The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  Although cleanup teams scanned the entire area, Alex Auldborne was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  WHEN DR. BAXTER WALCOTT saw a sheet pulled over Nikkie Hix’s head as he was attending, he thought a mistake had been made. When he pulled back the sheet to reveal the woman that so resembled his daughter, but blue and bloated, he had to support himself on the sidewalls of her gurney.

  “Are you happy now?” he wailed. “You bastards finally killed her!”

  He brushed several damp strands of sandy blonde hair off of her face and rested his hand on her forehead. There was no warmth to her, but neither was she cold. There was only a slick and clammy lack of warmth. She was long gone, only a shell now.

  He stepped away and threaded his fingers behind his own head to support it. Then he saw the second body sheeted from head to toe, and went cold.

  “And that one?”

  “John Northern,” said the medic, flipping back the sheet to expose his head.

  “No,” he said in flat disbelief.

  Dr. Walcott closed his eyes and excused himself. In the hall he turned a full circle, unsure of what to do or where to look. His hands seemed fat and clumsy as he pressed hard at his eyes. He straightened himself and stared at nothing while he forced himself to breathe normally again, like the professional he was supposed to be. He glanced back in the room at the medic as he charted, at the chrome plated gurneys and the lumps laying upon them. He cleared his throat. Then he took out his phone and called Greer Nichols.

  As Walcott stepped away, a battered Max Haulden limped in and stopped dead. He had been told, but when he finally saw it, he refused to accept that this thing that lay motionless and bloated was his captain. It couldn’t be. His blue eyes were dull and filmy. His burnished tan was a pale blue. His lips were swollen and stretched to an unnatural shine, his teeth dull and brittle in the coroner’s light. The Northern Max knew had a subtle, natural scent, like a wide open field. This thing smelled of sewage water and formaldehyde. He’d been drowned like a kitten in a sack. It was no way for a man like him to die. It was not right.

  For the first time since the terrible night had finally broken, Max Haulden grasped what he had become: a man without a family. A ronin.

  Tournament teams were cohesive units, streamlined machines forged as one from three. It was with a sickening, sinking feeling that Max realized he had as much of a chance of continuing on now as did the rotting sack of flesh in front of him. It was over for him, as surely as it was over for Northern and for Nikkie Hix.

  As for her, Max Haulden refused to even look at her and he wouldn’t go near her body. He blanched and came close to running when she was pointed out to him. The walls seemed to rush in on him and he pushed his way back out of the doors in a panic, only wanting to get away from that place. He wept as he hitched his way down the halls, through the doors. Although he wasn’t splayed out on a slab of cold steel, death had taken him too. The sight of Northern cut him deeply, but the mere thought of Nikkie had broken him apart.

  Max Haulden was alone.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  ALLEN LOCKTON PAUSED OUTSIDE of Greer’s office door, a rare halt in momentum. He bobbed on the balls of his feet and flicked nervously at a speck of lint on his pressed tracksuit pants. He’d heard the rumblings. He feared the worst. Something had gone terribly wrong in California. He rubbed at his smooth jaw and gripped the doorknob. No sense in delaying the inevitable.

  Inside it was very dark. Greer, sitting in his large chair behind the curve of his dark wooden desk, appeared to be asleep. Lock knew better.

  “So it’s true then. They’re both dead,” said Lock.

  “It’s true,” Greer replied softly. There was no sadness on Greer’s face, no tears. Only pure and total defeat. He sagged in his seat as if it was the only thing keeping him from lying prone on the floor.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I called you here for a reason,” Greer said as he fumbled at the call button on his desk. After a few moments of silence there was a knocking at the door. Greer gestured for Lock to open it, and as he did, he was shouldered back into the room by a large man in a trim black suit. He half pushed and half dragged another man, who whimpered softly from inside a burlap sack slung over his head. Lock jumped back as the suited man shoved his captive into the room and then abruptly departed. The unfortunate fellow stumbled forward and bumped awkwardly into Greer’s desk before stopping. His breathing was hard and panicked.

  “Take that ridiculous bag off of his head,” said Greer.

  “Is he... dangerous?”

  “Only to himself.”

  Lock stepped forward tentatively, then reached over and plucked it off. There, bewildered and terrified, stood Frank Youngsmith.

  “You!”

  Frank looked wildly about himself before settling on Lock.

  “The mailman?” he asked, incredulous. He turned to Greer, who watched them both wearily.

  “Are you going to kill me?” whimpered Frank.

  Greer sighed. “Lock, you remember Frank. Frank, this is Allen Lockton. He’s a courier for the Tournament.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Frank whispered. Lock stared at him with outright distaste.

  “We don’t have time to explain, not now,” Greer said. “Suffice to say, Frank, that you somehow managed to find and make public more about our work than anyone in the history of our organization. Looking at you you’d think you couldn’t lick a stamp without fucking up, but there you go.”

  “I swear to God in heaven that I will never utter a word—”

  “A little late for that,” Greer said, before turning to Lock. “You two have more in common than you think, Lock.”

  “What? With him? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves!”

  “We have a serious problem,” Greer continued, undeterred. “Two of my people, two good people, two friends, are dead. And the man who killed them is running free out there somewhere.”

  “This is what Walcott wanted to stop,” Frank said.

  “No, not this. This was awful. This was different.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Most signs point to one man. Alex Auldborne. But I say most signs because there is another possibility.”

  “Mazaryk,” Lock said. “The message. The message he gave Northern, the one that I delivered. It was a threat.”

  “Perhaps. And we know he was there that night. He could have been on that dock. He flew there under his own name and our people followed him from the airport to just outside of the lower dock area before he ducked us. So we’ve got a situation here where both men were there that night and both men have since disappeared.”

  “And you want me to find them,” Lock said.

  “No. You can’t possibly take on both. I’ll worry about Auldborne. I want the both of you to find Eddie Mazaryk.”

  “The both of us? I don’t need Frank!”

  “Wait, wait, back up a second. This guy maybe killed two people and you want us to go out looking for him?” Frank asked.

  “This is different, Lock. You found Mazaryk in the past because he let you. Judging by the way he got the hell out of town, I don’t think he wants to be found now. Frank can help you. He’s quite... tenacious.”

  “This is outrageous,” said Lock.

  “This is insane!” said Frank.

  Greer turned to look squarely at the disheveled man, still wide-eyed. His wiry and thinning hair jutted out in every direction and there was flaky scuzz trapped in the week old growth on his face.

  “This is your chance, Frank. Even if you could go back to that shithole job you had in Colorado Springs, would you? You want a change? You want to live? Look at you, man. This is it for you. You’ve got nothing left. You can join us now, or you can turn away and live and die in that little duplex without anybody giving a good goddamn. That’s how I see it.”

  Frank swallowed and worked his mouth about, but no sound came out. Lock
shook his head and stared at the floor.

  “You don’t have a choice, Allen. You work for the Tournament. You deliver things. It’s your job. Well now I want you and Frank to find Eddie Mazaryk. Find him quickly, and deliver him to me.”

  Epilogue

  IAN FINN’S CHEST STILL pained him terribly. He felt as though he had a constant case of heartburn, or that he’d inhaled countless tiny shards of metal that tore at his lungs with every breath. It made smoking almost unbearable. Almost, but not quite. He took drags in small little puffs, like a jittery teenager. It was enough to drive a man to drink, and since Ian already drank, it drove him to drink more.

  He’d been recovering with his team in Dublin for the past week. Kayla MacQuillan was the worst of them, having compounded her second round injuries on top of her first, from which she’d not fully recovered. But every time Ian thought of this, he thanked almighty God that at least she was alive.

  In light of recent events, the bar had suddenly been set very low.

  He couldn’t quite believe what had happened in California. Johnnie Northern seemed the type of man to live forever, and Nikkie Hix was too perceptive, too sweet in one sense and too brutal in another to be murdered in that way. Their loss affected him deeply, but whether it was sadness or a sudden realization of his own vulnerability that was making him feel so, he couldn’t quite tell. Probably both.

  It also didn’t hurt that Grey hated Blue, and Ian hated Grey. Mutual enmity went a long way towards friendship, about as long as the circumstances could possibly allow. Now they were dead, and although details were hazy, he had no doubt that Alex Auldborne had done it and then disappeared, as cowards will do.

  Ian spent a lot of time in the pub over the past few days, partly to ponder how in one night the entire Tournament had transformed, and partly to replace the stinging in his chest with a much preferable fiery warmth. His insides didn’t feel quite right. He’d begun to shake. The movement was slight, just the barest tremor in his usually steady gun hand, but it was there. The liquor helped. A bit.

  On one such foray, while he was sitting alone at the bar, contemplating stepping outside for his fifth cigarette while sipping away at his third double whisky, someone recognized the tattoo on his left forearm.

  The man, a regular he’d seen several times in the past week, wore the monkey-suit uniform of a shipping factory stationed on the nearby Rhine. He was in his forties, thick and whiskered, with a bit of a belly. Ian had caught him glancing several times already, and when he leaned towards him Ian though it was going to end up in a fight, something he was in no way prepared for. The man spoke low, and looked cautiously about him.

  “What you did on the plane, mate. Well done. Well done.”

  Ian’s unlit cigarette dropped from his mouth onto the sticky bar. He snatched it up quickly and sputtered an awkward response:

  “I’m sorry? Do I know you?”

  “No,” the man said, clearly pleased at Ian’s flustered reply. He nodded blatantly at Ian’s tattoo, which Ian immediately covered by wrapping his arm around his waist.

  “Who do you think I am?” Ian asked.

  “Only who you are, mate. Only who you are.”

  Ian sat back and looked at the man, who gleefully rocked on his stool and smiled forward. He popped the broken cigarette behind his ear and motioned for the bartender.

  “I need to settle up,” Ian said.

  “No charge.”

  “I’ve had at least five drinks.”

  “No charge for you, brother.”

  Then it dawned on Ian that the entire pub had gone quiet. He stood up and turned about. Every eye was on him. A few people had their phones out and were snapping pictures, others were murmuring softly to each other as they watched him. Ian looked down at himself, then back at the bartender, who watched him placidly. He muttered thanks and pushed himself away from the bar. The eyes followed him. He saw that many were looking at his forearm and he pressed it harder against his body. He shuffled like this to the door then stopped. He turned back around, to prove to himself that he hadn’t imagined what was happening.

  They were still watching. The man who’d spoken to him took a big swig of his pint and toasted in his direction.

  Ian turned back around. Someone, a small woman, pushed open the door for him. Bewildered, he walked out into the night.

  Compendium of Characters

  Aldobrandi, Lorenzo: Sweeper of Team Gold

  Alvarez, Lilia: Striker of Team White

  Andizzi, Ignazio: Striker of Team Gold

  Auldborne, Alex: Captain of Team Grey

  Auldborne, Madeleine: Alex Auldborne’s mother

  Bernard: Assistant to Greer Nichols

  Billings, Andy: Frank Youngsmith’s neighbor

  Brander, Goran: Striker of Team Black

  Crocifissa, Tessa: Captain of Team Gold

  Darby, Father Brendan: Team Green Administrator

  Finn, Ian: Striker of Team Green

  Fuse, Tenri: Sweeper of Team Red

  Haulden, Max: Striker of Team Blue

  Hix, Nicole (Nikkie): Sweeper of Team Blue

  Hurley, Bailey: Pyper Hurley’s little sister

  Hurley, Daniel: Pyper and Bailey Hurley’s father

  Hurley, Pyper: Captain of Team Green

  Jinbo, Amon: Striker of Team Red

  Lockton, Allen (Lock): Tournament Courier

  MacQuillan, Kayla: Sweeper of Team Green

  Mazaryk, Edward (Eddie): Captain of Team Black

  Nichols, Greer: Team Blue Administrator

  Noel, Dominique: Striker of Team Silver

  Noel, Tristan: Sweeper of Team Silver

  Noel, Yves: Captain of Team Silver

  Northern, John (Johnnie): Captain of Team Blue

  Obata, Takuro: Captain of Team Red

  Ortiz, Felix: Sweeper of Team White

  Radomir, Ales: Sweeper of Team Black

  Saslow, Natasha: Tournament Courier

  Stoke, Christina: Sweeper of Team Grey

  Tate, Draden: Striker of Team Grey

  Vega, Diego: Captain of Team White

  Walcott, Dr. Baxter: Member of the diode development team

  Walcott, Sarah: Dr. Baxter Walcott’s daughter

  Youngsmith, Frank: Claims adjuster with Barringer Insurance

  Compendium of Characters by Team

  Team Black (Russia)

  Eddie Mazaryk: Captain

  Goran Brander: Striker

  Ales Radomir: Sweeper

  Team Blue (USA)

  Johnnie Northern: Captain

  Max Haulden: Striker

  Nikkie Hix: Sweeper

  Team Gold (Italy)

  Tessa Crocifissa: Captain

  Ignazio Andizzi: Striker

  Lorenzo Aldobrandi: Sweeper

  Team Green (Ireland)

  Pyper Hurley: Captain

  Ian Finn: Striker

  Kayla MacQuillan: Sweeper

  Team Grey (England)

  Alex Auldborne: Captain

  Draden Tate: Striker

  Christina Stoke: Sweeper

  Team Red (Japan)

  Takuro Obata: Captain

  Amon Jinbo: Striker

  Tenri Fuse: Sweeper

  Team Silver (France)

  Yves Noel: Captain

  Dominique Noel: Striker

  Tristan Noel: Sweeper

  Team White (Mexico)

  Diego Vega: Captain

  Lilia Alvarez: Striker

  Felix Ortiz: Sweeper

  GREY WINTER

  THE TOURNAMENT: VOLUME TWO

  B. B. GRIFFITH

  To Emily

  May we always find ourselves in the middle of great stories together.

  I have always known

  That at last I would

  Take this road, but yesterday

  I did not know that it would be today.

  —Narihara

  Prologue

  “I’VE GOT A QUESTION FOR you,” he said. “What can k
ill you, but will never let you die?”

  Johnnie Northern looked both of them in the eye for the first time, really looked at them, and Max could see that the girl, Nicole Hix, was already inclined towards this man, but Max wasn’t the type to warm easily. You had to earn it.

  Northern tossed something at Hix like an old friend would pitch a bottle of beer. She caught it without a hitch. Max leaned in and saw what looked to be a standard bullet sitting in the palm of her hand. But it wasn’t a bullet. Not exactly. The tip was softly rounded, and had a touch of earthy red, like clay. Max asked if he could hold it for a closer look, but Hix was watching Northern like a cat and didn’t seem to hear him.

  “It’s a diode. The tool of our trade. It hits like a bullet, and feels like a bullet, but they can always bring us back.”

  ————

  “...Always bring us back,” he’d said.

  Not always, Max thought. Sometimes dead is dead.

  In the outlying suburbs of Cheyenne, Wyoming stands a high school called Shawnee Mission. It is a sprawling structure of functional looking brick buildings interspersed here and there with big trees and long, flat fields. Now they were empty, thickly covered in snow as the frigid winter wind blew unchecked down their lengths, rattling branches like bones along the way.

  Max Haulden watched the campus silently from under a bare Elm tree upon a small hill near the front atrium. He was bundled in a dark overcoat, his collar up against the cutting wind. One of his sleeves hung empty, for his right arm was wrapped firmly in a cast and held close to his body. A purple bruise crept up his nose from under his scarf. His eyes squinted and his eyebrows were softly upturned, his expression of sad resignation, or perhaps anger; with his mouth covered it was impossible to tell. Next to him stood a tall black man with dark, probing eyes and a gleaming bald head; he pointed a gloved hand at a girl in the distance.