The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  Gabriel stood beside the lieutenant in silence. It had been two days since the tournament, and though his own injuries were just beginning to heal, Shiro had fared much worse. The fighter had been upgraded from critical to stable only that morning, and when Jenner had offered to bring Gabriel along for a visit, he’d shoved aside his suspicions at the man’s generosity and agreed.

  The elevator arrived and whisked them to the third floor. He followed Jenner to Shiro’s room, steeling himself for the grim sight he knew awaited them. The door to room 320 stood slightly ajar. Jenner gave a perfunctory knock and pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

  Inside, a young woman in mint green scrubs bent over the bed adjusting the controls of a machine, obscuring the figure within from view. She didn’t acknowledge their presence until she finished her ministrations. Then she straightened, regarded them with a bland smile. Gabriel focused on Shiro.

  Save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fighter might have been dead.

  He lay on his back, eyes closed, covered to the waist with a crisp white sheet nearly the same color as what little exposed skin remained undamaged. Bruises and shallow cuts covered his chest, stomach and face, and a purple-black band encircled his ribs, marking the area Wolff’s embrace had crushed.

  Gabriel wanted to go back to the tournament and kick Wolff’s ass all over again.

  The nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around the fighter’s limp arm and stared at her watch as she pumped the black plastic bulb. She glanced at the red line rising up the gauge on the wall. Appearing satisfied, she removed the cuff and stowed it in a pocket.

  “Not too long,” she admonished before strolling past them and out into the hallway. The door swung closed on silent hinges behind her.

  Gabriel glanced at the chair beside the bed, and then at Jenner, who nodded. He took a seat. Silence filled the room, punctuated by the soft, intermittent beep of the IV monitor.

  “So, angel. How much have you told him?”

  Startled from his thoughts, he turned. Jenner leaned casually against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Intensity lit his piercing granite eyes.

  “Nothing. I’m not that stupid.”

  Jenner snorted. “And how much has he guessed?”

  “He has guessed enough.”

  The rasping words came from the bed. Shiro’s eyes opened and his mouth twisted in a grimace. He stared at Jenner, but could go no further.

  The look on the lieutenant’s face suggested mild amusement. He strode across the room and stood at Shiro’s bedside. “I must tell you,” he said to the fighter, throwing a sidelong glance at Gabriel, “that for as much as you have guessed, there is far more you do not know.” His features hardened. “Okina osewa da, Shiro.”

  “Sumimasen, sempai.” Shiro dropped his gaze, then looked up at Gabriel. “So. You won.”

  It was a statement, not a question. “How did you know?”

  “You are still standing.” Shiro laughed softly. The sound ended in a pained groan, and he closed his eyes again. His expression grew somber when he opened them a moment later. “You must trust in Jenner. In what he teaches you.”

  Gabriel gaped at him. Jenner’s expression hadn’t changed. In fact, he barely seemed to be paying attention to their conversation.

  “Are you serious?” he finally said.

  Shiro nodded. “Please. I know how this must sound to you, but you must. Jenner—”

  Whatever else he had to say became lost in a spasm of apparent agony. The machine the nurse had been adjusting emitted a shrill, keening alarm, and less than a minute later the nurse bustled through the door with a syringe in one upraised hand.

  “All right, Mr. Kuroda,” she said, not unkindly, and injected the contents of the syringe into the IV bag with practiced motion. “I think you’ve had enough fun for today. Say goodbye to your visitors.” She looked sternly at Gabriel and Jenner.

  “Goodbye, visitors,” Shiro mimicked weakly. He cracked a small smile beneath eyes that fluttered closed, the effects of whatever the nurse had added to his drip, and Gabriel tried to smile back.

  Jenner bowed his head slightly, raised it. “O daiji ni, kousoku.”

  Shiro’s lips curved upward briefly in acknowledgment before he drifted into sleep.

  When they stepped out the front doors of the building, the limo idled at the curb. Jenner motioned for Gabriel to enter, then slid in and settled on the seat facing him. He closed the door, and the vehicle glided away. Night had fallen. The windows glittered with the myriad reflection of a hundred lights.

  “You may come back in a few days,” Jenner said, breaking the awkward silence between them. “I will have Apollo bring you.”

  He stared at him. “Alone?”

  “Yes, angel. Alone. Just remember what will happen should you decide to take your leave of us prematurely.”

  “How could I forget?” Bitterness crept into his voice, and he turned his face deliberately to the window.

  Another minute passed. “Do you understand what Shiro was attempting to tell you?” Jenner said.

  Gabriel faced him. “Do you?”

  Jenner made a sound resembling a sigh, as though his patience were sorely tested. “I did not make you what you have become,” he said. “I merely uncovered what was already there.”

  “Bullshit!” Fuming, he leaned forward — but the tirade of injustice against him, ready on the tip of his tongue, guttered and died.

  He’d begun to suspect with mounting disgust that Jenner might be right.

  Chapter 36

  Slade took the call in his office, three weeks after the tournament — much earlier than he’d expected. He didn’t bother with a greeting. “Damn it, I told you to wait until after the next fight.”

  “Hey, Chief. If you’re gonna get all riled up, you can do this your damned self.” Mendez spoke smoothly, though he detected annoyance in the tone. “This ain’t exactly risk-free for me, either.”

  “Cry me a river. You’re doing it. Unless you’d rather pay what you owe me.”

  “Nah. I like this idea better.” Mendez paused, and a hollow click sounded on the other end of the line. “You just keep up your end of the deal. Once the kid’s out of your hair, you forget you ever knew him. If this comes around on me, I will bring you down.”

  “Don’t bother threatening me, Mendez. And don’t worry. I have no intention of seeking him out. As far as I’m concerned, he’s already dead.”

  “Good.” Another click. A metallic ringing rose and fell in the background. “Here’s the plan. I’m havin’ a little throwdown here tomorrow night — a couple of Dell’s guys, a couple of mine. You send the kid and another one of yours. I don’t care who.”

  Slade drummed his fingers once on the desk. “And what exactly is this going to accomplish?”

  “We’re holding out in the lot, on account of remodeling. It’ll be a shame when someone calls the cops and the kid gets busted for assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “He doesn’t have weapons.”

  “No worries, Chief. I’m supplying those.” Mendez laughed. “Little bastard won’t know what hit him. Tomorrow night. Send the kid over, and forget him. Then we’re square.”

  “Done.”

  Slade disconnected. A slow smile spread on his face. He’d keep Lillith, and the money. For that, Angel’s life was a small price to pay.

  “What the hell are we doing out here?” Lonzo leaned against the fence surrounding the dimly lit parking lot with disgust stamped on his face. “Man, this ain’t even worth my time. Why’d you come, mijo?”

  Gabriel looked at him and shrugged. Slade told him to come, but he couldn’t reveal that to Lonzo. He had visited Shiro in the hospital three times, alone, and didn’t want to give up his newly awarded freedom. Such as it was.

  Still, something about this fight felt strange — besides the fact that only three matches were scheduled, and no one from either Pandora or Orion had shown.

  “Oh we
ll.” Lonzo straightened, stretched, and jogged in place. “We still get our grand, right? Slade doesn’t make any money, who cares.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Gabriel scanned the thin crowd rimming the edges of the lot without seeing them. He’d come close to ten million in winnings. This match might put him over the edge if he won. Unfortunately, he still had no idea what he planned to do when Slade inevitably refused to release him, or Lillith.

  Movement from the clearing at the center of the rough human ring caught his eye. Diego Mendez stood there, one arm raised in the air. The Prometheus leader held up one finger, and then two. The crowd parted to allow Eddie from Dionysus and Kaiser from Prometheus into the makeshift arena.

  The two men went at each other the instant Mendez rejoined the mob. The cheering rang out immediate and loud, reverberating through the derelict buildings around them, rising to the black sky above.

  Gabriel watched the action for a few minutes, and turned away, paced relentlessly before the fence. He would be next. The prospect of fighting in the open air, on crumbling asphalt, was less than appealing. His muscles still ached from the injuries he’d sustained at the tournament.

  The volume of the crowd’s raucous calls increased. He returned his attention to the match. Game over — Kaiser lay motionless and bleeding on the ground, and Eddie leaned over him, panting. A Prometheus fighter entered the clearing and assisted Kaiser to his feet. Mendez came back into view and signaled again. Three, then four.

  Apparently there would be no breaks tonight. Thankful Slade had at least allowed him to keep his clothes on this time, Gabriel strode through the mob to take his place in the clearing.

  Nails pushed between two front-row spectators just after him, grinning like a vulture in a funeral home.

  Something was definitely wrong here.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Mendez disappear as Nails headed for him at an easy stroll. He tensed and waited, and when his opponent entered striking range, he rammed a fist into the other man’s jaw.

  Nails didn’t even blink.

  Strong fingers formed a band around his upper arm. He wrenched from the grip, but not before Nails’ clenched hand caught him sharply in the gut. A grunt exploded from him. He stumbled back, out of reach, and threw another jab at his opponent’s face. This time he drew blood — and still, Nails grinned.

  He crouched and went for the legs in an attempt to bring him to the ground. Nails made a grab for him, snagged his wrist, and impaled his ribcage on an upraised knee.

  Gabriel jerked back, lost his balance and hit the pavement. Breathing hard, he scrambled to stand, expecting to be tackled before he made it up. His opponent, however, didn’t make a move toward him until he gained his feet.

  As Nails drew closer, the distant wail of sirens washed over the jeering crowd. In reaction to the ghostly call, Nails flashed a cruel smile and lurched forward suddenly, bearing them both to the ground.

  The sirens grew louder.

  The crowd noise spiraled down to a low, puzzled mutter. Panicked whispers swept through the spectators as Gabriel lay pinned beneath a few hundred pounds of Nails. The wailing reached a deafening pitch. A few souls at the edges of the mob split. A nearby alley lit with whirling blue and red, and the exodus began in earnest.

  “What the fuck!” Gabriel shouted. He jerked and twisted beneath Nails’ weight in vain. Nails shifted, knelt on his chest and raised a hand, revealing a gleaming switchblade.

  Laughing, the Prometheus lieutenant plunged the knife down in a sweeping arc — deep into his own thigh. He pulled it out with a grunt. Blood spurted from the wound and sprayed his face and shirt.

  The police had almost reached them. The crunch of tires on gravel reached his ears, the vibrations of the cars hummed through the ground beneath him. The sirens ceased in mid-warble.

  Nails reached down and gripped Gabriel’s wrist, thrust the bloody knife into his open palm and forced his fingers to close around the handle.

  Just as the first click of a car door announced the arrival of the cops on the scene, Nails rolled off him. The Prometheus fighter lay moaning on the ground while two officers hauled Gabriel to his feet, cuffed him and dragged him away.

  Chapter 37

  Numb with shock, Gabriel sat in the back of the squad car and tried to figure out what to do now.

  The cops in the front seat, after tossing him roughly in and slamming the door, had so far ignored his existence. He assumed they were headed for the nearest police station, though he didn’t know where it was.

  He’d been set up. And he couldn’t prove any of it.

  If this had happened months ago, he would’ve welcomed the opportunity to tell the cops everything. His real name, where he was from, the name of the man holding his sister hostage. Now, though, he knew too much. The organization was so vast, so well-funded and connected, there wasn’t a chance in hell he would get anywhere by confessing.

  In fact, if he told them anything, he might get Lillith killed.

  “Shit,” he growled in frustration. At the sound of his voice, the cop on the passenger’s side half-turned and rapped the metal mesh between them with a nightstick.

  “Hey! Shut the fuck up back there, scumbag.” The look on the cop’s face — part annoyance, part spite — said he hoped for an excuse to get a few licks in before they hauled him inside.

  Gabriel pressed his lips together and turned to the window. Would anyone bother to come for him? Maybe Slade would bail him out. The thought forced a grim laugh. If Slade did pay his bail, he’d be expected to earn that money back, too.

  “Hey!” Another rap, this one harder, rattled the cage in front of him. “I said, shut the fuck up.” The cop turned around completely, his eyes glowing in the gloom like a hawk watching a cornered rabbit. “You deaf or something?”

  Gabriel met his eyes in silence.

  “Jesus. Fuckin’ street freaks,” the cop mumbled, shifting in his seat to face the road again. “Wonder what he’s strung out on.”

  The car slowed and came to a stop in front of a tall concrete building with steel-threaded glass windows. Both cops exited simultaneously, but Gabriel’s door didn’t open until they stood on the same side, ready to react if he tried to struggle or run. The driver opened the door. His partner stood at the ready and motioned for him to come out.

  Cuffed hands and ribs that ached from the beating he’d just endured made climbing onto the curb difficult. He stumbled and almost fell. The nightstick-happy cop clubbed him between the shoulder blades. “Move it. We ain’t got all night.”

  The driver laughed and started up the steps.

  Gabriel shot a poisoned glance at the cop with the stick. It earned him another whack. Gritting his teeth, he followed the driver inside.

  They stopped in front of a desk. “We got an assault, possible assault with intent,” the driver said to a dour-faced man who sat behind it.

  “Name,” the desk cop intoned.

  “What’s your name?” Nightstick hissed.

  He said the first thing that came to mind. “Mouse. Mickey Mouse.”

  A shove from behind sent him crashing into the desk. He struggled to right himself and looked into the face of the desk cop, who seemed to be doing a Queen Mother impersonation: We are not amused.

  Without batting an eye, the desk cop said, “Take Mr. Mouse here down to booking.”

  They led him through a twisting maze of hallways and desks and into a small, gray-walled room containing a plain wooden table and two metal folding chairs. Driver removed the cuffs. Nightstick stood in front of him, tapping the end of his club in the palm of one hand.

  “All right, strip.”

  Gabriel turned to look at Driver, who stood with his arms folded, waiting. Humiliation burned through him. He faced forward again, removed his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Nightstick cast a scorn-filled glance at the bruises that marred his chest and stomach, and as his fingers worked to unbutton his jeans, a low whistle sounded behind him.

 
“Christ, wouldya get a load of this.”

  Nightstick moved behind him to regard his tattoo.

  “Holy shit, he’s got wings. You gonna fly away on us?”

  Raucous laughter burst from the two cops. Gabriel kicked off his shoes and slid his jeans and underwear down. He stood rigid, expecting another blow from the stick at any moment. However, Nightstick seemed content to go through his discarded clothing.

  The distinctive snap of rubber gloves chilled his blood.

  “You gonna give us any trouble, boy?” Driver circled around to his front, sounding eerily like Marcus Slade.

  He swallowed and shook his head.

  “Good. Open your mouth, real wide.”

  He performed the order. Driver raised a gloved hand to his face and hesitated. “If you try anything stupid, like biting me, my partner here will bash your fucking skull in. Got it?”

  The cop didn’t bother to wait for an answer. Vinyl-coated fingers entered his mouth and probed roughly at the roof, around the tongue. They slid down his throat far enough to produce a retching gag. The hand withdrew fast. “Don’t you fuckin’ puke on me, punk.”

  Gabriel glared at him, but the look didn’t faze the taciturn cop. “Turn around and put your hands on the table.”

  His father’s face flashed before him. He froze, unable to obey the command — and in response to his apparent refusal, the club swung into his lower spine. Pain exploded through his body. With a sharp hiss of air, he slowly assumed the required position.

  Jagged, degrading pressure invaded him. Driver probed with one finger, and then two. Gabriel bit his lip to keep from crying out as the cop prodded deeper, deliberately twisting the assault to cause more pain. At last, he withdrew and stepped back.

  “He’s clean.” Disgust filled Driver’s voice.

  Shaking, Gabriel stood and clenched his fists at his sides. “Siddown,” a voice barked at his back. He couldn’t tell which cop had spoken, but he sat anyway. The cold steel of the chair seared his exposed flesh on contact.