The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  “Keep your voice down,” said Pyper.

  “Sorry,” Kayla said again as she deflated once more. The burst of righteous anger had spent what little wind was in her sails. She wouldn’t even meet Ian’s eye. Ian knew she was embarrassed, as if by getting shot she had failed them in some way and every pain reminded her again and again of this failure. Her shame hurt her as much as the diode hit. Ian didn’t know how to comfort her without seeming patronizing, so he said nothing.

  They sat in silence until Daniel came through the door, laden with plastic bags. He stopped dead in the hallway and broke into a wide, whiskered smile.

  “Pyper! You’re back! And with Ian and Kayla as well!”

  Pyper hugged her father before he was able even to set down his groceries.

  “We have a few days in Dublin,” she said. “The company put us up in the city, but I thought I’d pop in for supper when I can.”

  “You should be staying with us! All of you!”

  “We wouldn’t want to be a bother, Mr. Hurley, and the hotel is almost as comfortable,” Ian said.

  “Well, at least I get you for meals. Here, you kids help me put this away,” he enthused, handing off the bags. Kayla tried to rise from the table, but was forced into her seat again by Pyper’s subtle pressing as she passed. Daniel paused in his unloading.

  “Kayla is feeling a bit under the weather,” Pyper said, watching her sweeper carefully. Kayla swallowed and mumbled something about food poisoning and how she might lie down for just a bit. She forced a feeble smile as she glanced up at Daniel, concern evident in his furrowed, freckled brow.

  “Of course, of course, why don’t you rest in the bedroom?” he suggested, moving over to her as he spoke and gingerly raising her up. He walked her down the hall and into the spare bedroom, muttering warnings about raw meat before they were lost to sight. Ian looked squarely at Pyper and shook his head.

  “It’s normal,” Pyper consoled. “She took a point blank head shot. The light bothers her. We’ve all been there.”

  “Is it just me, or is it getting worse?” Ian asked in a whisper.

  “It’ll get worse before it gets better, but it’ll get better.”

  “No, each time. Each time we’re hit it seems worse.”

  “It’s just because you forget how bad it really is.”

  Ian resolutely shook his head. “No, I—”

  But Daniel was coming back down the hallway. The conversation stopped. To cut into the sudden silence, Pyper spoke up. “Dad, you didn’t cash my check.”

  “Oh, Love, save your money,” Daniel said, brushing away the notion with a sweep of his calloused hands.

  “Dad, I can help you out. They pay me quite well. Trust me,” Pyper said, her voice taking on that softly insistent tone that held such sway over her team. Her father, however, seemed immune. He rolled the slight stoop out of his shoulders and shook his head proudly as he walked into the kitchen to busy himself with pots and pans. Pyper continued nonetheless, raising her voice.

  “I was hoping you’d relax a bit more. You don’t have to work so late. Spend more time with Bailey.”

  “She’s only alone for an hour between school and when I come home,” Daniel said, pouring water and setting it to boil. “And she’s the better part of ten. Your mother and I were letting you babysit other kids when you were ten.”

  “She’s seven.”

  “Almost ten. She sees plenty of her old man, Love. Trust me. And I like to work. It keeps me busy. We’re doing just fine.”

  Pyper watched the little girl as she ran into the kitchen and presented Ian with a crayon picture. She didn’t wait for his response, only giggled and dashed out into the living room again. Ian held it up for all to see. It depicted a little stick figure of a girl with Bailey’s long brown hair holding the hand of a larger stick figure with Ian’s floppy curls. The two of them were surrounded by orange colored trees and several smiling, stick-legged dogs. The scene was enclosed in a large, lopsided heart. Her signature was prominent in the bottom right hand corner.

  “She wants a dog,” Daniel said, bringing plates to the table before returning to the kitchen.

  “She’s getting quite good at me,” said Ian as he carefully folded the picture and placed it in his front pocket, like he always did.

  The two of them alone at the table once more, Ian again spoke of Kayla. “She’ll take the full two weeks. That’s for sure. And she won’t be one-hundred percent. Not by a long shot.”

  “Neither will they,” Pyper said, laying a calming hand on her striker’s shoulder. Ian continued to look in the direction of the silent room down the hall. Daniel had closed the door to give Kayla quiet, and also to keep Bailey from exploring.

  “Eddie Mazaryk isn’t like Alex Auldborne,” Ian said. “Black isn’t like any other team.”

  Pyper watched her little sister roll to the floor to start another drawing and said nothing. She wouldn’t argue with that.

  “Some say they’re worse,” Ian added.

  “Goran Brander was gunned down as well. Remember that. We’re both working with one wounded.”

  Ian moved close to his captain and lowered his voice further.

  “Goran Brander is almost two hundred centimeters tall. He’s a brick wall. And he’s had much longer to recover. Kayla is shorter than me, weighs as much as a pinecone, and has two weeks.”

  “What are you saying, Ian?” Pyper asked, looking directly at him.

  “I’m saying I think we should assume Mazaryk is going to use her against us, and she’s already badly hurt.”

  Pyper narrowed her eyes. “She’s our sweeper. She comes with us. In everything.”

  Ian looked away. Daniel came back with more place settings. Ian offered to help but was hushed and told he was a guest. When Daniel had gone out again, Ian turned back to his captain. Pyper was still watching him.

  “I didn’t mean—” he began.

  “Yes you did,” Pyper said, her voice deadly calm. “You want Kayla out of this round. Out of harm’s way. It would destroy her to hear you talk like this.”

  Ian knew it was true. He searched for the right words: “I’m just not sure...”

  “About what?”

  “Everything. It’s changing. I don’t think anyone is really aware of what those three Russians are capable of.”

  “Says the man who started a gun fight in an airplane.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes. I do. But only because I know you. To everyone else, what you just did up there looks twice as reckless as anything Grey or Black ever did.”

  “You disapprove.”

  For the first time in what seemed to Ian like many minutes, Pyper pulled her gaze away from him and back to her little sister.

  “I can’t answer that,” she said, “because I’m not sure myself. What I can tell you is that I disapprove of losing, especially now. Because you’re dead on about one thing—this organization is changing. The stakes are too high. And as long as England is represented, Ireland must be too. This is my country. And your country. If they escalate and we back down, we’ll lose everything, and I cannot let that happen.”

  Ian found himself smiling for the first time since the hospital. He was suddenly steeled by his captain’s simple words and the light touch of her hand on his shoulder. He knew that the Tournament had made a terrible mistake in allowing someone to arm the English criminals—and the Russians they would fight in less than two weeks. They might even have made a mistake when they allowed Father Darby to choose him, rehabilitate his arm, give him a gun, and tell him that the country he loved was now his to serve.

  But one thing was for sure. They clearly had done the right thing by commissioning his captain.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  SARAH WALCOTT ALMOST DIDN’T recognize him. He was sitting at the same café where she’d last spoken to him, gazing out at a park across the street through the palm trees and sipping a Coke.

  She was strolling with
her two roommates and stopped in her tracks right next to him. The full power of his pool-blue gaze was set on the park, or perhaps beyond. He looked pensive, even troubled. His eyebrows drooped as if he was trying to recall a distant thought or feeling and it was eluding him. Her friends continued apace before stopping, and when they looked back at her, so did he. Whatever might have been troubling him disappeared under a wolfish grin while Sarah’s mind ran circles around itself trying to think of something to say. She’d forgotten what great teeth he had.

  “Sarah,” he said. It was almost a sigh, like an exhalation of smoke. His focus was exclusively upon her now, as if nothing else existed.

  She wanted to back away and run towards him at the same time. She made a conscious effort to root herself, and said the first coherent thought that came to her mind.

  “So you did come back.”

  “Of course I did. This is my home.”

  She noticed a portion of what looked to be a masterwork of a tattoo peeking below the short sleeve of his right arm. It was vivid and dark in color, but abstract in design. It seemed to flow over the contours of his upper arm. She hadn’t noticed it before. Forgetting herself, she bent closer to look at it and saw that it consisted of many smaller designs and only appeared filled-in from a distance. She extended her forefinger.

  He didn’t move.

  She touched it, half expecting her finger to come away wet. “Is this new?” she asked, enthralled.

  “No.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “A lot of things. Kind of a family crest.”

  “It looks like water,” she said, pulling her finger away.

  “And it looks like fire up here,” he said, tapping his shoulder twice as he watched her.

  She stepped back and looked at him. They were silent for a moment. Her friends began to walk back her way, seeking an introduction. When Northern spoke again, they stopped.

  “If I take you out to dinner,” he said, “will your father ever find out?”

  “M—my father?” she stammered. She couldn’t help it; the question was so matter of fact.

  “I really can’t have him angry at me.”

  “Oh, he’ll live,” she said.

  “He cannot know. This is very important.”

  “Then he won’t know.”

  Northern smiled again. “Good. Sooner rather than later is best for me.”

  “How about this weekend?” She cocked an eyebrow. Having regained some of her composure she was eager to take him off his guard, to push back a little.

  “Friday night. We’ll meet here.” He gestured with a brief opening of his hands. “It’s my favorite café.”

  “I’d guessed.”

  Northern glanced at her friends. Their eyes were wide. Then he was looking over Sarah’s shoulder at a man approaching in the distance. His glance away from all of them was brief but noticeable. Sarah almost looked behind her, but caught herself; it amazed her how much she wanted to follow the man, even when he didn’t speak.

  “Until then?” Northern asked. A polite dismissal.

  “Until then.” She stood straight once more, nodded one final time, hitched up her purse, and turned to catch up with her friends.

  “Bye Sarah.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Bye, John,” she smiled.

  As soon as she no longer watched him, he transferred his gaze back to the approaching man. He walked with a prim sort of energy, very nearly on the balls of his feet. His brown hair was neatly parted in a tight wave. He wore an immaculate track suit of shiny polyester, zipped open just above the ankles. His shoes were the only part of him that looked worn: scuffed, dark blue trainers with a gray sole that was peeling away at the walking creases. He carried a single-strapped messenger’s bag slung tightly over his right shoulder.

  “Hello, Lock,” Northern said, still sitting.

  “John,” Lock said in reply. “What was that all about?” He looked down the sidewalk at Sarah and her friends. “Official business?”

  “In this business, everything is business,” Northern said, sipping his Coke.

  “I’m sure,” Lock muttered, unconvinced. “Well, it’s not like you’re in the middle of a war or anything. Moratorium ends Saturday. Let me guess. Date Friday night?”

  Northern nodded, watching Sarah fade in the distance. “She’s a nice girl.”

  “She looks a lot like someone else I know...”

  Northern turned his gaze to Lock and froze his words in his mouth.

  “Fine,” Lock said, after a minute. “It’ll go unsaid.” He loosened his strap and flipped his bag frontward. “As much as this might surprise you, I’m not here just to chat.” Lock dug around inside a pocket. “Eddie Mazaryk is pulling his eccentric nonsense again and refuses to let his assigned courier carry for him.”

  “Aw. He likes you,” Northern said, his eyes glittering.

  Lock withdrew his handheld and tapped his way through various screens.

  “Yes. Well. I caught him recently and he asked me to hand deliver this to you, and only to you.”

  Lock flipped the screen around to face Northern. “Press your thumb to the pad.”

  “A message?” Northern narrowed his eyes. He leaned away from the screen.

  “God only knows.”

  “For me only?”

  “For you only. He was adamant.”

  Northern slowly took the device. Lock seemed reluctant to give it up completely, but eventually let go. Northern looked from the screen to Lock. After a moment, Lock sighed and turned around to give him privacy.

  Northern pressed his thumb to the pad.

  For what seemed like a full minute, Lock heard nothing from behind him, not even a shuffle or a breath. After two minutes, Lock turned his head slightly. Northern was completely still, his face a mask.

  “John?”

  Northern said nothing. Lock turned full around again, but stayed back. Northern paid him no mind. His eyes were unfocused and distant. He was looking at the screen, but didn’t seem to be seeing it.

  “John?” Lock tried again, and this time he was rewarded with a dazed look. He resisted the unprofessional temptation of asking what the message was about. It was clearly of a personal nature. His job was not to ask why; his was just to carry and fly. Still, this change in character alarmed him.

  “If you need me to carry for you, I can do it. I can be anywhere in the world in one day. Anywhere.”

  “Is this set to delete itself?” Northern asked, his voice slightly hoarse, as if he had just awakened.

  “Yes. Close the file and you can watch it go.”

  Northern closed the file.

  “Do you need me to run for you John?”

  “No,” Northern said, with something of his old confidence back. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Lock. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

  Lock shrugged. “If you say so.” After a moment, Lock spoke again. “If that’s all you need then, I should be going.”

  Northern nodded. “Safe travels, Lock.”

  “Call me if you need me,” Lock said, replacing the console and zipping his bag once more. He flipped it behind him. “I’m off.” Lock turned around and walked back the way he came, receding to the distance until Northern was left alone once again.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  COMMUNION SEEMED PARTICULARLY HEAVY at Mass that Sunday.

  Kayla and Ian went alongside Pyper Hurley and her family to the service. The moratorium was in effect for another three hours, enough to accommodate the service, but in all likelihood they would have attended regardless. Ian stood last in line and he watched his captain approach the priest. She looked remarkably calm, stepping forward a little at a time, waiting patiently with her hands on the shoulders of her little sister in front of her. She seemed a portrait unto herself, her face smooth and flat, her eyes straightforward. Even Bailey, who would receive only a blessing, seemed calmed under her touch. He envied Pyper’s poise. If he didn’t know her s
o well, he might think she had no idea what approached. The thought of the fight that awaited them unsettled his empty stomach. It took effort just to keep it together in front of Pyper’s family.

  Bailey looked up to receive her blessing and Pyper knelt to receive Communion before they returned to their seats. Ian stepped forward. Just ahead of him stood Kayla. Whatever was in store, Ian was afraid Kayla was not going to fare well. She was only now regaining a semblance of her freckled coloring. Only recently was she able to go the whole day without significant rest. Basic activities tired her and she was often left winded just walking apace with him. She described her pain as a lingering hangover that she couldn’t sleep away. She closed her eyes to receive Communion and her eyelashes twitched. Ian could read upon her face her frustration at her condition. His stomach twinged again. He would have to watch out for her, and that was a burden he didn’t need.

  He stepped up last of all and knelt. The paper thin wafer caught in his throat and he swallowed the juice awkwardly—it hitched going down. He coughed gruffly and moved on.

  ————

  Kayla checked her watch on the quiet ride home. Rain clouds gathered and made it seem darker than it was, but the short fall day was already drawing to a close. Not long now until round two officially opened. They would take no chances of endangering their own people. Once home, they would gather their things and leave Daniel and Bailey, move away from them and the city out to the country where they would await Black. She slowed her breathing by taking three deep breaths. On the long road to recovery she’d found this technique effective at stifling the pangs of nausea that occasionally still crept up from her gut. Each time, Ian glanced at her and then away. She knew he was concerned, and she loved him all the more for how much he tried and failed to hide it, but she was hiding things of her own.

  For starters, she wasn’t nearly as weak as she let on. She was in pain, surely, but it was nothing she couldn’t cram down inside herself for a few hours when she had to, when the time came.

  Also, she was going to bring down Eddie Mazaryk all by herself.