Shadow Fray

by Bradley Lloyd

  “It makes me glad to see it. He’s a very special boy.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  She didn’t reply but smiled again, this time with closed lips. It was a warm smile, one of closure meant to spare him any more words. He smiled his own good-bye in return and watched her walk back into the school building.

  Justin turned as well, moving at a brisk pace back down the street. He had a mission. He’d check on Levi. In fact, maybe he’d buy the guy some beer while running deliveries today. This Fray would be a payoff, especially since he was going to win, so he could afford it.

  He felt like doing a good deed, and Charlie would definitely approve.

  Chapter 10

  JUSTIN PARKED his semielectric car several blocks from the church. An amalgamation of replaced and reprinted parts, the vehicle was nothing to look at, and no one should pay much mind to it, even at night.

  Looking around, he saw only one residence close by. It was a brick four-story complex a block from where he parked. Several other buildings surrounded the Basilica, but these were not more than two stories and showed no evidence of life. If people were in them, they would be focused on whatever they were snorting, shooting, drinking, or fucking, not tonight’s Fray.

  As he knew from his visit Sunday, the street was pretty well taken care of, and that made him nervous. Most of the city streets had only a minimum level of maintenance and were largely gravel, but this one had asphalt, indicating this Arena was another high-profile building. It wasn’t unheard of to have an Arena that was in-use as opposed to remote or abandoned, but this was the most prominent one to date. Thankfully the road looked deserted right now.

  A sudden rap on his car window startled him, but he immediately recognized the trench coat. Scarecrow walked around the car, opened the door, and sat down in the passenger seat. Justin gripped the wheel and tried to slow his breathing.

  “You look a little jumpy, kid. That’s all right, though. Nothing wrong with a little extra adrenaline before a fight.”

  Justin nodded.

  “You don’t talk much, do you? Can’t say I mind. You greased up?”

  Justin nodded again.

  “Good. Put the gloves on.”

  Justin reached to the right of the seat, picked up the cold leather gloves, and slid them on.

  “Remember, keep the left hand in a fist, and keep the right one relaxed when you walk in.”

  Justin nodded once. He couldn’t wait for this fight to be over, to not have these gloves constantly on his mind.

  “One more thing I didn’t tell you last time. This is important. They want you to go for the face.”

  Justin clenched his jaw. Swallowed.

  “Don’t pussy out on me, killer. This is big time for you. Everyone is gonna be watching you, especially the people in charge. Don’t piss them off, and most of all, don’t piss me off.”

  “Why go for the face?”

  “Don’t fuckin’ ask why. It’s not healthy. Question these things and you’ll be on the wrong end of one of these arrangements.”

  “Wasn’t I already?”

  “There you go, then. Either this guy tonight is a nobody like you and they want to make it more interesting, or….” Justin turned to look at Scarecrow as the man rubbed his hands together. “Or it’s someone so good people have stopped betting against him.”

  Justin went cold. He could only think of one person people wouldn’t bet against. But that made no sense. They wouldn’t want Black Jim out of the game. He brought in more views to Shadow Fray than anyone else, by far.

  It couldn’t be Black Jim. It must be some poor schmuck they wanted out. But that still wasn’t okay. Could Justin somehow hold back and get away with it? He’d never envisioned clawing someone’s face apart. He couldn’t do that. Could he?

  “Ready?” Scarecrow asked. “It’s time.”

  Justin had to make this look good. He had to make everyone watching believe. “I’m ready.”

  He was not ready for this. Not at all.

  HALE WASN’T ready for this.

  He stood at the front of the church a few yards from the altar. Moonlight entered the glass at the center of the dome far above his head and cast a silver glow to his shadowed form. He stood in pose with his arms slightly away from his body, palms facing back. Behind him on the altar, a much smaller crucifix looked down. The outspread hands and upturned palms on this ivory Christ were a stark contrast to the demon standing before it. Looking at the tiny lights of about thirty different cameras around the church, he knew he cast an imposing figure in this holiest of places. He loved the theatrics. He should feel like a god awakened from the underworld.

  Instead he felt like a puppet hanging on strings.

  He’d seen his little girl every day this week, and yet he was still lost. When he’d lived next door and all that separated them was a wall, he could at least pretend he was living with her. She was in the next room. Now that he’d moved, he felt every single foot of the distance between them.

  Here in the Arena, he felt that distance more keenly. He had a bad feeling about tonight. Whether from the lack of sleep or the disruption in his life, he was nervous like he hadn’t been in years, with a gnawing thought that he might not see his baby girl again. Maybe he should get out of the games after all.

  But those were ridiculous thoughts. Benz would catch any questionable shit someone might try to sneak by. Everyone in Shadow Fray was on alert, and nothing like what had happened in the Mutual Conglomerate Arena had happened since. No one had died. Besides, he was doing this for Eddie. He couldn’t back out. Why was he thinking about this at all? This had been settled with Benz weeks ago.

  He needed to get his mind on the fight. Be Black Jim.

  He heard the large front doors of the church open. Benz stood three-quarters of the way down the center aisle, careful not to block his view, but it was too dark for Hale to see clearly. Whoever it was, they weren’t making a subtle entrance. Of course, this was hardly the Arena for subtlety.

  It had been a long time since he didn’t have to consciously drag out a fight. He’d be fine. Everything would be fine.

  And then he saw the brown-hood mask of the man walking toward him, the man everyone called Scarecrow. That meant—

  Shit. He never should have spit in that holy water. But Scarecrow had other Brawlers, right? It might not be him. It might not be the Visitor. Hale tried to look down the aisle, but now Scarecrow was in the way, and Benz was getting ready to inspect whoever was behind him.

  Scarecrow took the long walk down the aisle and knelt before Hale. The freak began inspecting Hale’s boots, pressing the thin soles to find any irregularities. Scarecrow’s hands wandered up, patting Hale down so thoroughly that by the time he was done, Scarecrow knew exactly how big Hale’s dick was. Hale didn’t even glance at him.

  Scarecrow walked back down the aisle. Hale’s mind was frozen.

  As Benz lowered himself to the floor to begin his inspection, Hale finally got a look at his opponent. Lit only by the candles along the sides of the church, he was just a shadow, but Hale recognized him immediately. Those broad shoulders were unmistakable.

  The Visitor.

  The kid could easily wrap a man in his arms and fold in on him, like a mousetrap. The flickering light gave a hint of his bare chest, and Hale pictured the sparse dusting of hair. He could see the outline of the guy’s hip bones and was familiar with the ridges of stomach muscle between them. The kid didn’t appear to be returning his gaze, though. Odd. Usually his foes stared like an animal caught in headlights.

  Hale started to tremble slightly, thankful for the darkness so no one would notice. Was he scared? This poor kid, the one he had spent weeks watching, was going to fight Black Jim. Why should Hale be scared? Because he felt bad for the kid? Was there a part of him that didn’t want to hit him? No, that wouldn’t explain the bad feeling he had, the feeling that something was wrong.

  Hale spent the remaining seconds trying to put his
poisoned thoughts aside and focus on that other feeling he had. The feeling that he was going to put his hands all over the Visitor.

  The feeling of excitement.

  Chapter 11

  Second Fray. Arena: Basilica of St. Josaphat.

  JUSTIN HAD to consciously keep his feet planted to the ground because his whole body was telling him to run. Run before he got caught. Run before he had to face this man who stared him down now like an unholy beast. Run before he had to tear the flesh off that pitch-covered face.

  No.

  He wouldn’t go for the face. Decision number one.

  I need a plan and fast. Was that a line from cartoons he watched with Charlie or some old movie? Seconds. He had seconds.

  The church was dark. Candles lit the side walls, but not the altar or the front of the church. It would be darker there. Could he find a way to let Black Jim know he had a weapon? Without anyone knowing? And how? Whisper in his ear like they were kids with a goddamn secret? With fifty cameras recording their every move?

  The hulk of a handler before him was moving his hands up Justin’s body. Justin clenched his left fist. Could he signal Black Jim’s handler somehow? Give himself away? Scarecrow was standing about a foot behind him, watching. It would be difficult but his best shot.

  The man brought Justin’s arms out and forced him to put both his hands flat, palms down. He sandwiched Justin’s left hand, kneading the underside with upturned fingers. He might feel it. He might find it. Please find it.

  The man moved on to Justin’s right hand. All Justin needed to do was make a fist. The man’s fingers probed the palm-side of the glove, his other hand running across the top. Justin’s hand twitched. The man didn’t even notice. Instead his fingers trailed over Justin’s fingertips, missing the small pieces of metal hidden at his knuckles.

  He didn’t find it. A cold sweat broke across Justin’s bare back.

  Fight one-handed? He was screwed. He had to find a way to disable the glove or remove it. Maybe he could get Black Jim to remove it. Best bet.

  It was time to meet those eyes. Justin looked up, focusing on his target. The shadowy specter might look like the angel of death, but he was just a man—a man with blue eyes.

  Justin counted down in his head.

  Three. He squared himself. He could feel the handler in front of him finishing up. Every muscle tensed, preparing.

  Two. He took a deep breath. This was the moment he had dreamed about. He was facing Black Jim. Terror.

  One. Anger. This moment was stolen from him. He should have a measure of excitement. He should be admiring the figure standing in front of the altar, muscled and unmoving like a black marble sculpture. But no, just terror and anger.

  Zero. The handler stepped aside. Anger. Now there was only anger.

  Justin tore off down the center aisle with a guttural yell. Tonight he would be the demon.

  THIS WAS interesting.

  Hale could count on one hand the number of men who had tried to rush him. Speed was Black Jim’s advantage, and such a move reeked of desperation.

  Hale got lower in a ready stance, watching the kid’s midsection as he neared. While the direction of the legs, hands, and head could be misleading, the navel didn’t lie.

  As the kid approached, Hale actually relaxed. He needed to be loose. Dodge low, punch to the groin. That’d slow the guy down.

  Hale could see the windup. The kid was telegraphing his punch—a nervous and hasty mistake. Hale prepared to hit where he anticipated an opening in the kid’s side. He’d go easy on the nuts for now.

  And then the kid fell. No, not fell—it was on purpose. The kid slid on the marble floor full tilt into Hale’s legs. Hale tried to sidestep, but it was too late. His balance gone, Hale fell awkwardly on top of the Visitor and felt the kid’s fingers grasping for purchase, trying to roll him and gain the top position.

  Shit. Smart move, that. Using the aisle and the slick surface of the marble showed an awareness of the environment Hale should have anticipated. No matter. He closed his arms around the kid, feeling the tight muscles compress against his own. They clutched each other as though in a face-to-face hug.

  Hale went with the direction the kid was trying to roll him, allowing himself to be on the bottom. But this was a bluff, as Hale continued the roll, flipping the kid back over, using the momentum to disorient and assume the top position.

  On top, Hale used his knees in a crushing grip. The kid couldn’t throw a good punch lying on his back. Hale used one hand to brace the kid’s shoulder while he slammed into the kid’s face, striking right three times in succession—bam, bam, bam. Dark blood squirted out from under the leather mask.

  The kid returned the punch as best he could with his left, but it was weak. Then he tried to squirm out, but Hale held him with his knees. Hale felt the kid’s legs wrap around his trunk, looking to gain leverage. Hale gave him another two punches, this time to his jaw, because c’mon—he didn’t want to ruin the pretty face he hoped was under that mask.

  The kid managed to shift his shoulder, and Hale’s grasp fell to the inside. The kid immediately wrapped his arm around Hale’s hand, pinning it in his armpit. Now he had a grip on Hale, and between the kid’s legs wrapped around him and his trapped arm, the tables turned as the kid rolled him over.

  Without warning his shoulder hit the wooden pew at his side. Shit—out of space. He was not only on the bottom but cornered, one side effectively eliminated. He wrapped his legs around the kid as the kid connected with three hits to Hale’s ribcage. Bam, bam, bam.

  He knew after the first punch, but he could do nothing to stop the second and third. This hit bone. He could see the small metal spikes poking out, metal spikes that were digging into his skin and scraping against his ribs.

  The pain was not as keen as the panic. He couldn’t escape. This fucking kid had a weapon. He instinctively brought his hands up to his face as the kid wound up for another punch.

  But then the kid was on his feet, bouncing back away from Hale, slipping into the shadowed chancel. Hale was free. The kid had let him up. But why?

  Hale kicked up, going from his back to his feet in one fluid motion. The kid seemed to be taking a moment to recover from Hale’s assault, clearing his throat and coughing something thick and bloody onto the marble floor.

  Hale winced, clutching his side. How had Benz missed it?

  Hale’s only chance to get out of this was to negate the glove. The best way to do that would be to remove it. The best way to remove it would be to try to take the kid down, fast, into a submission hold, preferably one that restricted the airway. Fast, fast, fast; the longer this went on, the more likely Hale was to be torn up.

  He was on his feet for less than a second, and like a bolt he was off, closing the distance between him and the kid.

  He faked a left but didn’t intend to drive it home. He wanted to get the kid’s right fist up where he could see it, and punching with his left would force the kid to block with his right and keep that glove high. It worked, and he danced around the kid, tempting punches with his left, looking for an opening.

  Despite the advantage the kid had with a weaponed right, he seemed in no hurry to use it. They circled each other. Hale took a moment to look into the kid’s eyes, to peer behind the mask. He’d looked into a lot of eyes in his career. He knew determination when he saw it. He knew confidence. But the look he saw now was far more familiar: fear.

  The kid took the moment’s pause to attack hard with his right, driving toward Hale’s face. Too slow. Hale bobbed backward, the punch doing nothing but giving off a stiff breeze.

  Seeing his opening, Hale swung his left foot, high. He heard the smack as his foot connected, not from the sole, but from the top, like one would kick a ball or a pigeon. The connection was solid and fast like a snakebite, the foot impacting around the ninth and tenth ribs, the toes angled back toward the kid’s spine.

  The kid bounced back. One step. Two steps. In his third step back, he
clutched his side and went down. Hale had hit his liver.

  When delivered correctly, a liver shot can completely incapacitate an opponent, interrupting their circulation and causing excruciating pain, often effectively ending the fight. But Hale wasn’t taking any chances that this fight was already over.

  He punched the kid on the raw side of his face, landing him flat on the ground. He got on top of him, completely stretched out, using his whole body to hold the kid down. He could feel the soft groaning of his prey. He wrapped his arms around the kid’s shoulders and neck and heard a muffled choking.

  Pressed body to body, Hale could feel the taut muscles under him struggling weakly for release. He still wasn’t in a good position to remove the glove, but he wouldn’t have to if the fight was over. He stayed on top of the kid, their groins pressed together, the kid’s head in the nook of Hale’s neck as his arms worked to squeeze the air from him. The kid’s arms were out, flailing more than punching, nothing connecting. “Shhhh,” Hale whispered in his ear, smelling the kid’s sweat mingled with the rusty scent of blood. “Just relax. It’ll be over soon.”

  He took a second to revel in the kid’s body, to feel it writhe underneath him. In a flash, Hale knew he wanted the chance to do this again, to have the Visitor under him, to have this man at his mercy. Hale was like a god, in complete control, able to do anything he wished. It was a feeling better than any drug, a feeling he hadn’t had in his other fights, at least not this intimately. As the kid struggled, Hale felt their legs slip, interlocking side by side like teeth in a zipper, his groin pressed to the kid’s upper thigh, rubbing as he struggled.

  But Hale’s mind wasn’t in the fight, and the second cost him. The kid used the leverage in his legs to roll onto his stomach. Shit. But Hale still had him contained. The Visitor was still Black Jim’s bitch.

  Then the kid arched his broad back, bringing his knees under him and tipping his head down.