Frank stood up and saw that the sky was beginning to lighten. He’d wasted enough time already. With every passing night Eddie Mazaryk was closer to warping the Tournament that had quite literally saved Frank’s life. If he hadn’t followed the diode’s trail down the rabbit hole all those months ago he’d be rotting from the inside out five doors down from Winston Pickett’s office at Barringer. Chipping pieces of himself away day in, day out, until there was nothing left but a husk that could file the correct reports. Now Eddie was turning the Tournament into his special club for killers.
And he had Lock.
Goodbye, buddy, he’d said. Not See you later. Not We’ll meet up in the morning. Lock spoke like he wasn’t ever going to see Frank again, and he’d said it like a friend. It was the first time he’d ever talked to Frank that way. Frank had the feeling that it was the first time he’d ever spoken that way to anybody. Lock was his friend. And Frank didn’t have a lot of friends.
He kicked out at the wall of the grave in anger and in desperation. A small slide of dirt fell in.
He kicked the wall again. More dirt fell in. And more. Soon he stood perhaps one centimeter higher. A smile crept across his face.
Chapter Twenty
AS VASYA WAS DISMISSED, his daily report finished, Alex Auldborne strolled over to the bar in the far corner of the Red Room to refresh his cocktail.
“They are all scattering,” Auldborne said, studying the scotches. “Rats from a sinking ship.”
Eddie Mazaryk watched him carefully. “They weren’t supposed to shoot at anybody. I wanted White brought here to answer for themselves.” A cold calm laced his words and gave Auldborne a momentary pause. Or perhaps he was simply deciding on his brand.
“The Mexicans are a waste of time and you know it. I thought to kill two birds with one stone. Weed out the weaker team and give the Germans a chance to prove themselves. I had no idea that the Americans would be there at the same time. That was an added bonus.”
“The Mexicans and the Americans are of the original eight,” Mazaryk said, keeping his voice low and watching the door. He preferred that they were alone for their disagreements. “There is strength in solidarity.”
“The eight, the eight,” Auldborne said, gesturing grandly with his glass. “The eight were then. This is now. The Mexicans are weak and the Americans...” Auldborne gestured with a flick of his wrist. “We’re better off without them.”
“The original eight wanted to change the world. These new teams, China, Germany, the others we hear rumblings about, they think they are owed their piece. When you send these fools into the fray, it upsets my plans. I wanted Blue healthy. I wanted them to think that they could rise against me and when they did I wanted to take them all in one swoop. Now Ellie Willmore is hobbled and their alliance is over. You very nearly ruined everything.”
Auldborne took a big swig of his drink to mask his discomfort under the full bore of Mazaryk’s glare. He took a breath to ease the fire in his mouth before speaking. “We gave the holdouts a chance to come to the table willingly and they refused. Now break them one by one and bring them to the table with their heads bowed. They’ll sit at the table either way. Nothing is ruined.”
“You are capable, Alex, but you are blind. You cannot take what I want. You cannot take their cooperation, their say as a nation. Taking is for spoiled children and thieves. The remaining teams must give of themselves freely, as you have, as I have. They must agree to place their trust in the Tournament as the new world court. Solidarity. The original eight first, then the rest of the world.”
“You can’t convince people to do what they refuse to do. You can only force people to do what they refuse to do.”
“Wrong. It’s a matter of changing their perspective, that’s all.” He plucked his pager from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Thankfully, all is not lost. In fact, after all of this... unpleasantness in Mexico, they may realize how tenuous their position outside of this house really is. Either way, they must join me or rise against me.” He set his pager gently on the table in front of him, its pink screen dark. He pondered it. “It is time to issue an ultimatum. One that the bettors and the Council won’t be able to resist.”
————
Greer Nichols sat in his office, behind his sweeping desk of polished wood, and he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Let me see if I understand this. Mazaryk has issued a challenge to all of the remaining teams.”
“Yes,” said the voice. It was only a voice, over an encrypted IP address, coming from the speakers of his computer array. This was how the bettors contacted him, through one of their members they referred to as the Spokesman. The Spokesman was a different person each time. This time it was a woman. “The bettors are assuming that because of the injury to Ellie Willmore, Blue will not take part. We seek confirmation.”
Greer rubbed at his eyes and ran both hands slowly over his bald head. “And the stakes?”
“Simple. If Blue loses, Blue swears fealty to the Black House. If Blue wins, Mazaryk dissolves the Black House. We have reason to believe that similar challenges have been presented to the other three holdout teams.”
Greer couldn’t help but laugh. “I dreamed once of a day when the Tournament might become this powerful. When it would be able to settle the world’s disputes. But in my dreams, Black never presided over it. Nobody presided over it.”
“I must admit that Mazaryk makes a pressing case to join him. That is still an option. What he wants is not so far removed from your dreams.”
Greer nodded to himself. “That’s why he is so effective. He tells you what you want to hear. How many nights have I stared at the live feeds of the Black House, wondering if it might be easier just to join them? To convince Ellie and Cy and Tom to walk up and light their torch.”
“And why haven’t you?”
“Because I remember the man himself. The Tournament must be above every law of man. That’s what Mazaryk believes. But the Tournament cannot be above the law of man. It exists to serve man. Or at least it used to.”
The Spokesman went quiet.
“But he’s changing all that. And if he’s not stopped, the Tournament I loved will be gone forever.”
“Well, here is your chance. I will not lie to you, Greer. There are many among us who would jump at the opportunity to take this wager, if for no other reason than it will clarify forever the direction the Tournament takes.”
“This is a false choice he’s given us. He knows we can’t win. The alliance against him was a non-starter. My captain can’t even hold down a glass of water, much less make a run against Mazaryk. What he’s doing is giving us the chance to go out with a whimper or a bang.”
“So what is your administration’s response?”
Greer massaged his temples with his palms, his head bowed. He was exhausted with all of this. That was also how Mazaryk beat you. He wore you down. Made you give in because you were tired of fighting. “Give me tonight to think it over.”
“Fair enough. Until tomorrow.”
Greer stayed sitting, his mind turning well into the late hours, long after his assistant Bernard left for the evening. The brick of the building began to give its heat back to the Palo Alto night, the windows clicking and settling as midnight fast approached and he still had no answer. Only his weariness became more pronounced. His options were clear: send his limping team to almost certain defeat, or take the knee. He believed in Ellie. He had from the minute he met her outside of Shawnee when she’d come out a survivor, but this was too much to ask. Perhaps all four of the holdout teams together stood a chance, but that hope was scattered like papers in the wind. Perhaps it was best to take the knee. At least that way Ellie could begin to heal. He reached for his phone, trying to form the argument in his mind, but when it rang of its own accord he was so startled that he nearly swatted it off of his desk.
“Greer, it’s Baxter Walcott.”
“Baxter? Another report already? Has there been some change
?”
“No, she’s still in the acute stages of recovery.”
Greer rubbed at his eyes. “Thought so. I got a call from the Spokesman earlier this evening. We might be in some deep shit here momentarily. Don’t suppose there’s some sort of magic pill you’ve been holding back on us, is there doc?” Greer asked, a brittle smile on his face.
Baxter didn’t answer.
“Baxter? Hello? It was a joke. Sorry. I know what you do is tough, nothing magic about it—”
“—Funny you should ask that,” Walcott said. Baxter sat up, all thoughts of scattered papers blown from his brain.
“What do you mean?” Greer asked.
“I mean I might have a way to put the ball back in her court. It just depends—”
“—On what?”
“On her.”
————
Ellie could stay awake only for thirty minutes at a time, followed by another thirty or so minutes of fitful sleeping. When she was awake, she was so miserable she wished she was asleep, and when she was asleep her sickness produced nightmares. For her nausea she often dreamed she was on a pitching ship or inside a sloshing bucket, overfull and in danger of spilling out. Her headache showed itself as a cold concrete tube, the kind that provided irrigation for the spillway on the far end of the Cheyenne Plaza, except it slowly constricted on her. When she woke up she fared no better. Her unconscious pressures became real. Her failures weren’t merely the things of dreams. She ran down the attack time and again and each time she grew more miserably angry for not seeing it coming. How could she have thought the Black House would simply let her build a resistance? She thought everything would come together if only she showed up. That was precisely the kind of childish, rookie thinking that her mountains of critics worldwide accused her of.
Perhaps she should have taken a different approach. Pursued Mexico differently? Maybe approached them first, then France? These thoughts pressed themselves between her pain. One, most of all: She should have gone after Ian Finn for help first. She thought a lot about Ian. She had an irrational urge to be back on the helicopter next to him, their ordeal over, blissfully unaware of the next mountain she had to climb. She felt silly for thinking it, but she thought it nonetheless: This wouldn’t have happened if Ian had been with her.
Cy and Tom tried to engage her when she awoke, but saw that responding pained her, so they simply let her know they were still with her whenever she came to and tried to make her comfortable when she passed out. In the meantime Tom and Cy rehashed the fight in hushed voices until they started repeating themselves and when they became tired they slept in shifts again. During one shift, when Cy was up, his phone buzzed again. He caught it almost immediately and silenced it, but Tom’s eyes popped open.
“I know it’s her,” Tom whispered, and Cy snapped around at his voice. Tom expected anger, the same anger that had been slowly simmering in Cy ever since he’d said goodbye to Troya. He didn’t expect blank sorrow. He didn’t expect the crumbling look in Cy’s eye, as if he was being cored out a teaspoon at a time.
“How long has Troya been calling you?” Tom asked. Cy shook his head to shrug his question off but Tom sat up on the couch and kept staring.
“Every Sunday,” Cy allowed. “Sunday night was our night. My schedule at school was always nuts and she had her job at the library that sometimes kept her late, so we carved out that night and we listened to this jazz hour that would play on public radio at eight at night.” He softened at the memory. “And we’d drink a bottle of dirt cheap wine. Never cared how bad it tasted. She wasn’t as into jazz as I was, I think she kind of resented it, actually, because of how hard I worked at it with the trumpet, but if she thought the music sucked she never said a word.”
“She’s been calling you every week?”
“More, now. I think she’s worried about Ellie, like the rest of us. And about me.”
“What does she say?”
“I’ve never picked up,” Cy said, and his eyes became watery bright and he looked away. “All she says on the message is that she loves me. Not soft, or sad, or like she’s imploring or anything. Just I love you.”
Cy cleared his throat and scrunched up one side of his nose. “It’s for the best,” Cy said, answering an unasked question. “It’s for her safety.”
“Really?”
“You know what Auldborne did to Diego’s family. You saw how twisted Max became. It’s not good to bring love into this equation. She’ll end up hurt.”
“You’re not Max,” Tom said flatly. “And it seems like they’re already hurting her anyway, and they’re hurting you too, all without lifting a finger.”
Cy spun his phone intently in his hands and looked up at Tom. He’d never heard him speak like this. He was beseeching, but he was also angry, angry at Cy for what he was doing to himself, and angry at the Black House that darkened everything around them.
“Mazaryk doesn’t beat you by kicking the shit out of you. That’s temporary. He wants to dominate us. He wants to position the board, sit back, and watch us drown ourselves to the point where we think the only option we have is to take his hand to pull ourselves up.” He leaned forward, voice low. “You are miserable, Cy. I can see it. It’s turning you into something dangerous. Less like a fighter, more like a... rabid dog. Just now, when you were talking about Sunday night jazz and shitty wine? That’s the happiest I’ve seen you since I met you. Think about it.”
They heard a scuffle outside of the room. The squeaking shuffle of feet on the linoleum floor, then a voice, thick and low:
“Where is she?”
Cy and Tom stood, glanced at each other, and stepped lightly between the door and Ellie’s bed, where she lay in a fitful sleep. They heard Pez whisper harshly, “What are you doing here? They should never have let you past the front desk.” There was another scuffle and then the door rattled slightly, as if Pez was leaning against it.
Cy and Tom slid their guns from their holsters and flicked off the safeties.
“Stay in front of her,” Cy whispered. “I’ll get the angle.” Cy crept to the far corner of the room where he’d be first to see whoever came through the door. Tom looked down at Ellie, strands of her red hair pasted to her forehead with sweat, eyes fluttering madly, lost in another terrible dream.
They heard Pez again, frantic. “You can’t go in there! She’s hurt.”
Both men aimed at the door.
“Out of my way,” came the raspy reply as they prepared to shoot, “I can help her.”
Cy and Tom shared a look. They recognized that voice. Still, both aimed as the handle turned and the door cracked open.
Ian Finn’s face peered into the room, tugged from the outside by Pez. He jerked his hand free and stumbled in the door, then froze when he saw Tom’s gun trained upon him. He looked to the right where he knew he’d find Cy at the cutoff angle.
“Easy, Finn,” Tom whispered. “No sudden movements.”
Ian straightened slowly, his empty hands at his sides. He saw Ellie toss and murmur behind Tom and his left hand raised a centimeter, as if to reach out to her, before it settled at his side again. The bags around his eyes drooped and his face fell. Pez followed on his heels but paused when he saw the guns.
“There can be no firing here!” he snapped. “This is a safe zone!”
Ian winced as Ellie’s breathing increased at the disruption and then paused, then returned to a weak cadence. She was trying to surface from the depths of her dream, but Ian knew it wasn’t as easy as flicking a switch. Sometimes waking from poisoned sleep was hard. He didn’t even turn to look when Cy stepped up to him and aimed at his temple.
“Everybody just stay where they are, all right? First things first. What are you doing here, Finn?”
Ian’s eyes never left Ellie as he spoke. “There was a time I’d have been able to shoot you before you knew what was happening, no matter how close you were.”
“That time is gone.”
“Don’t I kno
w it,” Ian said, nodding slowly. “I’m not gonna hurt her. Both of you know that.”
Cy looked at Tom, who nodded and drew down. So did Cy. Pez forgot about all of them and moved over to Ellie, checking her temperature and spooling back through records of her heartbeat.
“Get out of here, Ian,” Tom said, anger in his voice. He knew how much Ellie counted on Ian. That he should show up now, after everything, when Ellie had been brought low, was a dose of infuriating irony that had him on the verge of shaking. “She needs rest. Whatever you’re here for, it’s too little too late. Your captain already refused to help us.”
A second person threaded through the door, then. A woman.
“That’s because I was afraid, and so I ran,” said Pyper, and she stepped in the room behind Ian. In the shocked silence, she studied Ellie, tilting her head in to see Ellie’s fluttering eyelids. Pyper’s long brown hair almost reached where her hands were clasped loosely behind her back. Her face softened and she smiled sadly, nodding, recognizing the pain, like a field medic making the rounds with a limp of her own.
“But then I got to where I was running and I settled my family there, in this new place. This place that wasn’t our home. In our new lives that weren’t our own. And every day I worried about their safety anyway. Then it hit me—he’d already won. The more I ran, the more I worried, the more he won.” She brought her hands around and pulled lightly at the sleeve of her jacket, settling it sharply against her wrist. “I’m tired of it.”
Ellie finally stirred and blinked. Ian moved closer to her. She took in the walls and the sounds and placed herself in the hospital and her relief at waking from her dreams disappeared, and her expression broke Ian’s heart. Ellie saw Ian and let out a series of small breaths as she worked moisture back into her mouth. She knew what she must look like, but she didn’t care.
“You’re here,” she said. Then she saw Pyper. “Both of you are here.” Ian could only nod.
The Tournament Trilogy Page 79