The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

Gabriel’s fourth match of the evening ended with his fourth consecutive victory, and his opponent’s second loss. Unfortunately, his opponent had been Duke. This wasn’t a good step toward future interactions with House Prometheus.

  Then Shiro met him at the foot of the platform and made things worse.

  “Well, my friend.” He slung an arm around Gabriel’s shoulder and steered him through the crowd. “You have just removed Prometheus from the tournament.”

  “I what?”

  Shiro grinned. “Duke was the last of their fighters in the running. Prometheus will not be represented in the final rounds.”

  “Oh, great.” He winced and cupped a hand against his ribs. He didn’t think anything was broken this time, but Duke’s boot had once again left its mark. “Just what I need. Another reason for Mendez to hate me.”

  Shiro lowered his arm. “Are you all right? Perhaps I should bring you to the medical facility.”

  “No, I’m fine. Let me grab my shirt.” He worked his way toward the far wall, to the makeshift pen comprised of straight-backed wooden chairs. Few of the fighters had bothered using the area. His shirt lay where he’d left it, draped over the back of a chair. He grabbed it, and quickly let go when he found it soaked. “What the hell?”

  Blood coated his palm and stained his fingers.

  Shiro came up beside him. “Is something … Gabriel! What happened?”

  “It’s not mine.” Sickened and furious, he picked up the shirt again and spread it open. PIG had been drizzled in spray-paint white on the plain black surface. The saturated material glistened darkly. Where did they get this much blood?

  “Kusotare,” Shiro snapped. “You must show this to the other leaders. They cannot be permitted to harass you like this.”

  Rough, mocking laughter sounded behind them. “Yeah, good idea, Angel. Go on and squeal some more. That’s what pigs do best.”

  “Mendez.” He dropped the shirt on the chair’s seat and turned to face the grinning bastard without bothering to wipe his hands. “Whose blood is this?”

  “It should be yours, puta. One of these days, it will be.”

  Nails emerged from the mob and stood just behind the House leader. “Guess the pig found his present, huh? Oh, but he don’t look happy. And we worked so hard on it, too.” He leaned on a chair and smirked. “I think he should put it on. After we went through all the trouble to personalize it, it’s only fair.”

  “Mendez, you are out of line.” Shiro moved forward with a threatening glare. “Leave.”

  “You stay out of this, devil-boy. You’re not even a lieutenant.” Mendez crossed his arms and nodded at the discarded shirt. “How ’bout it? You gonna try it on, or what?”

  “Fuck off.” Gabriel glanced at Shiro. Beyond him, Cortez and the towering bald fighter, Boomer, approached the pen. “Oh, nice. And you called me a coward? Have to get all your thugs in on this, don’t you?”

  Mendez laughed. “Boy, you are so dead. The minute you’re out of this gig — and believe me, you’re not gonna last long around here — I will hunt your ass down. I’ll drop all your friends, everyone you ever cared about, and save you for last.”

  “Goddamn it, Mendez!” Wolff’s voice roared above the general din. The cop shoved his way through the crowd toward them. “You’ve been warned. Back off.”

  “Hey, now.” Mendez spread his arms and smirked. “Don’t get cranky, capitan. We were only havin’ a chat with Angel, here. Ain’t that right, boys?”

  “Yep. Just talkin’,” Nails said. “No law against that, is there?”

  Wolff glowered at the Prometheus leader. “I think you’re done talking now.”

  “Sure.” Mendez jerked his head, and the fighters wandered off. He gave Gabriel a chilling smile. “Later, pig.”

  “Mendez.” Wolff infused the name with warning.

  “Okay. I’m gone. Christ, Wolfie, you never let me have any fun.” Mendez shrugged and walked away.

  Gabriel watched him, and then turned to Wolff. “Thanks. I think.”

  “Shut the hell up, kid. You’re worse than he is.” Wolff’s furious stare moved from him to Shiro, and back. “You’ve made a friend. How nice. I’m warning you now, both of you. Stop antagonizing Mendez.”

  “I didn’t do anything—”

  “Yeah, you did. And you’re too stupid to know what. Just stay away from him — and damn it, stay away from me.” Wolff whirled and plunged into the mob.

  “Well,” he said. “He’s a pleasant fucker, isn’t he?”

  Shiro shook his head. “Perhaps not, but I believe his advice is sound. Come, Gabriel. Let us go somewhere Mendez is not.”

  “Good idea.”

  He followed Shiro out. He’d worry about finding another shirt later.

  Chapter 32

  Only the main house remained open for the second night of the tournament. Gabriel stood in the ring, first in a line consisting of the five finalists. Shiro and Apollo had also advanced, along with Ice of Dionysus, and Captain Wolff.

  Maybe he’d finally get the chance to crush Apollo, but he’d take Wolff in a pinch.

  A Pandora woman in red entered the arena with a microphone and a seductive smile. “Gentleman, select your markers.”

  Gabriel blinked at the black wooden box emblazoned with crimson symbols that she thrust toward him. Shrugging, he plunged his hand through the round, cloth-covered opening in the top. His fingers closed around a cool, smooth object the size of a stack of quarters. He kept the object folded in his hand, withdrew his arm, and waited.

  The other four finalists followed suit, each choosing a polished stone to decide their placement in the upcoming cage match. The box contained four white stones, and one black. Those with white stones would take positions in each of the four corners of the cage. Whoever picked the black stone would stand in the center, with his back to at least two of his opponents, until the starting bell rang.

  Gabriel glanced around the room while he waited for the go-ahead to look at his lot. The crowd seemed to have doubled in size since the previous day, though he knew this wasn’t the case. No one was allowed on or off the island during the tournament — one of the reasons he’d been given freedom from Slade’s watchdogs. Still, the gathered throngs in the immense central room of House Pandora seemed to outnumber any he’d seen at a fight before.

  The arrangement of the furnishings remained largely unchanged from what he’d glimpsed yesterday. Tables dotted the floor, and two colossal viewing screens bathed the darkened room with eerie blue-white light. Both screens showed the same image: the feed from the cameras trained on the fighters. In the center of the floor, tables had been moved to allow space for the twenty-foot square, roofed steel cage in which they stood now.

  “Please show your selections now.”

  He opened his fingers and gave the object in his palm a rueful smirk. Of course it was the black stone. Hundreds of eyes recorded the fighters’ reactions as the box made its way back up the line to recollect its contents.

  A neutral and genderless voice blared from overhead speakers. “The finals round of this year’s tournament will begin in one hour. The betting window will close in forty-five minutes. Thank you, ladies and gentleman.”

  Gabriel left the cage, stopped just outside the entrance and leaned against the outer wall. Three more wins — if he made it, he would nearly double what he’d earned so far. He’d be a match or two away from supposed freedom, which he intended to take one way or another. But if he lost the tournament, he would face another year of hell. Maybe longer.

  He didn’t think he could handle another year.

  “Perhaps we will face each other again, after all.”

  Gabriel flinched and sent Shiro a troubled look. “Christ, I hope not. I only got lucky last time.”

  Shiro smiled. “Do not dismiss your skills so easily, mikata. You have improved more rapidly than any fighter I have seen in this organization, though you do not seem to notice. I believe you have a fair chance at winning
.”

  “Maybe.” He heaved a sigh and cast another glance around the dimly lit, close-packed room. He didn’t recognize a single face in his range of vision, and that was probably for the best. At least until this free-for-all fiasco had ended. His shaky confidence had stabilized as far as one-on-one matches went, but this would be a new experience. One he wasn’t sure he could win.

  “Fighters, please take your positions in the ring. The match will begin in five minutes.”

  The near-mechanical voice cut through the crowd noise. Exchanging looks of wordless encouragement, Gabriel and Shiro shook hands, broke apart and headed for the cage.

  Inside, Gabriel took up his designated spot in the center and tried to calm the rapid hammering of his heart. The other fighters circled the inner perimeter, each stopping at an unoccupied corner. He rotated in a slow circle and looked at each of his opponents in turn: Shiro. Ice. Wolff. Apollo. There, he halted with a smirk and dropped onto his haunches, placing one hand on the mat before him like a runner on a starting block.

  He tensed, measured seconds by the blood pounding in his ears. The starting bell sounded, and he launched at the lumbering shape before him, oblivious to the other fighters.

  Apollo reached for him. He ducked and rammed his head into the brute’s massive belly. A satisfying whoof of air escaped.

  He pulled away, and a hard blow between his shoulder blades sent him crashing to the floor. A quick upward glance confirmed the assault hadn’t come from Apollo. He rolled away instinctively and just missed Wolff’s foot.

  As he sprang to his feet, a look passed between Apollo and Wolff. So that’s how it was going to be. He straightened, leveled a come-get-me glare at both of them, and raised his fists.

  “Bring it on.”

  Apollo stepped back, and Wolff moved to the side. Rather than take the path he thought they’d expect — straight for Apollo — he rushed Wolff and stopped just in front of him. He sensed movement at his back as Apollo swung for his head. He ducked, and laughed when Wolff leaned out of the blow’s trajectory with a loud curse.

  With a snarl, Wolff launched a punch and caught Apollo in the ribcage. The big man responded with surprised anger and raised a hand to return the blow, but Gabriel delivered a sharp kick to his shin. Apollo grunted and missed.

  Wolff threw a puzzled glance at him. Suddenly, the cop spun on his heel and sprinted across the cage toward Shiro and Ice, who were locked in combat on the opposite side.

  In the split second his eyes roamed to track Wolff, a fist plowed into Gabriel’s side. Pain restored his focus, and he turned once more on Apollo. Forcing himself to stay calm, he avoided Apollo’s attempts to pummel him with a show of outward patience and watched for an opening that would let him do some damage.

  There. The sharp rattle of the cage wall behind them drew Apollo’s attention. His fist flew at his opponent's face with lethal precision. Warm blood burst beneath his knuckles on impact.

  The other fighter bellowed.

  Gabriel grinned, held up bloodstained fingers, and beckoned Apollo with a curling motion.

  Apollo rushed at him. From behind him, a faint groan penetrated the din of the crowd. He whirled, ignored the white-hot pain flaring in his kidney when Apollo landed a direct hit.

  Opposite him, Shiro leaned against the cage wall facing the crowd, arms above his head, fingers entwined in the metal mesh for support. Wolff and Ice flanked his motionless body and alternately pummeled him with fists and feet. Barely conscious, Shiro attempted to lift his head and straighten, but his attackers gave him no pause in the volley of blows.

  “You son of a bitch!” He sprinted for the threesome, ripped Ice away and tossed him to the mat. The lanky Dionysus fighter glared for an instant, and then raced to engage Apollo, who charged across the ring toward them.

  Either Wolff didn’t notice his fury, or he didn’t care. The captain continued battering the still form that clung to the wall—until Gabriel wrenched his arm behind his back and spun him away.

  “Enough.” He struck a ready stance. “This is supposed to be a free-for-all, not a gang beating. Fight fair, asshole.”

  Wolff shrugged and raised his fists. “You forgot the other rule.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What rule?”

  “There aren’t any rules.”

  Wolff’s hands flashed out and gripped his shoulders. The cop jerked him forward and simultaneously drove a knee into his groin.

  He fell with a sharp intake of breath. The projector screens magnified the action, and the crowd echoed his gasp. His hands moved instinctively to cover the injured area, but he forced them to his sides, refusing to give the asshole the satisfaction. He slowly regained his feet.

  “Don’t do that again,” he said with deliberate pause, infusing each word with warning. Once again he raised his arms to fight.

  “Try and stop me.”

  Wolff stepped forward — and a thud shook the floor of the cage. Both fighters froze. They turned toward the sound.

  Ice had dropped Apollo. Game over.

  “I’ll face you again,” he said to Wolff. “Be ready.”

  “Boy, don’t threaten me. You don’t know shit about this outfit.” Wolff sighed over the ghostly echo of the count: fifteen … sixteen … seventeen … and frowned when he saw Gabriel still watching him.

  “If you really want to do the right thing, be a fucking hero, then go back to wherever the hell you came from and stay there.” Fury flooded the captain’s features. The count reached twenty, and Wolff pivoted and strode for the cage’s exit.

  At last, Gabriel turned to Shiro. The fighter stirred, groaned.

  He reached up and disentangled lax fingers from the mesh. Shiro had gripped the metal wire tight enough to cut into his flesh. Bile surged in Gabriel’s throat. He slung his friend’s arm around his shoulder and supported him out of the ring.

  Chapter 33

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes.” Shiro spoke softly, grimacing as the Japanese doctor — Hoshi, he thought — pulled a bandage tight around his bruised ribs. With two hours until the next round, he had accompanied Shiro to the medical facility to assess the damage.

  Shiro insisted he could still fight. The doctor didn’t appear pleased with his decision.

  Hoshi secured the bandage and gestured to Shiro’s bloodied hands, and then his torso. He spoke in chopped phrases. Shiro shook his head. Hoshi grunted and walked away.

  Gabriel frowned. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, man. That wasn’t nothing.”

  “It is nothing, Gabriel.” Anger tightened his features and ended in a wince.

  “Right. You’re just as stubborn as him, you know.”

  “Hoshi?”

  “No. Jenner.” He folded his arms. “He acted like this when I asked him about Harada. Shut up, Gabriel. None of your business, Gabriel.”

  Shiro choked on a laugh. “I am sorry, my friend. Truly, I cannot imagine Jenner saying such things.”

  “Well, he didn’t exactly use those words, but that’s what he meant.” He relented with a smile. “Fine, don’t explain. I can pretty much guess what he said. In his professional opinion, you’re fucked up.”

  “Gabriel. Do not make me laugh. It hurts.” The corners of Shiro’s mouth lifted. “You are correct. That is what he said, more or less. But I cannot …”

  Hoshi returned with a plastic basin. Muttering, the doctor moved a wheeled table in front of Shiro, set the basin down, and removed a brown bottle, gauze packages, a roll of tape, and a folded towel. Shiro held his hands over the basin, and Hoshi uncapped the bottle to pour liquid on the fighter’s wounds.

  “You. Gaijin.” Hoshi addressed him in heavily accented English. “Kuroda-kun is … friend of yours?”

  Gabriel hesitated. “Yes.”

  “You tell him no fight. Too great risk.”

  Shiro exploded in Japanese before he could respond. Hoshi interrupted him with angry words and gest
ures. The doctor grabbed the towel, dried Shiro’s hands none too gently, and opened a package of gauze. Then he glanced at Gabriel. “He bleeds inside. You tell him no fight.”

  “Damn it, Shiro!” Gabriel’s hands clenched tight. “Can’t you die from internal bleeding?”

  “It is possible.” Shiro watched Hoshi wrap his hands and avoided Gabriel’s gaze.

  “You can’t do it. Please, withdraw. No one will think any less of you.”

  “I will.” His voice strained with effort. “I cannot dishonor my House, or myself, by giving up. I will fight to the death if it becomes necessary.”

  “And what if you’re paired off with me?” Anger born of frustration fueled his words. “Do you expect me to fight you, knowing I could kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  The barely audible reply, laden with regret, cut deeper than any knife could. He turned away.

  “Please understand.” Shiro tried to get to his feet, but a stern look from Hoshi seemed to force him into reconsidering. He sat down. “It is a matter of honor. Of pride. I must fight, until I am either victorious or beaten.”

  Gabriel caught his gaze and held it. At last, he nodded.

  Hoshi finished dressing Shiro’s wounds. He taped the gauze and moved the table away. “Sunil-kun ni tsutaemasu.”

  “No. Hoshi-sama, onegai…”

  “Ache kaere.” Hoshi pointed to the door.

  Shiro stood slowly and bowed. “Domo arigatou gozaimasu.” He headed for the exit.

  Gabriel glanced at the furious doctor, and then followed Shiro out. In the hushed corridor, he cleared his throat. “I won’t push you about this, but I’d really like to know one thing. Who is Sunil-kun?”

  Shiro stopped. He didn’t turn around. “Jenner.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the betting window is now closed. The first single finals match of the evening will begin in fifteen minutes.”

  Gabriel sat at a table beside Shiro, who huddled around a steaming mug of green tea as though it were the only thing keeping him alive. The fighter had remained silent and still since Hoshi finished treating him in an attempt to conserve energy for his upcoming ordeal. They’d announced the match-ups for the final rounds, and Shiro would not be fighting Gabriel, but Wolff.