The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  Shiro didn’t expect to win.

  A slender figure appeared in front of them. In the darkened outskirts of the room, it was impossible to see who it was — but then the figure spoke, leaving no question of its identity.

  “Hello, angel. I see you are consorting with the devil. How interesting.”

  Gabriel didn’t bother to reply.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Jenner sat down in the empty chair across the table. “I wish to speak with you before the match.”

  “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  Jenner snorted. “Not you.” He leaned forward and extended a finger toward Shiro. “Him.”

  “Doushita, sempai.” Shiro’s weakened voice drifted across the table. Jenner replied with a short string of Japanese that had Shiro shaking his head.

  “No. He can stay.”

  “Very well.” Clearly displeased with his presence, Jenner spoke, the words flowing as though Shiro’s native language were his own. Occasionally he stopped, and Shiro interjected a word or two in answer to some question or statement.

  Something Jenner said made Shiro pause. At last, the fighter answered, “You know I cannot do that, sempai.”

  Jenner stared at him. “Kohai. You would die for Tomi Harada’s honor?”

  “No, sempai,” Shiro replied. “For my own.”

  Silence fell over them. At last, Jenner rose with a frown twisting his narrow features. “Kentou, Shiro.” He turned to Gabriel. A smirk lifted one corner of his lips. “And good luck to you as well, angel. Watch out for the wolf. He bites.” He turned and walked away.

  “What was that all about?” Gabriel asked, staring at the space where Jenner had been.

  Akuma raised his mug to his lips and swallowed. “He wanted me to withdraw. I refused.”

  “What? You mean Jenner actually cares about someone?”

  “I am not certain of that. However, his behavior is … odd.”

  A loud click signified the speaker system coming to life. “Fighters, please enter the ring,” the voice boomed. Shiro stood, stifled a groan and wove slowly through the throngs. Gabriel stayed by the fighter's side. They gripped each other’s wrists in parting, and Shiro climbed the stairs. Wolff already waited in the opposite corner.

  The cage had been drawn upward into the recessed ceiling to leave a more traditional square ring with roped borders. Gabriel stood as close as he dared, aware he risked one of Pandora’s omnipresent security team removing him bodily from the area.

  In the dazzling glory of the spotlights, Shiro appeared fragile. Recent bruises from the cage match stood out livid and grotesque against ashen skin. His blond hair lay lank along his skull, and his wavering stance betrayed his exhaustion.

  The bell sounded, and Wolff rushed Shiro.

  Gabriel’s dismay swelled — it looked impossible to avoid. But Shiro’s eyes lit with a predatory gleam, and his body drew itself erect a split second before impact. He stepped aside in a blur of motion. Wolff, who had been assured of an easy target, hurtled by and crashed to the mat with the force of his intended blow.

  Wolff bounded back. The two fighters circled each other, looking for an opening. Wolff lunged again, and Shiro whirled back. Knuckles rushed by him.

  Getting nowhere fast, Wolff changed tactics. He lowered his arms and walked across the mat to Shiro. The injured fighter drew back with a blow aimed at the cop’s jaw, but Wolff bent his knees and dropped, then wrapped both arms around Shiro’s ribcage and squeezed hard.

  A fist glanced off Wolff’s temple, barely fazing him. Shiro gasped and struggled to free himself from the viselike bear hug. He managed a sharp jab to the base of Wolff’s neck. An ominous crack, audible even from the sidelines, signaled danger.

  Shiro swung again and connected in the same spot. Snarling an oath, Wolff let go and stepped back. Shiro fell to his knees with a sharp intake of breath. Before he could regain his feet, Wolff drew back and kicked the downed fighter.

  Shiro gagged. Coughed. Bright red blood stained his chin and shirt, spattered the mat below him.

  Eyes snapping fire, Shiro rose to one knee, stood and swung. He connected. Wolff’s head whipped away and back. The cop glared.

  Shiro’s knees found the mat. Wolff lashed out and kicked him again.

  Another crack. More coughing, more blood, neon red under the spotlight. Movie blood, bright enough to look fake.

  Horrified, Gabriel watched their movements — Shiro struggling, Wolff smirking. Shiro gasping.

  Shiro collapsing.

  One … two … three … Why were they counting so slowly? Shiro’s blood still flowed, collecting in an ominous pool around his head. He needed help now.

  Eight … nine … ten … Shiro wasn’t getting up. Wolff’s impassive face revealed nothing, and his callousness fueled Gabriel’s growing wrath.

  Nineteen …

  Twenty.

  A few subdued cheers rang out when the automated count ended. Gabriel’s feet hit the steps before the last word rang from the speakers. An instant later he knelt at Shiro’s side. With trembling fingers he felt for a pulse, and at last found a telltale flutter beneath clammy skin. He glanced around, noticed two or three crimson-clad men from Pandora rushing through the crowds.

  Standing, he fixed the scowling cop with a look of pure hatred. “You could have killed him.”

  “Yeah.” Wolff sent a glance at the fallen fighter and raised emotionless eyes to Gabriel. “Isn’t this fun, now?”

  “You bastard!” He leaped at him, unmindful of the thunder of feet behind him. Pandora’s security caught him before he reached Wolff, and wrestled him to the floor. Two of them dragged him to his feet and pinned his arms behind him.

  He jerked and heaved against their grasp. A figure appeared at the far end of the ring, ascended the stairs and entered the cold glare of light. “Enough,” Tomi Harada said.

  Gabriel ceased his struggles. Harada nodded once, and the men released him.

  “Angel, is it not?” Harada strode toward him.

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Well, Angel, though your blatant show of concern is appreciated, I must insist that you do not attack the other fighters outside of tournament matches.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but Harada cut him off. “Akuma chose to fight. He knew the consequences his actions could bring, and he was prepared to take them. End this now, or you will be disqualified.”

  Two others he didn’t recognize entered the ring and loaded Shiro’s limp body onto a portable stretcher. His friend could die any minute, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  His eyes met Harada’s, and understanding passed between them. He would drop it. For now.

  “You have twenty minutes until your next match begins, Angel. Use them safely.” Harada turned and walked after the stretcher-bearers.

  Alone with Wolff now, the temptation to attack proved almost too great to resist. Gabriel let his expression speak for him and silently promised revenge before he, too, stalked from the ring.

  Twenty minutes. Not enough time to see Shiro, and too much to pass quickly. He spent it fuming, letting his anger grow. When he finally faced Ice in the ring, he made short work of his opponent and dropped him in under five minutes. He strode out before the count ended, leaving a disappointed crowd to occupy themselves until the final match — the real match — began.

  He would make Wolff pay.

  Chapter 34

  A thunderous whirring rose in the air and swallowed the sounds of the crowd on the island. From the terrace, Gabriel watched a small white helicopter rise into the black sky, turn and speed toward the distant New York skyline — airlifting Shiro to a hospital on the mainland.

  Keep him safe, he thought. Concern, fear and outrage vied for positions in his mind. When the ominous whap of the blades no longer sounded, he turned to go back inside, but found the way blocked.

  “Is your pal leaving so soon?” Dressed sharply in a three-piece suit
of obsidian silk, Marcus Slade leaned on the doorjamb and regarded him. A sly smirk played on his lips, a warning that Gabriel had screwed up and was about to be punished.

  Rage prevented him from bowing to Slade’s whim. Only his concern for Lillith’s safety kept his tongue, and his fists, at bay.

  “That last match was rather brief,” Slade said casually when he didn’t respond. “Now, I could be wrong,” he continued, watching his face for a reaction, “but I believe I told you to make sure your fights lasted long enough to entertain me.”

  Nausea hit him hard, and his mouth went dry as sand. Damn it, he’d forgotten Slade’s stupid ‘extra’ rules. A panicked beat lodged against his skull.

  Slade straightened and approached him. He stopped a foot away, reached out and jerked him forward. The smirk fled his face in favor of frosty rage.

  “Since you have come so far in this tournament, and since I am a patient and forgiving man—” He paused and glared, daring Gabriel to refute the statement. “—I will forgive you this one mistake. But know this.” Slade pulled him closer, until their faces nearly touched, and his voice dropped to a menacing whisper.

  “If the bout between you and Captain Wolff is not the longest, the bloodiest, the most spectacular match I have ever witnessed, I will rape your sister myself.”

  Gabriel’s eyes bulged.

  “And then I’ll let Jenner have her.”

  His heart plunged into his churning stomach. “You wouldn’t.” The words forced themselves from his throat, but he'd known even before he'd spoken that the bastard would. He’d enjoy it. Would probably watch.

  Harsh laughter erupted from Slade. He released him with a shove. “Do you want to try me, boy?”

  “No.” Damn his weakness. Slade had him by the balls and knew it.

  “Good.” With a final contemptuous sneer, Slade went back inside and left him to simmer in his boiling emotions.

  Gabriel wanted to kill the bastard.

  The final round would begin in five minutes. He stood at the base of the ring, glaring at the shadowed recess where Wolff waited. For two hours he’d wandered the corridors of House Pandora in search of anyone who could give him news of Shiro’s condition. At last he’d found out what he could from an unlikely source.

  “He is still alive,” Jenner had told him when he discovered the lieutenant sitting alone in a quiet side room, disconnecting from a cell phone call. “For now.” The look of absolute disgust that twisted Jenner’s face made him decide not to ask any more questions. He’d withdrawn from the room and returned to the main chamber to face his last challenge of the tournament.

  Now, the house lights dimmed around him. Glowing blood-red beams shone from the darkness and washed over the stage. A soft hissing brought clouds of smoke that billowed into the ring. The crowd gasped in appreciation.

  Gabriel smirked at the production and mounted the steps to disappear into the mist.

  A blast of cool air issued from above, clearing the fog. Wearing only sleek black pants and his notorious tattoo, Gabriel squatted on his haunches inside the ropes, arms draped casually across his thighs. Wolff stood rigid and erect, with his fists clenched at his sides. A muscle along his jaw twitched spasmodically beneath gritted teeth. He still wore gray. Under the crimson light, he appeared drenched in blood.

  The starting bell sounded a distant chime amid a sea of expectant murmurs. Gabriel came up slowly as Wolff strode toward him. He made no move to block the swing that arched up toward his chin and connected. Expressionless, he spat a mouthful of blood at Wolff’s feet and shot the captain a piercing look.

  “If he dies, you die.” His words emerged more statement than threat, a flat tone with the barest vibration of fury.

  Wolff executed a spirited attempt to break his jaw.

  Showing exaggerated disinterest, he let the fist hit. He sagged to soften the blow, stepped back and ejected a spray of scarlet spittle. A few droplets spattered on Wolff’s chest, darkening the material of his tank top.

  Wolff sneered and brushed the moist spots on his shirt as if they were bugs. “You can’t keep this up forever, boy,” he snapped. “Fight or fall. Now.” He drew back again and aimed for his temple. The strike whizzed through empty air as Gabriel dropped beneath it.

  Wolff narrowly avoided the foot sweeping toward his kneecaps.

  Gabriel sprang upright and danced away, just out of range. Wolff charged him. They launched into an awkward, shuffling circuit of the ring. More often than not, Wolff’s blows smote the air.

  Gabriel didn’t try to strike back. If that bastard Slade wanted this drawn out, he’d get it.

  The tide of the battle took a sharp turn when an uppercut sent him hurtling to the mat. Wolff leapt on him, and they rolled around locked in a crushing embrace — until Wolff pinned him down, one hand gripping his throat while the other repeatedly hammered his stomach.

  Gasping for breath, unable to move, he clung with desperation to his need for victory. The world dimmed around him. His eyes rolled back, and he allowed his body to go limp. The brute above him didn’t relax his hold, or stop the storm of blows he dispensed.

  Consciousness slipped further away. A black curtain descended. Through it came a ghostly electric slur of sound that sent a bolt of terror into him.

  Se…veeen … eiiight …

  He had to get up. Now.

  He moaned and raised a tentative hand. The crowd gave a collective gasp as beyond him, the speakers droned on. E…le…veeen … tweeelve …

  Too slowly, the thickness drained from his senses. He flipped himself over, placed his palms on the mat for leverage. A piercing flare ignited his ribs. Wolff. Kicking him.

  The count reached fifteen. Despite Wolff’s vicious feet, Gabriel struggled to his hands and knees — and then something that felt suspiciously like a freight train collided with the curve of his back. The elbow-to-the-spine maneuver, one of Apollo’s favorites. Anguish coursed through him like acid, and he sprawled back on the floor.

  The count, which had stopped at seventeen, began over at one.

  On a surge of hate-induced adrenalin, he hauled himself from the floor. His fist flew at his opponent’s astonished face. A satisfying crunch accompanied warm liquid splashing his knuckles.

  “Damn it!” Wolff put three fingers to his nose and drew them back stained crimson. “How in the fuck am I gonna explain this at work?”

  Gabriel hesitated at the captain’s odd statement, long enough to catch the quick grin just before knuckles drove into his forehead. His head snapped back with the force. Wolff’s arm lowered, revealing the thick gold, diamond-encrusted ring the captain wore — now stained with Gabriel’s blood.

  Warm wetness dribbled into his right eye from the gash. The flow branched off and seeped into the left one too. He blinked and tried to clear his vision. The stream continued unchecked, blinding him. Dropping to his knees, he swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, but only succeeded in smearing the blood further.

  Wolff struck.

  A boot caught him in the temple and spun him in a half-circle. Tears of pain began to wash the blood from his eyes. Another blow to his spine spiked him to the mat.

  Half-blind, he rose and lashed out with a fist. Luck directed his blow and he caught his opponent in the gut, knocking the wind from him.

  “You dirty son of a bitch.” He punctuated his words with another jab. “What the hell — do you think — you’re doing?” At every pause he drove his fist into the nearest vulnerable patch of flesh, and when he halted his tirade, Wolff stood panting in front of him, bent nearly double with pain.

  “Isn’t this fun, now?” He spat the captain’s earlier words back at him. Wolff raised his head to glare, and Gabriel hooked a fist beneath his chin. The force of the blow lifted him off the floor and laid him out on his back.

  Wolff sat up slowly, groaned, but didn’t stand. He fixed him with an incredulous stare. “You were fucking with me,” he said slowly. “The whole time. You could have ended th
e match whenever you wanted.”

  Gabriel nodded once.

  “Well.” Wolff struggled to his feet and raised gore-streaked fists before a hideous grin. “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Wolff ran at him.

  Gabriel bowed his head and leapt aside at the last moment. One leg licked out and hooked the front of his opponent’s ankles. Wolff began to fall, and Gabriel bent his arm and rammed an elbow between the descending shoulder blades.

  Wolff thudded to the floor. The impact forced a fresh mist of blood from his lips. He coughed once and stilled.

  Chest heaving, Gabriel stood over the downed man. The count echoed in his head. Sweat-soaked tendrils of hair clung to his scraped temples. Clumps of it hung across his brow, matted with blood. A lifetime passed before him, suspended in a red glow, and drowned while he watched.

  The mob stopped breathing.

  Twenty.

  He could see the crowd, feel the explosion of movement as they surged to their feet and broke into motion like ocean waves. The sound of it, the roars and whistles and applause, was an inescapable force filling every space.

  Gabriel didn’t hear any of it.

  He’d won.

  Chapter 35

  The MacPherson Memorial Hospital was private in the strictest sense. Few people outside of the organization knew of its existence. Slade’s limo pulled up to the curb in front of the modest four-story brick structure on the north end of SoHo, and Jenner emerged from the back door with Gabriel at his heels.

  They entered through double glass doors and stepped into a nondescript lobby that could have been at home in any of a hundred office buildings. Jenner nodded to a nurse seated behind the main desk, turning the pages of a magazine. The woman barely glanced at them. They proceeded to the right and down a short hall, stopping before a gleaming steel elevator door. Jenner thumbed the up arrow and stepped back to wait.