The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  From their view she looked especially small, just another one of thousands of students arriving for classes in a steady stream that morning. Her skin was pale white and her hair a vibrant shock of red against the drab grays and dirty whites of winter. Her hands were in the pockets of her coat, and her breath puffed brief fists of steam into the air. She shuffled alone through row upon row of cars as she made her way to the doors of the school.

  “The girl? You can’t be serious.”

  Greer Nichols pulled down his scarf. “Our hand was forced early, it’s true. But don’t underestimate her. Our recruiters have been watching her for a long time now. I’ve been assured that she is more than she seems.”

  “Well she seems like a child.”

  “She’s not much younger than you were when we approached you.”

  “The file says she’s seventeen.”

  “There’s an advantage there.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Max slowly shook his head. “From Johnnie Northern to this girl. He’d have found this particularly humorous, you know.”

  Greer turned to him and narrowed his eyes.

  “She’s the one, Max,” he said forcefully.

  “When I said I’d help you, I meant go after them, not babysit her. We have a mess on our hands, and I can clean it up. Quickly.” His tone darkened.

  “I need you here. You’re the only one who can help her. Train her. I will take care of the murder investigation.”

  “Murders. Two. People seem to be forgetting about Nikkie. She was killed with him, you know. Just because she wasn’t captain—”

  Greer faced him. “I know goddamn well what happened on those docks. Those were my people too, Max. My friends. I fought for them, in my own way. If you think for one second I won’t catch both of those men and beat the confession out of one or both of them myself if I have to, you’re dead wrong.”

  Max Haulden smirked as he watched the girl push open the doors, stamp her feet, and shiver off the cold as she moved inside. “You have no idea what kind of men they are. You haven’t faced them down, looked in their eyes—”

  He turned again to hammer his point home but found himself alone. He sighed and fell deep into his own thoughts as he returned his gaze towards the school, pulling his scarf up once more against the whipping wind.

  Chapter One

  DRADEN TATE SAT AT a sparse table beside a low cot in a holding cell that smelled faintly of vomit. Tate’s normally deep-black complexion had gone slightly chalky. He leaned heavily over the table like a precarious rock shelf, his shoulders hunched and his thick forearms stacked one atop the other like cords of wood. His eyes were watchful, darting about at the two-way mirrors surrounding him beyond his cell walls. They made it so he couldn’t see Greer Nichols approach the room, pause, and turn towards a sharp-eyed security officer on guard outside.

  “What’s he doing?” Greer asked.

  “Nothing much. He spit up once into the can, but other than that he’s mostly been glaring at his own reflection.”

  “Open the door,” said Greer. “We’re running out of time.”

  The guard paused. “He’s recovering quickly—”

  “—I’ll be fine.”

  “He was hell enough there for a while when we first stuck him in.”

  “Open the door.”

  The guard shrugged and pulled a keycard from his waist, inserting it into a slot before depressing a button above it. As the lock clicked open, Tate’s eyes snapped to the door. Greer stepped inside without hesitation and stood still for a moment, taking in Tate and allowing him to do the same. Tate’s jaw muscles popped and faded several times but he said nothing, only stared sullenly out at Greer.

  “Do you know who I am, Draden?” Greer asked.

  Silence.

  “I’m the man who hired Johnnie Northern and Nikkie Hix.”

  Tate raised an eyebrow.

  “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Tate let out a derisive snort. He gestured heavily about him at the cell walls and the mirrors beyond them.

  “What the fuck is all dis? Dis how you Americans treat guests?”

  “It’s a holding cell.”

  “Am I a prisoner?”

  Greer leaned back on the concrete wall. Tate only watched.

  “What happened that night?” Greer asked, his eyes boring into him.

  “Fuck you. Get me back to England. What happened to my team?”

  “What happened to mine?” Greer snapped. Tate didn’t even flinch, but his eyes flashed as recognition dawned.

  “Something happened. Something bad.”

  Greer whisked his hand over his head, calming himself. “Do not fuck with me Draden.”

  “Somebody’s dead.”

  “Do you want me to tell you what I think happened? I think you killed them. You may not have pulled the trigger, but you know. You came to San Diego that night on a mission, the three of you. You came to kill.”

  “Where is Auldborne?” Tate asked flatly.

  Greer said nothing.

  “Show me Auldborne or get me a phone, now.”

  “You can rot in here,” Greer spat, already moving back to the cell door. It opened for him and he left without another word. Draden Tate simply crossed his arms in front of him and watched himself in the mirror, lost in thought.

  Greer paused outside of the locked door. The guard glanced cautiously at him before speaking. “What do you make of that? He didn’t seem to know anything.”

  Greer absently scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe. Where is Christina Stoke?”

  The guard led him down to the opposite end of the long hallway where a second cell, identical to the first, was buried into the concrete. Inside, a small woman sat primly on a folding chair, her slender legs crossed and her arms crossed above them. Her smooth skin was already recovering its porcelain coloring, but was still a touch sallow. Her dark doll’s eyes sparkled with fury. She breathed strongly from her nose and the corner of her lips twitched.

  “Good luck with this one,” the guard offered. Greer walked in and stopped in front of her. She briefly paused the fast twitching of her foot.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck who you are. If you don’t let me out of this place, I will hunt you down and rip you apart. In front of your family.”

  Greer watched her like one might a wasp in a jar. “Do you know what happened that night?”

  “Where is Auldborne? I’m not saying or doing a goddamn thing until I see my captain.”

  Greer pondered her for a moment before turning abruptly and walking back outside of the door. Once away he rubbed his jaw in thought.

  “They both think we have Alex Auldborne.”

  The guard nodded. “The few times they’ve spoken, they’ve asked for him.”

  “They can’t be put off forever. Nor can the English administration. They’re already accusing us of kidnapping.”

  “How long will we keep them here?”

  “As long as we can. They know something they’re not telling. And the bettors are demanding an explanation. For everything.”

  “So...?”

  “So I think we’d better find Alex Auldborne and straighten this out. Quickly.”

  Chapter Two

  ALLEN LOCKTON PURSED HIS lips in distaste. He watched as Frank Youngsmith fumbled about with his pizza and gigantic soda: greasy, dripping airport food with a veritable tub of liquid sugar to wash it down. Frank overfilled his cup and then popped on the lid, soda dripping into his food and all over the counter. He fumbled an apology to the small boy behind him. The man was a disaster.

  As he came back to sit down, Lock leaned away and sipped his bottle of water. He was still in disbelief at the position in which he’d found himself: tethered to a slob, a floppy, sloppy St. Bernard of a man. They were together now, the two of them, and Lock was borderline mortified. Frank started eating, foldi
ng his slice of pizza in half so the grease pooled in the center and dripped upon his paper plate.

  “How we doing on time?” Frank asked between bites.

  “Fine.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “God, no.”

  “It’s free.”

  “It’s not free, Frank. You’re probably the first person on earth to pay for a slice of pizza with an Amex Black card.”

  Frank paused, food in mouth. “It’s a business expense,” he said, shrugging, and then went back to eating.

  Lock sighed and brushed a nearby crumb from the table, wiping his hand thoroughly on a napkin afterward. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Hey, a man’s gotta eat, Allen. How am I supposed to catch this killer if I’m starving? Even Dick Tracy ate, every now and then.”

  “Trust me, you’re no Dick Tracy. And don’t call me Allen.”

  “Fine. Lock. And let me tell you another thing. You’re no Dick Tracy either, or Dudley Do-right the Amazing Mailman, or whatever you think you are.”

  “Good one, Frank.”

  “Why do they call you Lock anyway?”

  “Because I get the job done. And frankly, Frank, I don’t think you grasp the situation here. What we’re supposed to do.”

  Frank brushed his front down, smudging his shirt with his own fingers in the process. “Of course I don’t understand. How am I supposed to understand? I’ve just gotten the full lowdown on these crazy war games. Up until a week ago, I thought you people were going to kill me. Instead, the big bald black guy hires me.”

  “God knows why,” Lock muttered.

  “I know why. I really do. Because I figured you all out. I put the puzzle together. I know what you are.” Frank took a big bite. Still chewing, he said, “Do you want me to tell you what you are, Lock?”

  Lock checked his watch. Frank leaned in, eyes wide, his thinning ring of springy curls matted oddly about his head.

  “You’re all insane,” he whispered. “Totally insane. You work for a pack of the world’s most powerful lunatics, trying to figure out creative ways to kill one another.”

  Lock let out one barking laugh. “Frank, the only lunatic in this outfit is the one we’re supposed to find. To catch and bring back.”

  Frank sat back and crossed his arms over his paunch. “Right. Him.”

  “Yes. Him. Do you have any idea who Eddie Mazaryk is?” Lock glanced about, as if the very name held some power over the rushing passengers surrounding them. “You have no idea what this man is capable of. How far his reach is. He knows everything.”

  “He can’t know everything.”

  “Everything. And he was there that night, the night of the murders.”

  “Well if he knows everything, then he knows we’re looking for him.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind that he knows that you and I are looking for him,” Lock said, straightening the sleeve of his maroon track jacket and finishing his water.

  “So what you’re saying is that this is a suicide mission. Essentially we’re both running to our deaths.”

  “You’re not running anywhere, but our deaths are a distinct, very tangible possibility, yes. Although maybe he’ll take pity on us. He’s strange like that.”

  Frank pursed his lips, but then he shrugged, scraped his plate, and popped the last bit of crust in his mouth.

  “You seem remarkably cavalier about all of this.”

  “Well, for one thing, I think part of me is convinced I’m going to wake up at any moment. And for another thing, you didn’t know me three months ago.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that there are things worse than death, and my life was one of them.”

  “Well how lucky for you that you joined us then.”

  Frank nodded sagely before losing interest in the conversation. His attention drifted to a food court employee who was gesturing for a remote control to a television in one corner. Grabbing it, she turned up the volume on a local newscaster reporting from a derelict shipping dock. A few words from the reporter caught Lock’s attention.

  “What was at first just a handful of visitors has turned into a steady flow, baffling both the local police and the construction crew that was set to demolish this site.”

  “Hey,” Frank began, “isn’t that—”

  “Shhh.”

  The camera panned over a growing sea of trinkets and flowers that had been placed about the rusty beams and trash strewn planks of an old shipping warehouse. Stuffed animals and flowers lined a broken wooden walkway leading to a set of massive steel doors padlocked with a chain. A slowly growing pool of roses and teddy bears, hand-drawn signs and slowly dying bouquets, some bobbing about the water nearby.

  “Officials have repeatedly attempted to clear the area of gifts only to return the next day and find the collection growing again. James Hernandez is the state employed properties manager for the now derelict Lower Chula Vista shipping district.”

  The shot cut to Hernandez, a haggard man in a dark blue uniform streaked with dirt and grit. Sweat stains mixed with the damp of the winter fog to drench his baseball cap. He kept glancing from the reporter interviewing him to the camera and back. “I think it’s some sort of community organized wake, but I’ve got no idea who for. Three times now I had to kick people out of the building proper and chain it up again. They were sleeping there with candles. God knows how they got in. This area just isn’t safe for all these people and kids and whatnot to be wandering around.”

  The camera focused back on the reporter, a slim, Hispanic woman in a tan raincoat. “Most of the gifts aren’t addressed to anyone in particular,” she said, “but a few are made out simply to ‘USA’ or ‘Blue’, leading most to suspect that this site marks the final stand of the USA Tournament team, a squad of three American players in the infamous international competition capturing imaginations the world over. Precious little is known about the Tournament, mostly rumor and speculation, much of which points here. Words carved into a wooden plank near the water read only, ‘My captain, unknown.’”

  Frank turned back to Lock, wide eyed. “How can they know?” he whispered loudly.

  “How did you know? How does anyone? People are curious by nature, and now they’ve got the whole world’s information at their fingertips. Blue isn’t trying to hide what happened anymore. It’s up to the world to make of us what it will. Now clean up. It’s time to catch our flight.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like just stumbling across something like this, like I did,” Frank said. “Knowing that a world is out there that plays by different rules, that there are people out there totally free while you’re working in the trenches, getting older and fatter. It turns your brain a bit. It becomes an addiction. People will be foaming at the mouth. We’ve got to find this Eddie character before the rest of the world does.”

  Lock laughed honestly for the first time since the deaths in Chula Vista, since the demise of Blue. It sounded so strange coming from him that it startled Frank back in his seat.

  “I’d worry more about Eddie Mazaryk finding the rest of the world first,” Lock offered.

  Chapter Three

  THE SINGLE BEST INDICATOR of seniority within Shawnee Mission High was locker location. The most sought-after lockers went to the seniors, who were the first to register, followed by juniors, then sophomores, and finally freshmen, who weren’t even guaranteed a single locker per person and often were forced to share. Social status was deceptive at Shawnee, but locker location was not. The adept eye would notice even more in the layout: the lockers directly outside of the cafeteria doors always went to seniors, as did the large lockers near the sports entrance and those by art studies, but a senior student’s location within these groupings said much about them.

  The school itself seemed built around two distinct poles. The northernmost pole, near the back parking lot, held the athletes. The southernmost pole, near the front atrium, held the art, mu
sic, and drama students. One could walk from pole to pole and pass gradients of teenagers, and although it wasn’t a sure thing, in general, popularity flowed from the north and trickled down to the south. Curiously, this mattered a great deal to those up north, and comparatively little to those down south.

  Thomas James Elrey was a unique stone in the north-south flow of social graces. A thin fellow, and not very tall, Tom had never been a notable athlete, although he could play most sports well enough. Similarly, although he wasn’t a musician by any means, he tapped about on the piano occasionally and enjoyed it. He was bright, but brains wouldn’t be the first thing you’d notice about him. If you ever spent any time with Tom, sometimes called TJ when around friends, you would notice that he had, despite all of the odds stacked up against every high school student, somehow managed to be abided by very nearly everyone. He presented a disarming front: a floppy mop of sandy blonde hair, a small, round nose and softly probing brown eyes. He had a perfectly neutral smile and he was quick to listen before speaking. Tom’s locker, not surprisingly, stood outside of the cafeteria, halfway between the north and the south and securely in the flow of all of the action.

  Ellie Willmore, however, was a reserved girl who rarely smiled, and wore a blank look much of the time, in sharp contrast to her fiery shock of red hair. Ellie walked alone, which is to say outside of the flow, unaffected and almost unnoticed, which in high school may not be the worst thing, although it does bring its own special form of discontent.

  Ellie misremembered the day when the school was to assign lockers, so despite being a senior, she wasn’t assigned one. Without a place to stake as her own, and while the school scrambled to place her anywhere they could, Ellie carried her life on her back. She looked like an overeducated nomad, humping books and papers about all day. Her shoulders hunched to ever greater degrees as the weight of the day set upon her, minute by minute.

  She often found herself walking past the prime real estate directly outside of the cafeteria, where Tom Elrey sometimes propped himself on his way about the day. It was made clear that this area was not her home. Conversations lulled at the sight of her, and her hunched manner made her look defeated: easy prey, all that the girls needed to snicker. This was a tough area with a tough crowd, and although Tom wasn’t precisely at home there because his home was everywhere, he was nonetheless accepted.