They have a better view than I do, so they are more committed to their watching. But soon enough, I can see all my people.

  Rainer comes first, his eyes automatically tracking to me on the porch of our house. He’s holding Ainsey. But he looks away quickly, and when Ainsey’s gaze lingers on me for an extra second too long, he whispers something in her ear. Don’t look, he’s telling her. Don’t look at him. She turns her head, obeying.

  Evard is trailing behind Rainer. He doesn’t need to be told not to look.

  Then the rest appear. My entire camp. Fifteen more kids under thirteen. Four teenagers. Three grown women. And Maart. Not a single one of them looks at me.

  But it doesn’t matter anymore.

  I have what I need.

  I know who I am.

  Or rather, I know who I was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - ANYA

  The next morning I am escorted back to the base camp for the fight in a limo sitting between Udulf and Lazar.

  Nothing about this day is very clear to me. But I am very sure that the reason this fight is happening has less to do with how I helped Cort in the last one and more to do with some sick need of these two men to maintain control.

  Udulf hasn’t gotten back to me about where I will end up. Not that I expected him to. I expected him to go right to Lazar, have a little conversation about their shared secret, and part with their heads swirling with blood and delusions of grandeur.

  The purpose of our little chat yesterday was to make him see me. Because before that talk I was just a slave girl who outlived her usefulness and after that talk I was something else.

  I don’t really know how the story goes between Udulf and Lazar—but I can take a good guess.

  Once upon a time Udulf and Lazar were best friends. They grew up together. They went to school together. They shared the same interests, they shared the same goals, they shared the same sick desire for control.

  And when they were in their early teens—before they had money to buy their own house slaves to abuse and fighters to find glory, before they were asked to join the ranks of their elite elders—these young men, and probably others just like them from similar families all over the world, played their own game.

  Let’s call it… Breed and Hunt.

  Because that’s what it was.

  It was mostly just some really sick shit at first.

  They raped their father’s house slaves, got them pregnant, and then shipped them off somewhere private to have those brand-new baby slaves. Out of sight and out of mind until… those children were old enough to run. Then, they brought them back in containers and had a little hunt in the shipyards.

  That’s where Cort’s sister comes in.

  And maybe they took some of them home for later.

  That’s where Cort comes in.

  But along the way they realized that not all these children were useless bags of meat to be killed in ritualistic fashion.

  Some of them had survival instincts.

  And this was a real opportunity.

  I think this is how they started their stable of fighters.

  I think this is how they got their harem of house slaves.

  I think this is how it all began for Cort.

  Maybe it’s not one-hundred percent correct, but I’d bet my life that it’s pretty damn close.

  And my words to Udulf yesterday were just another part of that game. No one really cares what they did. No one is coming to arrest them. There will be no trial, no prison sentence, no consequences at all.

  Because these men rule the world. They are untouchable.

  And it doesn’t even matter if Cort finds out the secret of his beginnings. He’s already dead to them.

  Today, he and Maart will fight. Maart will win. And Maart won’t leave. Rainer has paved the way for this, so it’s not even unexpected that Maart would stay. They would all stay. Maart and Rainer would take over Cort’s base camp. Would continue the traditions. They would choose their own new crop of fighters. And then Maart and Rainer would be the ones sending little boys and girls onto the mat, or onto the platforms, or into some makeshift ring, and one by one, all these kids, along with thousands more around the world, would die trying.

  And, since this is the most successful camp in the Ring of Fire right now, those older teens that are ready to enter the Ring would keep the legacy going long enough for all of that to pan out. And the younger teens—like Irina, and Paulo, and Peng, and Maeko—they would be right behind them. Ready for their chance.

  It’s kind of a perfect plan.

  There are so many ways to keep the glory going in this scenario.

  This is what Udulf and Lazar are imagining this morning. And the only reason why they bothered to keep all this stuff secret for all these years is because Cort was winning. And Pavo was winning. And as long as they had winners, they were winners too.

  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

  They brought in money, and power, and prestige. By luck or by chance, this whole Breed and Hunt thing somehow… worked.

  But make no mistake—I can almost hear Lazar or Udulf whispering these words to one or the other in the past—as the undefeated world champion of the Ring of Fire, Cort van Breda was dangerous. And Pavo was coming right up behind him.

  I don’t know how Pavo came into this world. I have no idea what his story really was, but I’d bet money that it was very close to Cort’s.

  And these men who fight for their lives over and over again. These men who make it to the top of their game in the Ring… they are no joke, man. They are some dangerous fucking animals when the instincts kick in.

  It’s like those tiger trainers in Vegas. They put those beasts on stage for decades. Day, after day, after day. And they had this precarious hold over them. This sense of… control.

  No one really knows why the damn tigers went along with that shit show as long as they did. Maybe they loved their masters? Maybe they feared their masters? Maybe they just didn’t give a fuck?

  Or maybe… maybe they knew they were tigers but they had been kept in cages their whole lives so they didn’t really understand what it meant to be a tiger.

  It’s hard to read the mind of a beast, but one thing is for sure—control over something so powerful is only ever an illusion. And eventually, that illusion will be shattered.

 
This is what Udulf and Lazar were trying to prevent by keeping their shared secret.

  Because if the tigers really understood how they got there and what was taken from them in the process… well. We all know how that ended in real life.

  Udulf and Lazar are aging trainers standing on stage with fed-up tigers. And all that stands between them and the jaws of the beasts is a chair and a whip.

  Will it be enough?

  We’re about to find out.

  Our limo crawls up the dirt road and parks behind the bus that Maart and the rest of the camp came in on.

  Lazar opens his door and slips out. I’m just about to follow when Udulf grabs my arm. I turn to look at him and we stare at each other for a moment.

  He breaks the silence first. “I don’t know what the purpose of our chat was yesterday morning, but it’s not going to work.”

  “You don’t want me?” His pause tells me he’s not sure how to answer this. But I don’t care how he answers it. “Whatever, Udulf. It makes no difference to me.” Then I pull my arm away and get out of the limo on Lazar’s side.

  Lazar is wearing a cream-colored linen suit with a light blue shirt, mostly unbuttoned, showing off a thick patch of wild gray chest hair. He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, and dabs his head, mussing up his bleached-blond hair in the process. The jungle heat is overpowering and the humidity is thick enough to choke on, yet he wears this ridiculous suit in this ridiculous manner.

  And this is the moment when I see him for what he really is, and not what I thought he was. It’s a little bit sad, really. When the old still see themselves through the lens of the young.

  Udulf walks around the car and joins us. He’s wearing gray slacks and a white button-down shirt, but unlike Lazar, at least he has enough sense to actually button it.

  Lazar looks every bit a Vegas tiger trainer.

  And this fight is now his stage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - CORT