The Razor's Edge

by David Leadbeater

  As they passed he slowed, feigning wonder at the spectacle beyond. “Guys,” he said. “Wouldya just look at that!”

  They already knew the layout, had it committed to memory. What they actually observed during their twelve second pause was the number of guards (twelve), their positions (arrayed behind the crowd and at the entrance to the cage), the volume of spectators (around thirty), the two roving cameras whose users could not be overlooked, the announcer who should also figure into their plans, the female bartenders, the bar itself – made of mahogany and thick glass, and fully stocked – a potential weapons horde – and the two previously unidentified pitbulls straining and snarling at the leash.

  Then they were past, enfolded again by half-dark, escorted down a long passage until told to stop. One of the guards unlocked another door and disappeared inside. Trent waited.

  “Go.” A thick, unfriendly voice urged him inside.

  Concrete stairs confronted him. He followed them down, the temperature dropping with every step. Torches planted in brass wall sconces flickered in a faint breeze, casting fleeting shadows across the stone walls. “Wine cellar?” Trent asked hopefully.

  “Dungeon,” one of the guards muttered with an evil laugh.

  Eighteen steps and then the staircase curved back on itself. A wide, darkened space opened out below. The single bright spot was where three guards sat at a wooden table, their solitary lamp shining stark and white on to its surface and the three hands of cards that had been dealt there. Trent spied half empty glasses and a bottle of whiskey stood in the middle. Handguns lay on open display, stacked on a fourth chair.

  Around three sides of the room, low structures seemed to squat in the shadows.

  Silk made a sudden move, jumping down three steps and landing on the floor. To the guards it came across as overexcitement, but Trent and Radford saw how slowly the three new guards reacted, barely batting an eyebrow.

  Good. Jaded guards died faster.

  “This one.” A guard indicated Trent. “Roth says he can choose two fighters. Let him look.”

  The dungeon guards, uninterested, waved him forward. Trent strode past them to find himself looking at a row of prison cells against the back wall. The red brick construction told him that they had been built recently, and out of the same type of bricks as the rest of the site. Cells also lined the walls to his right and left.

  “Go,” one of the card-players grunted, waving at him as if he were a confused dog. “Look.”

  The first cell was empty, its floor strewn with fast-food wrappers and items of clothing. The metal-framed bunk was upended, leaning against the far wall, the mattress nowhere to be seen. Dark splotches marked the floor. Trent closed his eyes for a second and then moved on to the second cell.

  A gasp escaped him.

  A man lay curled up on the bunk, mattress beneath him running red with blood turned black by the shadows. His eyes barely flickered as Trent tried to lock eyes – he stared beyond him, most likely into a better place and time. The drip of blood striking the floor marked each passing second.

  “He is no good,” a guard spoke up. “Used up. Too many hits. Try another one. That one is good only for the glue factory now.” His laughter was infectious, it seemed, inducing nasty guffaws from his colleagues.

  Trent moved on. The third cell was furnished with two bunks, both occupied. Two men, with the single, threadbare blanket drawn up to their chins sat shivering, haunted eyes pleading with Trent to pass them by. He complied. The fourth cell was also empty.

  One of the guards made a point of looking at his watch as Trent started on the right-hand row of cells. “Hurry it up. The show starts in twenty.”

  But Trent was taking a very careful head count. Three captives on the back row. Three in three separate cells down the right-hand side. Four in three separate cells down the left-hand side.

  Six men and three women. None of them Monika Sobieski.

  Shit.

  “Is this all you have?”

  “What’s wrong, American? Them broads not black enuf for ya?” A half-drunk guard jumped up, grabbed a gun, and began to dance suggestively whilst belting out a rap track.

  “Life ain’t a Jay-Z video, man,” Radford spoke up. “Though there’s many a young kid out there seems to think it is,” he added when six pairs of hooded eyes turned on him.

  “They're in better shape than they used to be!” another Pole spoke up. “We recently lost our supplier. Boss says to keep ‘em in shape.”

  Trent turned back to the table. As he did, he noticed two more cells had been built out of the twisted rock that formed the staircase. “Those occupied?”

  “Some flesh in there. I think.”

  Trent paced over, watched closely by the Poles. He made a point of eyeing the whiskey bottle as he passed. “Man, I could murder one of those.”

  “Keep yer fookin’ hands off.”

  The first cell was empty. The second, nestled right under the high back wall and the staircase, was so dark that Trent had to press his face right through the bars to see anything. When he did there was a quick scuttle and a face loomed out of the dark, spitting, snarling and cursing. Spittle struck his cheek. A woman’s body slammed against the bars, her palm struck his nose, sending him flying back, jerking with shock.

  The guards burst out laughing as if sharing a private joke.

  The woman screamed. “Don’t touch me! I'll kill you! Touch me and I'll kill you!”

  Trent started into the twisted, livid face of the woman he had come to save. Monika Sobieski seethed at him through the bars, fingers of one hand curled into a claw and trying to scratch his face.

  “Wow.” He backed away. “What happened to her?”

  “Bitch is a quart short of a pint, know what I’m saying? A rogue bullet. Fights like a whore on meth and Red Bull. Boss can’t decide whether to bill her, kill her or fuck her. Haha.”

  “Bill her?”

  “She fought once. Nearly killed a guy, then broke some cameras and put a spectator in hospital. Crazy, crazy bitch.”

  Good for you, Trent thought. Out loud he said, “Isn’t that what the boss wants?”

  “He wants a good fight. Good fights bring in the C-notes. Your C-notes. Now hurry it up. Choose.”

  Trent picked the two fittest looking, surmising that they both had the best chance of clashing and surviving. Their plan to locate Monika had worked. Now it was time to get clear as fast as they could.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to be any time soon.

  The guards urged them back upstairs at double-speed. Within a few minutes they were pushed into the crowded cage room, thrust suddenly into the spectacle of it all. Spotlights rolled in a ceiling gantry. Barely clad men and women danced on the bar. Others threaded through the crowd, offering shots and small pills on silver platters. Men and women gripped the bars of the cage, staring down at the blood-splashed concrete base of the pool and crying out for sport.

  Trent confronted a guard. “I need—”

  “Shut up. The boss wants you.”

  With that the three men were corralled into a far corner. A group of females parted to reveal Oleg Roth at their centre.

  “You chose?”

  “Yes, but I need—”

  “Then choose again. Which one of you will fight? Choose now.”

  Trent closed his mouth with a snap. He couldn’t make the choice. He half turned. Radford caught his eye.

  “Broken finger.”

  Silk rocked back on his heels. “There is no fucking choice. We only have one fighter.” He stepped forward.

  Roth assessed him. “You're a skinny man. Like a plank, no? Have you ever fought before?”

  “It’s been a while.”

  Trent coughed. “Excuse me, boss? If you want us to start betting I need to make a call.”

  “No cell phones.” Roth’s throat sounded like he shredded sandpaper with his tonsils. “There's a land line behind the bar. Be quick. The bets are already flowing in. Your
fighter – the one called Jacko – she's not faring well.”

  “Jacko is a betting man’s wet dream,” Trent said. “Big. Gaudy. Showy. And skilled. She might surprise you.” He sincerely hoped that battle would never be met. Carnal was death on legs.

  “It would be a rare thing,” Roth admitted. “Go now. I have given you much privilege tonight, Mr Kunis, do not disappoint me.”

  Trent headed over to the bar as Silk started to remove his jacket. He heard Roth explaining the sequence of events – the Polish mob boss totally focused and concerned only about his fighting spectacle. Trent wondered if the man ever took to the ring.

  “Here.”

  Trent took the proffered plastic receiver and tapped out a number on the dial pad. It was answered on the fourth ring, as agreed.

  All is well.

  “Hey man, we gonna need you to transfer some more o’ that fuckin’ moolah to the account!”

  Send in the goddamn cavalry!

  “Hitting the button as we speak. Transfers can take up to thirty minutes.”

  “Thanks. Speak soon.”

  Trent handed the receiver back, hugely relieved. His biggest worry was that the cell phone jamming system being operated by Roth would also block the signal from the amplifier he had switched on as they climbed slowly out of Bean’s parked SUV. But Doug’s phrase 'hitting the button' assured him that all was well. Various other phrases would have conveyed different messages.

  So either Roth’s jamming system was purely local or Radford’s wicked mods had cleverly insulated the device and cloaked its signal. Always trust an ex-MIT, ex-government agent, secretly-disavowed tech.

  Roars of expectation broke out and the attention diverted away from Trent and his men. One of the hard parts may be done, but Trent had no illusions that there was harder yet to come. He took a moment to breathe and steel himself as the room erupted with cheers, boos and hisses, then jumped back into the game.

  “Gotta see this!” he cried. “Where’s my buddies?”

  He spied Radford and hurried over, elbowing aside soft-fleshed men and botox-enhanced women. His friend had saved him a ringside space. Trent made sure he gripped the steel diamond shapes as hard as anyone else. “Broken finger, huh?”

  “It hurts like a son of a bitch, trust me.”

  “Where’s our Mr Lawrence?”

  “They took him away to get 'warmed up'. Good idea, I thought.”

  “And that reminds me.” Trent’s voice dropped to the barest whisper, hardly distinguishable above the tumult. “He gets Lawrence. And I get Kunis. You know D H is a favourite of mine.”

  “Ah,” Radford dropped his gaze, embarrassed, and then wondered if this was another one of Trent’s 'legendary' moments. “It’s Jennifer, man. Not D H.”

  “Crap. You’re lucky you were so young and immature when you came up with all these. I never heard of her.”

  Radford pouted. “Young? I came up with that one two weeks ago. Ever hear of Mystique?”

  “No.” Trent thought it sounded like an exclusive Beverley Hills boutique and almost pointed out that Victoria probably ate and slept there.

  “Never mind. But these IDs need constant refreshment and revision. It’s no cake-walk, believe me. Only thing that keeps me happy are the fun parts.”

  “Alright, man. Whatever greases your gun.”

  The announcer spoke up at last, quieting the crowd with a gesture. “First bout!” He bellowed. “Joe ‘Killjoy’ Johnson versus Reggie the Raptor! Let’s get some!”

  Music crashed down from high-level speakers, pouring over the crowd like melodic adrenalin. The spotlights rolled and flashed for several seconds before landing on their man. Trent watched carefully as Johnson and Reggie came together, and winced as barely padded knuckles clashed with cheekbones and foreheads.

  In that moment, Trent felt eyes on him. He looked up, around, and gazed straight into the eyes of Oleg Roth. The Polish mob boss had been watching him . . . that first clash . . . the ex-champion fighter had seen him wince.

  Everything changed in that instant. Roth’s expression solidified into reinforced steel, his eyes gleamed. Without releasing Trent from his glare he called to a guard and whispered into the man’s ear. Roth’s lips were hidden behind a judiciously placed hand.

  Roth’s man spoke into a walkie. From the periphery of his vision, Trent saw every guard stand to attention, suddenly alert. Roth was too egotistical to ruin his own spectacle, but he was ready to act.

  Trent turned back to the fight, grinning crazily. “It’s happening soon,” he said to Radford from behind clenched teeth. “Be ready.”

  25

  Trent watched as Johnson went down. The other fighter descended on him hard, no mercy given between rivals. Johnson twisted, struggling hard, then grunted as his opponent landed some heavy kidney shots. The crowd bayed. The second fighter upped his game, driven by bloodlust.

  Johnson went limp. Trent looked automatically for the referee before realizing there wasn’t one. The only person who could stop this fight was Roth himself, and the mob boss looked a little too preoccupied with his women at that moment to even notice Johnson’s plight.

  Trent gritted his teeth. Damn! He didn’t want to draw any more attention, but he just couldn’t stand around and watch a man murdered like this. As Reggie the Raptor descended again, elbow and knees doing the damage, Trent cried out, “Live or die?” When Roth didn’t even look up, he shouted again, “Live or fuckin' die?”

  The shriek cut through. Roth raised his head and roughly elbowed the hangers-on aside. He glanced down through the cage.

  And laughed.

  “Let him live, Raptor. You can finish him another day.”

  The Raptor pouted. Panting and trembling with an excess of adrenalin, he backed away. Johnson didn’t move. Trent was relieved to see his chest rising and falling and looked down at the ground when Radford moved round to block his line of sight to the mob boss.

  “That bastard Roth is going to learn pain today,” Trent breathed. “I swear it.”

  Radford clenched his fists, broken finger forgotten. The images of fighting, barely- conscious captives and Monika Sobieski’s wretched transformation were branded in his head too.

  Then, the announcer introduced Silk. Trent gripped the bars even harder, making himself join the throng and proclaim a big bet, tapping it in on a handheld device that one of the guards brandished in his face.

  Silk wore a black t-shirt, jeans and trainers. His slicked-back hair glistened under the bright, flashing lights. He stretched carefully as his opponent, chosen by Roth, stood and watched. This man had fought recently. Bruises covered his face. One eye was half-closed. Trent noticed he favoured one leg, and knew Silk would have spotted it too. Trent relaxed a little. Silk would make sure no harm came to either man, whilst intelligently playing for time.

  The announcer stepped back. Silk’s opponent, a man called Tomlinson, lunged quickly. Silk allowed himself to be pushed to the ground, not wanting to show any skill, and scrambled away, brushing himself off. The two men circled each other as Roth stalked up to the cage.

  “Fight!” His throaty voice rasped. “Fight, you soft, weak, bastard-spawned homeboys. Fight, or I'll grind your bones between my teeth.”

  Tomlinson lunged again. Silk sidestepped, leaving a foot out so Tomlinson tripped face-first into the hard floor. Trent cheered. Several men in the crowd stared at him in disdain. Someone shouted, “Spill some fucking blood, you pussies!”

  Silk actually looked embarrassed. He waited for the other man to stand. There was a pause before the two clashed again, Silk taking a punch to the face and delivering a swift strike to the ribs that staggered Tomlinson. Roth roared again. “You!” he shouted, indicating Tomlinson. “You! Man from Key Largo. Are you missing your home, yes?”

  Tomlinson backed away from Silk and stared up through the cage. “P . . . please.”

  “Are you missing your family, mommy’s boy?”

  Tomlinson stared wretchedly
, holding the side where Silk had jabbed him.

  “You kill this bastard.” Roth glanced at Silk. “You kill him. I set you free.”

  “W . . . what?”

  Roth took out a stubby blade, a shiv, a knife that an inmate might use, and pushed it through the holes of the cage, letting it drop to the floor.

  “Kill him. And you go home. Tonight.”

  Tomlinson’s face changed. This was a man caught between desperation and hopelessness. How many fights he had had to endure, Trent didn’t like to speculate. But when Roth’s offer penetrated the pained miasma that churned inside his head he stooped down, took up the small blade, and held it out in front of him, swinging it from side to side like he’d seen movie stars do. To his credit, he didn’t rush in. He circled Silk, awaiting his chance. The assembled guests howled for another round of betting and then howled for Silk’s blood.

  Tomlinson thrust forward. Silk redirected the striking hand so that it passed under his own arm, then stepped around the man, coming up behind him with an arm across his throat. It takes about eight seconds to make a man unconscious through pressure on his carotid artery. Silk maintained his chokehold until the man collapsed. Roth spat down into the ring.

  “Take him away.” The boss was livid. “Get rid of him.”

  Trent knew what that meant. So did Silk, judging by his abrupt stare. Trent listened hard for the sound of the attack-team. Nothing yet. They couldn’t wait much longer. Trent couldn’t stand around idly while people died. He counted down the seconds as the third bout got under way, ending with both men collapsing in exhaustion and barely managing to crawl up the ladder and back to their cages.

  Trent played it up, shouting at Roth across the pool, “You maybe wanna feed your fighters a bit more, boss.”

  But Roth by that time was in another world. An older world most likely. His fighter – Carnal – had started his climb into the ring. Carnal, in truth, was a dreadful and breathtaking figure. Wearing just jogging bottoms, the rippling muscles of his upper torso were exposed – the width of his neck muscles alone made Trent look twice. When his biceps bulged, thick cords stood out like twined steel. His black eyes were blank, bare windows that stared on to a cruel, blighted soul. Carnal stood and waited whilst Jacko climbed into the ring, ignoring the crowd that chanted his name, ignoring the blood he had trodden in, staring with inhuman focus at the pitted walls until the announcer called the fight to order.