by S W Vaughn
He struggled to his feet and inspected the room. It looked like an attic loft, windowless and musty. Bare rafters sloped up from the tops of two-foot walls at either side of the room to a point around eight feet high at an off-center point.
Like the basement, the furnishings were sparse. One table with one chair. Against the back wall, a worn cot sagged as though it had been rejected by the Army and taken it personally. A scuffed vinyl punching bag hung suspended from the midpoint of the angled ceiling. The bag was probably black at some point, but now it was faded to the muddy color of old tires.
So this place would be home for a while, at least until he managed to get Lillith away from this madhouse.
He picked up the cup. A faintly metallic, earthy odor wafted up from it.
“Don’t worry, boy. It’s not poison, or even drugs. Just a protein shake.”
Gabriel turned to meet Slade’s eyes at last, and debated whether it would be worth it to fling the contents of the cup into his smug face. Since he wasn’t yet strong enough to wage a war, he’d have to settle for drinking it.
He raised it to his lips and drained half in one swallow. The taste matched the smell — metal and dirt, thick and gritty. Forcing himself not to gag, he poured the rest down his throat. His stomach clenched and threatened revolt at the invasion.
Slade pointed again, this time to two black shapes near the closed door.
He picked them up. The shoes, made of suede, resembled moccasins. No solid soles, no rigidity at all. Probably so he couldn’t kick anyone hard enough to hurt. He put them on the floor and slid his bare feet into them.
“Seth wants to see you first.” The look on Slade’s face said it was the last thing he wanted, but he would nevertheless allow it. “Are you going to come quietly, or do I have to restrain you?”
“I’ll come.”
“Fine. Follow me.”
Slade led him down the ghostly staircase, back through the long corridors of the third-floor rooms and down again. Outside Doc’s office, he turned to face him with a hand on the knob.
“Seth won’t help you escape. I know you think you can trust him, but you can’t.” Slade took a menacing step toward him. Anger tightened his face. “No one here is on your side. No one. Understand?”
“Yes.” Despair turned the word into a choked whisper. He’d known that from the moment he and the doctor left the dining room. At least Doc would treat him decently, though.
“Go. I’ll be waiting.” Slade stood back, opened the door, and closed it behind him after he went through.
Bandages, scissors and ointment had been set out on the desk, but no one was waiting to use them. “Doc?” he called hesitantly into the silence. “You wanted to see me?”
“Be right there.” Doc’s muffled voice drifted out from behind the blue curtain. A quick smile flashed on when he emerged. “Hey, kid. How’re you feeling?”
He laughed bitterly. “I’ve been better.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Doc nodded at the bed. “Sit down and get your shirt off. We don’t have a lot of time. I want to check you again, and change those bandages.” After he disappeared into the bathroom, Gabriel peeled off his shirt and sat.
Doc came out drying his hands. “I live back there.” He jerked his head toward the curtain. “Like to keep things simple. Now, let’s see those wrists.”
He held out one arm obligingly. While the doctor cut and unwrapped bandages, he said, “Doc, can I ask you a question?”
Doc favored him with a wary look. “What?”
“When did I meet you … how long ago was it?”
“It was yesterday. Jesus, kid, where’ve you been?”
“In the attic, I think. Apollo brought me up there and I … guess I passed out. I didn’t know how long I was gone for.”
“Passed out. Yeah, sure. I bet you had a little help getting there. Am I right?”
Gabriel saw no need to answer that.
Doc had the bandages off now. The wounds looked the same, no better and no worse. Doc reached for the tube of ointment, smeared on a generous amount, and rewrapped with fresh gauze. Finished, he released the arm and began to work on the other wrist.
“I’m going to give you another dose of antibiotics and reposition the wraps on your ribs. A hot shower will do you a world of good. I’ve already talked to Marcus about it, and he agreed that you’ll have one after your … training.”
“Sounds great,” he muttered. “Do you happen to know when I’ll be starting this training?”
Doc didn’t meet his eyes. “Immediately after I’m done with you.”
No surprise there.
Doc poked, prodded and wrapped, and Gabriel mentally prepared himself for another day of brutality. He would survive. He had to. Lillith needed him.
The doctor finished quickly and ended the treatment with another shot. He returned his supplies to their proper places and produced an unmarked bottle of tablets. “Let me give you a dose of the strong stuff, kid. You’re going to need it.”
He stood and shook his head. “No. I won’t take drugs.” It was too easy to get hooked on them. It had been for Lillith. After they moved away from their father, she’d started having frequent headaches. Bad ones. The doctor he’d taken her to see prescribed a powerful painkiller that left her muddled and half-stoned — and as far as he knew, she’d still been taking them when she disappeared.
He would not allow drugs to cloud his mind. Especially now, when he needed more than ever to think clearly.
Doc sighed. “Okay. How about a couple of Tylenol?”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Extra strength?”
“Don’t push it, Doc.”
Doc laughed. He moved to the other side of his desk, extracted a white plastic bottle and uncapped it, shook three small white pills onto his palm. “Here. Six hundred milligrams of non-addictive acetaminophen. You can take another three in four hours. I’ll give you the bottle.” He pointed to the bathroom. “There are cups in there next to the sink. Go wash ’em down, and do whatever else you need to do.”
Gabriel gave him a grateful nod, then entered the bathroom and closed the door. Five minutes later, after another bout of burning elimination, he emerged pale and shaking.
Doc seemed to notice the change in him. “Don’t worry. The antibiotics I’m giving you will get you better. In the meantime, keep taking these as needed.” He pressed the bottle into his palm and held it there for a moment.
The door to the office opened and Slade scowled in at them. “I hope you’re finished, Seth. We’re going now. Mr. Morgan has an appointment to keep.”
Doc paled. “Christ, Marcus. I told you he isn’t ready for that. He’s in bad shape.”
“And I told you that it’s none of your concern. Didn’t I?”
“Fine. Don’t blame me when this blows up in your face, then.”
“Seth. It would be in your best interests to shut the hell up. Right now.”
Increasing dread filled Gabriel as the two men argued. He’d assumed this training was a foregone conclusion. Why would Doc try to talk Slade out of it now?
“Come on, boy. Don’t make me restrain you.”
With a wary glance at Doc, whose expression could have melted glass, Gabriel walked toward the door. “Tomorrow, Marcus,” Doc said in a stern voice behind him. “I mean it. I need to see him every day, for at least a week. Probably longer.”
Slade arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.
Gabriel joined his captor in the hallway. Slade closed the door, and shook his head as though ridding himself of the past few minutes. “We’re going back to the basement. The training room is there.”
Gabriel followed his lead. They reached the basement, passed the heavy door that opened on the dungeon, and walked to the end of the corridor. The hall terminated in another steel door with a large window set into the top. Slade opened it and gestured inside.
He entered a room that had to be half the size of the building, walled with
more gray cement. Several heavy bags hung from the ceiling, and a collection of weight machines lined the left wall. A large, roped sparring ring with a black mat floor dominated the far right corner. There were a few warm-up benches and an open door that appeared to lead to a locker room.
Slade pulled the door closed, then reached for the ever-present phone, dialed, and said, “We’re waiting.” He snapped it shut and regarded Gabriel, who stood rigid and mute, hands clenched at his sides.
“I’ll make this easy for you,” Slade said at last.
He couldn’t suppress a snort. Easy? It would be easier for him to cut off an arm or two with a butter knife than it was to submit to this man, to do his bidding and pretend everything was just fine, thank you.
Slade ignored his sarcasm. “Regarding my terms for your release, and your sister’s. I’ve calculated the amount of money Lillith would bring in, should she remain in my employ. I’ll spare you the details of how I arrived at this figure.” He paused to measure the effect his words had. “But the final tally is ten million dollars.”
“Bullshit,” he spat. “You pulled that number out of your ass.”
“I never guess when it comes to money, Mr. Morgan.” Slade’s blue eyes leveled coolly on him. “I am a businessman, and I deal in profits. Now, if you’d like me to review exactly how much your sister commands per client, per service, or how many years I expect her to last until she’s…”
“Stop!”
“Ten million dollars,” Slade repeated, emphasizing every word. “That is the price of Lillith’s freedom. You fight for me, you earn me ten million dollars, and then you and your sister are free to go. Unless, of course, you happen to have that much money on you?” He laughed at the black look Gabriel sent him. “No. I didn’t think so.”
The scrape of steel on cement announced the arrival of the trainers. Toward the front of the room, two Apollos entered. One smirking, the other frowning.
Gabriel blinked hard and shook his head. There were still two of them.
Slade indicated the frowning giant. “This is Sol. You already know Apollo.”
Apollo’s brother — they had to be twins, there was no other explanation — loomed in front of the door, while Apollo headed across the room and toward the lockers. Sol’s features mirrored his twin’s, but he thought they seemed softer, his massive body slightly more relaxed. He’d heard that identical twins often possessed opposite personalities. Maybe…
No one is on your side. The echo of Slade’s words mocked his hope. He couldn’t do anything now but stand his ground and endure whatever torments the twins threw at him. Save Lillith — and save himself.
“Remember, keep it light for today. The boy has an appointment,” Slade said when Apollo reentered the room.
What? If this wasn’t the ‘appointment’ he and Doc had argued about, what was?
Oh God. Jenner.
That’s what Slade had meant by the cryptic statement. Terror washed over him at the thought of the sadistic lieutenant, and he forced his mind away from trying to envision what the man would do to him this time.
Apollo acknowledged his boss’s orders with a hideous grin. Slade strode to the door. Sol moved aside to let him pass, and Slade stopped. “I expect your complete cooperation, Mr. Morgan. If Sol and Apollo feel that you aren’t training to full capacity, your sister will pay for your languor.”
The bastard left before he could protest.
Sol approached, and Gabriel stayed put. Apollo moved around the room, the occasional creak of a bag or the dull thunk of metal on metal suggesting he was checking the equipment. He could attack them, try to escape — no matter what he did down here, he had a feeling Slade would receive a bad report — but he couldn’t take both of them on. Not yet, anyway.
“I understand my brother has a problem with you.” Sol’s flat and inflectionless voice lacked the hatred that laced his twin’s speech.
Gabriel nodded. “Yeah. Jenner took away his fun.”
“Fucker needs to learn his place,” Apollo rumbled.
Sol ignored the comment. “You will pay attention to Sol, and only Sol.” He glanced at Apollo. “My brother is merely a sparring partner. I am your trainer. Do what I tell you, and Mr. Slade will not hear anything negative. Cross me, and it will be otherwise.” Sol’s expression didn’t change. His voice neither rose nor fell. The deliberate speech pattern put Gabriel on edge, but it was probably in his best interest to follow directions from him.
“Today we measure your ability. We start with the arms.” Sol pointed beyond him, and he followed the gesture. Behind him, Apollo steadied one of the punching bags. “You will hit the bag, one-two, one-two. Hard as you can. Go.”
“I can’t.”
“Your arms are broken?”
He held up his hands. “My wrists.”
“Broken?” Sol’s tone stayed flat, emotionless.
“No. Rope burn. And … Jenner.” The lieutenant’s name alone seemed sufficient explanation for everything else. He hoped it would be this time.
Sol frowned and pointed to an open floor mat further inside the room. “One hundred sit-ups, then. I will adjust your program.”
“But…” Hadn’t Doc said his ribs were broken?
“One hundred sit-ups,” Sol repeated, and pointed again. “Go.”
Don’t argue. He started across the room. The last thing he needed was a bad report. He stopped at the edge of the mat and glanced back. Sol walked along the row of machines against the opposite wall, occasionally stopping to inspect something. Apollo stood beside the heavy bag, arms folded, glaring. Angry must’ve been his natural state.
Gabriel positioned himself on the mat, laced his hands behind his head and tried not to put too much pressure on his wrists. The first lift sent knives through his torso. He gritted his teeth, did it again. Twice more. He gasped for breath and fell back, pulling his hands away just before his head hit the mat.
He stifled a groan and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Sol loomed over him. “Why have you stopped?”
“Sorry.” He drew his arms in, lifted his head. Under Sol’s blank gaze, he wrenched up, stopped in mid-raise, and dropped. “Damn it!” He’d failed to move his hands fast enough. His head smacked his wrists hard into the mat, and he grunted through the pain.
“You aren’t breathing properly.”
“I’m not breathing at all.”
“Why?”
“My ribs! Yes, they’re broken! Shit.” He turned his head away from the towering trainer. He’d done it now. Slade would hear about this.
Sol placed a hand on his chest. “You have them wrapped.”
“Yes.”
“Take it off.”
“What?”
“The wrap controls pain by preventing deep breathing. Take it off, and you will be able to breathe.”
Yes, great. And he’d be in uncontrolled pain.
He rolled on his side, sat up, pulled his shirt off and unfastened the clips. The bandage lost tension and slid down his torso. He inhaled, surprised to discover he did feel better. A little.
Sol nodded. “Breathe out as you lift, in as you lower. Keep your torso straight. It will hurt. You won’t damage your ribs further. Ninety-five more.”
Gabriel stared at him. Sol had counted his half-assed flop toward the total. A small kindness, but more than he’d expected. “Sure. Ninety-five. Got it.” He lay back down, and started again. The sharp pain migrated to a dull ache. He concentrated on counting, breathing, and barely noticed Sol slip away to return to the machines.
He could do this.
He would train hard. Even harder than they made him. He’d use their efforts against them and beat these bastards at their own game. He would make sure he was stronger than any opponent they could dig up, and he’d take revenge on his terms. Not theirs.
Not much of a plan, considering he knew nothing about how all this worked. But it kept him going for now.
Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. His pace slowed considerabl
y. Straining, bathed in sweat, he struggled up again and barely reached a seated position. He lost it on the way back down. No way he’d make a hundred. His ribs hummed a loud protest. Fire smoldered in his stomach. He drew a breath, tried to lift himself. Failed.
His mind was willing. But his body wasn’t in any condition to push anything.
Sol appeared at his feet. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile, or frown.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “Please. Slade will…”
“You can.” Sol knelt on the mat, gripped his ankles and held them down. “Twenty-nine more.”
He grimaced. With Sol bracing him, he managed to reach one hundred before he collapsed. Momentary triumph blossomed on the tail end of spent energy.
“A good start. We will work the legs now.”
More? He wasn’t sure he could get up, much less complete another workout. He started to protest and stopped himself. Sol hadn’t forced him to work against his wrists, and the trainer had been right about his ability to finish the sit-ups. If Sol thought he could do it, maybe he could.
He pushed up on his elbows and made himself stand. Sol gestured to the row of equipment opposite them, and he went.
Sol followed and pointed. “Set the weight at two hundred. Lift one-two-three, stop one-two-three. Go.”
He moved to the machine Sol indicated, an inclined bench with footrests designed to push down and let up. The weights were already set at 200, so he sat down, gripped the handholds at the sides and started pumping.
Leg lifts proved easier on his battered body. After three sets, Sol motioned for him to stop and moved the pin to 300 pounds. He finished five more sets, and once again Sol stopped him.
“We are running short on time. You will shower now, and then we will bring you to your appointment.”
Wincing, Gabriel clambered from the machine and headed to the locker room.
“Do not believe your training will be like this always,” Sol called after him. “Soon you will spar with Apollo.”
Great. Another delightful romp to look forward to. He nodded to acknowledge Sol’s words, passed a bank of lockers, and rounded the corner.
Like Doc’s office, the communal shower he found there reminded him of high school. The rectangular space with cracked beige tile walls and floor glowed eerily in the stark overhead light. Shower heads, four to a side, protruded from rusted steel circles, each station with its own hot and cold taps. Small drains dotted the floor, which sloped gently downward to a larger drain in the center.