Twelve

by Dustin Stevens

  Forty-Five

  Winston waited until the last of the servers cleared away the dishes from the first course. As soon as they disappeared, he swept into the room and headed for the podium. The plastic smile was back upon his face.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your appetizer for the evening.” As he spoke, he motioned towards the tables before him.

  “And your appetizer for this evening.” This time, he motioned towards the televisions surrounding the room.

  “When planning, we thought the meet and greet session earlier in the foyer would provide you a chance to see the competitors up close. Let’s be honest though, until you saw them in action, you had no idea what to expect.”

  Several of the men in the audience nodded approval.

  “I assure you, from this moment forth our grounds are designed to pit our competitors against one another.”

  Winston pressed the first silver button and the original schematic appeared in the middle of the central screen. On it were twelve blinking red dots, each representing the path of one of the fighters. Around the edge of the room, televisions continued to monitor the combatants as they traversed the halls.

  Winston pressed a green button along the left side of the podium and on cue the kitchen doors swung open. Through them filed a steady stream of waiters, each carrying trays piled high with fresh lobster, Beef Wellington and roasted quail.

  A potpourri of rich smells permeated the air.

  Winston ignored the servers and instead studied the map before him. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for. He pressed the fifth silver button and the schematic above him was replaced by a view to a single large room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it would appear that we have our first real contest of the evening set to begin. Please, enjoy.”

  Forty-Six

  The room was on the ground level. It was well lit and had hardwood floors with a thick red rug on the ground. A table was along one wall and an imitation Monet hung on the wall above it.

  Every muscle in Elin Li’s striated body was tense as she walked down the hallway. The spandex bra and shorts she wore clung to her milky skin. Her sole-less shoes made no sound as she padded over the wooden floors.

  She entered the room first.

  A moment later, an iron grate slid across the hallway she had just walked down and locked into place. Remaining motionless, she retreated and pressed her back against it. Using her peripheral vision, she watched the two hallways in front of her.

  She heard him long before she saw him.

  Coming down the right hallway she heard a voice talking aloud to himself. “Come on now bro! They brought me here to fight. Let’s do this, I’m ready to fight!”

  Katsu Okahato approached the hallway in a much different manner from Li. His dark jeans and t-shirt were baggy against his skin and his running shoes squeaked against the clean wooden floors. He walked into the room without the slightest pause.

  “I tell these fools, don’t bring me here unless I’m going to get to fight. So what do they do? Stick me in some maze like a damn mouse trying to find a hunk of cheese.”

  It wasn’t until he heard the sound of the iron grate closing behind him that he stopped.

  “Finally,” he muttered.

  His eyes searched the room, landing on Li.

  “Oh you have got to be kidding me. I come halfway around the world and they stick me in a room with some chick?”

  Li cocked her head to the side and nodded.

  Katsu ran his fingers up through his rust colored Mohawk, drawing them to a peak. “You know girl, if you wanted to get me alone, you only had to ask.”

  Li remained silent and began circling to her right.

  A cocky grin grew on Katsu’s face. “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be huh? Well alright, I like a little fire in my women.”

  The grin remained on Katsu’s face as he began to match the circling. The two fighters slowly converged on one another.

  “You know I can’t throw the first punch against-“

  Katsu’s sentence was cut short by a quick snap punch from Li. A thin line of blood sprang from his lip.

  The smile was gone. Incredulity spread across Katsu’s face as he dabbed at the blood on his chin. “You bitch!”

  In one movement he shot forward, snapping a series of fast punches straight at Li. Each one, she deftly deflected them to the side.

  After his third shot, she struck with a quick right jab to the nose. The blow brushed Katsu back for a moment.

  Li took advantage by dropping down and hitting a leg sweep, depositing Katsu heavily onto his back. A moment later, Li was atop him, snapping out three quick direct shots to the nose.

  Blood flowed from Katsu’s face as he shoved Li off him and struggled to his feet. He stumbled for several moments to find his legs before lunging hard at Li.

  In a single crisp movement, she drew the graphite pin from her hair and jammed it straight through his right tear duct, delivering it like an overhand right punch.

  Katsu screamed in pain and pawed at his eye with his left hand. His right swung lazily at Li as he stumbled forward. He made it only three steps before stumbling to his knees, and then his face.

  Li waited for him to fall motionless before rolling him over with her foot. She pulled the pin from his eye and wiped it on his shirt, rolled her hair into a tight bun and inserted the pin back through it.

  She stood to full height and stared at the camera mounted on the wall above her. On either side, the iron gates slid open with a bang.

  Forty-Seven

  Eleven minutes after turning the SUV around, Nixon skidded to a stop in front of a log cabin. The entire structure was made from old growth tree logs, each with circumferences over two feet in diameter. A heavy layer of Oregon moss grew over much of the outside. A porch with a sagging awning stretched along the length of the front.

  “What the hell is this?” Manus demanded.

  “Lumberjack Saloon,” Nixon said. “Or as the locals call it, The Jack.”

  “Call me crazy, but I’m not feeling like a drink.”

  Nixon swung his door open. “You said we need a warrant. Let’s go get one.”

  Manus pushed out from the car and around the front hood. Beside him, the other two SUV’s pulled in and began to unload.

  “Stay in your vehicles! We’re here for a warrant, then were headed back to town.” Manus paused. “Matter of fact, you guys go ahead and get going. Head towards Hillsboro. We’ll call you the second we have it.

  “Briggs, you’re in charge until we get there.”

  “And what are we looking for, sir?”

  “We’re looking for a man named Eric Winston. I don’t have time to explain everything right now, but just get me something to tell us where to find him. An invoice, a delivery address, anything.”

  “Yes sir,” Briggs said.

  A moment later, both cars disappeared in a cloud of dust and gravel.

  “This better work.”

  “It will,” Nixon said from the top step. “He owes me.”

  The interior was much larger than Manus anticipated. A dance floor was stretched out before them and a blues band was playing on a plywood stage in the corner.

  A stout wooden bar polished heavily with lacquer stretched across the entire left wall. In the middle was a series of seats attached to long ropes with young women swinging back and forth, holding beers and laughing hard.

  “Classy,” Manus muttered.

  Nixon led them across the dance floor to two thick young men standing on either side of a door against the back wall. “The judge in?”

  The man on the left rolled his eyes. The man on the right stared at them. “They’re in the middle of a game. Nobody’s going in.”

  Nixon peeled twenty dollars from his pocket and held it up between his middle and index finger. The man sniffed and looked away.

  Nixon added a second twenty. The man reacted the same way.

  Be
fore Nixon could make another offer, Manus pulled the gun from his hip and pressed the barrel under the man’s nose. “You should have just taken his money.”

  The man retreated back against the wall, fear on his face. His eyes slid to his partner.

  “Don’t look over there," Manus said. "He can’t help you right now. Now, this man asked you if the judge was in.”

  Manus used his other hand and showed his FBI credentials. “Were with the FBI and we really need to see him. Okay?”

  “Uh, uh, yes sir. Go right on in.” With his right hand, the man turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Manus kept the gun where it was and stepped through before pulling it away.

  Nixon entered right behind him.

  Inside the room, five of six men looked up from a card table. Glasses of clear moonshine were scattered about and cigar smoke hung in the air.

  “What the hell?!” a man with grizzled red hair exclaimed.

  The sixth man continued shuffling the cards. “Damn Mark, you only had to ask to see me.”

  “I did," Nixon said. "They wouldn’t let us in.”

  The man’s gaze slid from the cards to the front door. “Kids are new. I’ll take care of it before next time.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Need a warrant.”

  “I figured that much. I mean, what have you got for me?”

  It took Manus a moment to realize what he was implying. For a moment, he fought the urge to put the gun up his nose as well.

  “How about calling in that favor you owe me?” Nixon said.

  The man paused for a moment. “As I recall, you already cashed that one in on the murdered fisherman case.”

  Nixon paused. “Shit, I did.”

  Manus studied the judge for a moment. He was a thick man with a heavy goatee and a receding hairline. On his left forearm was tattooed a large cross. On his right, an anchor.

  Manus decided to try another tactic. He returned the gun to its holster and slid his cell-phone from his hip. “You’re a military man, right?”

  The judge shifted his glance to Manus and then down to his forearm. “You can see I am.”

  “You ever have any men under you?”

  “Chief Petty Officer.”

  “So you know the feeling to be responsible for them?”

  The judge set the deck down on the table and leaned back in his chair.

  Manus stepped forward and showed the picture of Kelly to the judge. “This is my man. This is what happened to him tonight working a case I assigned him to.”

  The judge took the phone from him and studied the photo for a moment.

  Three minutes later they were in the SUV headed towards Hillsboro, warrant in hand.

  Forty-Eight

  The reaction of the crowd was an audible groan, interspersed with a few shouts of joy. Around the room, several men shook their heads. A few more waved their hands in frustration.

  A small handful smiled and bobbed their heads up and down happily. One even stood and yelped with excitement.

  “Looks like a few people got what they were looking for,” Winston said.

  “That was a surprisingly palatable opening bout. I’d say everybody got what they were looking for,” Rosner countered.

  Winston cast him another glare, but said nothing. He checked the betting tabulations on the machine in front of him. “Two and a half million on Okahato, just under half of that on Li.”

  “So neither one was expected to go that far anyway.”

  “No. Maake and Boucher are both over ten million. Others aren't far behind.”

  “What’s our total count at right now?” Rosner asked.

  “Just above sixty million.”

  Rosner sniffed and shook his head.

  “Is that not enough?” Winston asked.

  “Remember Peru last year? Over one hundred fifty million was wagered.”

  “Yes, but that’s over the course of the whole night. And there were five legitimate threats to take it. Our pool is a little more top heavy.”

  Rosner looked at Winston, but said nothing. He didn’t have to. Winston knew what he was thinking.

  Talent recruitment was his department.

  Winston pushed himself up from the table and stepped back to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are all enjoying your dinner...and that you enjoyed the first act in tonight’s show!”

  He pressed a button on the display before him and a heavy X crossed Okahato from the master list.

  Around the room, a few cheers went up, almost drowned out by the booing around them.

  Winston switched displays and the overview of the property replaced the grid of fighters on the screen.

  The schematic again sprang forth, displaying the grounds in intricate three-dimensional detail. A dozen dots flashed bright throughout the grounds, each representing those still breathing.

  No differentiation was made for Heath or the replacement Kelly.

  Winston studied the grid for several minutes. Finally, he pulled the schematic down and replaced it with a camera view from the third floor.

  Forty-Nine

  The third floor was a mixture of architectural styles. In some areas the wooden floors and tapestries of the lower level remained. In others, it was made of solid stone with accents of marble and glass.

  The two styles were localized to particular wings of the mansion, meeting at random spots.

  Kofi Jaxon’s path took him through the newer portion of the house. Heavy rugs covered much of the floor beneath his bare feet. Thick tapestries hung on the wall.

  He had peeled his shirt off and walked through the halls wearing only his cloth pants, which hung just past his knees. His dark black skin shined beneath the overhead lights as he moved through the halls. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the beads in his dreadlocks slapping at his back.

  Jaxon walked through the hall until it ended in a T. He paused as the warm wood and tapestries ended and grey stone and marble sculptures took their place.

  Jaxon paused at the end of the hall and sprung out into the intersection. His head swiveled in both directions for any sign of attack.

  The moment he left the wooden floor of the previous hallway, an iron grate slammed shut behind him.

  The sound of the gate let out a loud clanging sound. Right after, a deep guttural yell rang out in response.

  Jaxon tensed his body and stood at attention, watching in both directions. A moment later, Maake Fatu rounded a corner and stepped into view.

  Maake was dressed the same as Jaxon, though the similarities stopped there. His body was thick and round, with massive tattoos covering both arms and much of his chest.

  His arms, thick and meaty, hung several inches from his side and his girth seemed to engulf the width of the hallway as he stepped forward. Behind him, an iron gate slammed into place.

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Finally, some proper meat.”

  “Looks like you’ve had quite enough meat,” Jaxon retorted, his voice thick with Caribbean accent.

  Maake walked forward, slapping his chest with heavy hands. “Where I come from, we respect our superiors.”

  “In case you missed the introductions, I’m from an island too. And you’re not my superior.”

  A demented smile spread across Maake’s face. Inside his mouth, a few remaining teeth sprouted in different directions.

  Jaxon smirked in return and dropped into a low crouch. He swung his hands out in front of him and rhythmically swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  “You really think that capoeira is good enough to beat me?” Maake taunted.

  Without responding, Jaxon took a quick step forward and swung himself into a back flip. The move carried him close to his opponent’s body and at the last second, his foot smashed up under Maake’s chin.

  Jaxon landed on his feet and dropped his hand to the ground for balance. He looked up at Maake throug
h a tangle of dreadlocks. “Seems to work alright.”

  Maake shook his head twice and spit a stream of bloody spittle against the wall. “That’s it?”

  Jaxon pivoted up on to his right foot and shot into the air, swinging his leg around in a wide arc. The blow caught Maake on the side of the head.

  A loud smack of skin-to-skin contact rang out through the hallway, punctuated by the sound of beads jangling along Jaxon’s back.

  Again, Maake stood for a moment and shook his head. Another maniacal smile grew on his face. “My turn.”

  Jaxon’s eyes widened and once more he tried launching himself into the air to catch Maake with a kick.

  This time, just as he reached the height of his jump, Maake rushed forward and slammed his body into Jaxon. The impact sent Jaxon hurtling backwards, landing hard against the stone floor.

  Jaxon hit the ground and spun to face Maake, who was on him in three quick steps. Before he could move, a heavy fist crashed into the back of his neck. Saliva dripped onto the ground beneath him as he went to a knee and tried to rise.

  Another heavy hand crashed into the back of his head. Jaxon’s eyes blurred and he sunk to both knees.

  Maake stepped back for a moment and waited for Jaxon to look up at him.

  Jaxon paused for several long seconds, attempting to catch his breath. Finally he raised his gaze to Maake, long hair spread across his face.

  Forming his hand into a massive claw, Maake stepped forward and clamped it onto Jaxon’s throat.

  And then he squeezed.

  Jaxon’s eyes large and his tongue began to wag over his lips as Maake crushed his trachea with massive hands.

  Maake’s eyes searched the wall in front of him and spotted a camera taking it all in. He looked down at Jaxon struggling and stuck his long curved tongue out for the camera.

  “Ka Mate! Ka Mate!”

  Kill him! Kill him!

  Fifty

  The smell of food hung heavy in the air.

  Spread across each of the tables were mountainous piles of lobster shells and quail bones. Cranberry red napkins were wadded up and tossed atop plates and used silverware was strewn about.