by Clara Stone
Her energy is too much, frenetic almost, and I feel it rubbing off on me. So I take a deep breath and try to relax. “What’s the worst that could happen, right?”
She winks. “Exactly.”
The door clicks shut behind us and a new kind of noise fills the darkness. People chanting and yelling in the distance.
Cat pulls me forward. “Go, go, go.”
“I’m going!” I laugh anxiously.
As we make it down the corridor and then down the stairs, I try to make out the words being chanted. But it just sounds like a whole lot of garbled noise.
At the bottom, the stairs open up to a huge, dimly-lit room. People shout and scream in a frenzy. I catch glimpses of numbers and names, and some form of “make him bleed,” being thrown around.
What the hell? Where are we?
“Come on!” Cat grabs my hand and starts shoving people out of the way as she pulls us toward the front.
“Hey, watch it,” I yell every time someone grabs my ass or gropes my boobs. Cat, on the other hand, just plows through like a bulldozer, completely unfazed by the lecherous fingers invading her personal space.
Finally, as we near the front of the crowd, I know where we are. It’s hard to miss the rattle of a cage shaking violently and the sounds of struggle filling my ears.
Dog fight?
No.
I can hear grunting, and skin slapping against skin.
Definitely not a dog fight.
Out of curiosity, I jump up, trying to peek over the crowd. Being short and in heels sucks, especially when there’s no respect for personal space. I catch a glimpse of a guy’s back—shirtless, of course—and the top of the elastic on his shorts.
John and Cat had talked about this when I first started, but I’d paid no attention to it. I remember now how overly excited she was at the prospect of attending a live cage fight.
Now it all makes sense.
The tickets; Fisher’s gift.
This is what he had in mind when he said he knew exactly what to get her as a peace offering.
“Excuse me,” I say as I inject a hand or a leg between people, trying to squeeze through so I can get closer to the watch. When I finally do make it to the front, I realize that I’m about twenty feet away from Cat, who’s gotten on some guy’s shoulders and is cupping her hands around her mouth and yelling.
I drag my gaze away from her and swing it toward the cage taking up the center of the room as it rattles again. And I finally get a clear view of the fighters inside.
My breath hitches, and my blood suddenly seems to run cold.
Harrington?
It can’t be. Before I can get a second look, I get shoved forward, and I catch myself just in the nick of time before I stumble over the rope holding the audience at bay and fall face first into the gap between the crowd and the cage. My fingers tighten around the velvety partition, and I use it to get as high as I can on my tippy-toes, trying to catch another glimpse.
No no no no. It’s not him. It can’t be him.
But any ounce of doubt I had is quickly erased when Harrington’s face is pressed flat against the cage, and I watch in horror as he struggles to get out of the headlock his opponent, who resembles a rhinoceros’s long-lost cousin, has him in.
I yelp, and then quickly cover my mouth.
Blood drips down the side of his cheek as he fights to get free. My throat constricts painfully. I can’t swallow the disappointment that’s filling my heart as I watch him bleed. His face contorts with anger and I blink as images from my past assault my mind. Someone shoves into me again and I cry out, grabbing for the rope once more.
Harrington’s eyes land on me for the briefest of seconds, and I think I see recognition flicker as he registers me. He roars, trying to get free, and I want to cower back into the crowd.
Blood.
There’s blood everywhere.
His cheeks, his mouth . . . blood. Just sooo much blood.
I squeeze my eyes hard, feeling the burn behind them.
Everything blurs together. I can’t do this. But at the same time, I can’t leave. I’m stuck, like something has tethered me to the spot.
Harrington gets the upper hand as he smashes Rhino-cousin’s back into the floor. With the exception of my sight, every other sense has taken a hike, and I wish I’d never come here, wish I could un-see the last few moments. The crowd shoves against me as they yell for more blood, more punches, and I feel like a buoy in a sea storm, jostled and drowning.
All I see is Harrington ramming his fists into the guy over and over again. Sound fades, and images blur together. But I can’t look away. Away from the anger and hatred etching his usually peace-filled face. Away from the violence.
I watch a small splatter of blood jump through the wires of the cage, arc through the air as if in slow motion, and land on my hand. And I can’t stop staring, my heart in my throat as Harrington punches the other guy until he’s no longer moving.
That’s how I know the fight’s finally over. Harrington gets up, running the back of his bloodied hand across his jaw. His eyes connect with mine as the announcer raises his hand up in the air. And I know he sees me this time, because he can’t stop staring at me either. There’s no trace of a smile. No amount of emotion. And it’s almost like he’s trying to tell me something. Like he wants me to see that this is the real him.
Emotions rattle through my body and I don’t know what to think or feel. All I can think is that this man standing before me is not the man that made me laugh. That I’ve taken a liking to. That I almost kissed a week ago. That I would have kissed fully if given the chance.
I wrap my arms around my torso, feeling sick.
He stands there, representing everything I wanted to leave behind. All the pain and violence and darkness that ruined my childhood. And I realize I don’t know him at all. Everything I thought I’d learned about him is a lie.
This man thrives on blood; he beats people for a living. The blood smeared across his skin is proof of that. Heat assaults my body, burning through my cheeks and reaching to the tips of my ears. I dry heave into my hand as I make another realization: the bruises on his face every time we’ve met . . . they must have been from more fights like this one.
Fisher comes up to him, along with other familiar faces from Blue Tango, giving him high-fives and celebratory grins.
I take a step back, away from Harrington, the cage, all of it. The last thing I see is his hand coming up, as if to reach for me, and then I turn around and run from the room, shoving and pushing my way back through the crowd.
I need air.
I need space.
I need to be anywhere but here.
Anywhere but near him.
I can’t do this. I just . . . I take off in a sprint as memories of my past chase after me.
HER EYES ARE all I can see. The way she looked at me, with so much fear, is etched into the darkness of my eyelids, floating to the surface every time I close my eyes. It was the kind of fear I’ve seen in others when they talk about Stamos. I don’t know why that surprised me. It shouldn’t have. I’ve known it would come to this since the very beginning.
Our journey so far, at least on my side, has been mostly lies.
I knew, deep down, that a girl like her, who enjoys skipping rocks and has tattoos that speak to her passion, would never be the kind of person who would enjoy violence. But I never expected she’d be able to make me feel like such a monster with just one look.
After the fight, the gang decided to celebrate in one of Stamos’s elite night clubs in Jacksonville. But as soon as we walked in the door, I was pulled aside and brought to an empty room to wait, no details given.
Unable to stomach the image of Jess and all the emotions attached to it any longer, I make a beeline toward the wall-length aquarium on the right side of the room. I lean forward, mesmerized by something that slithers behind the coral. It takes all of three seconds for things to click in place. Orange underbelly, smo
oth skin, square jaw. It’s an electric eel. I would know. I had a mild obsession with them back in the seventh grade and was pissed we couldn’t get one as a pet because they were rare and only available in South America.
I tap the glass, hoping to get another look, but it’s nowhere to be found. So I move on to the other items in the room—the big TV and the foosball table. Both of them completely odd and out of place in the back room of a night club.
Moving to the left of the room, I notice a cart with a bottle of brandy and four crystal glasses. Not knowing how much longer I’ll be kept waiting and needing a little relaxation, I help myself. The moment the smooth liquor hits my tongue, I’m in heaven.
Cognac. Vintage. Expensive.
I let the warm, spiced caramel flavor dance on my tongue before swallowing it slowly with a contented sigh. Taking the glass with me, I turn and continue my exploring my holding cell. The red and black tones of the decorations get a little overwhelming, but I can appreciate the smooth oak-wood desk. I run my hand over the surface, eyeing the rest of the room for any camera or wires while pretending to appreciate the desk’s craftsmanship.
That’s when I notice a small black wire peeking out from behind the TV mount.
But before I can examine it further, the heavy doors to the room swing open. In walks Stamos, Tony, and two guys in white.
The two bodyguards shut the door and stand before it, their hands crossed over their crotches, their faces directed forward. I can’t tell where exactly they’re looking because of those damned sunglasses. But it doesn’t matter.
I turn my attention toward Stamos, and then Tony, who’s pouring himself a drink.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home.” Stamos tilts his head to indicate the drink in my hand.
I raise it up in a mock-toast. “Thanks for catering to my tastes.”
“You keep fighting like that, Killshot, and I’ll give you whatever you desire.” He laughs and his tone actually gets a little excited. “That last shot you took of him. Hell, I haven’t seen anything like that in ages. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a guy taken down like that since my days in the ring.”
Of course, I knew this. It was in one of the files that Neil had sent for “light reading,” but Killshot wouldn’t, so I play along. “You’re an MMA veteran?”
“Dad was the best in his category,” Tony responds.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I’m left speechless. Dad? Tony is Stamos’s son? How the hell did the FBI not know that? We knew Stamos had a son, of course, named Antonis Adamos Stamos. But he was sent off to Greece to live with family after his mom died. Rumor had it that her death changed him from plain old scary, to god-awesome, hell-on-Satan scary.
But now it all makes sense. I had been trying to figure out how a college-aged little punk like him had gotten so close to Stamos. Tony must be short for Antonis and his last name, Pepi, must be derived from his mother’s side. I would have to give Neil an earful later, for not giving me a heads up and letting something so crucial slip through the cracks.
“My son’s instinct wasn’t wrong about you, Killshot,” Stamos says as he settles himself into the chair behind his desk like its a throne. “Your fighting skills are . . . impeccable.”
I nod. “It’s my best quality.”
“And I like that you aren’t afraid to speak your mind. Our first meeting was proof of that.”
“You’re only afraid if you have something to lose. And I have nothing to lose.” Unlike you.
My gaze darts to Tony, who’s watching me with slight distaste. I flip him the bird in my head. And you, buddy.
“I can see that.” Stamos leans back in his chair, just as Tony hands him a glass of Cognac. He takes a sip and pauses for a moment, clearly enjoying the silky taste. I don’t blame him.
“I have a job that I believe you’d be a perfect fit for,” he says finally, watching me intently.
Although it sounds like he’s asking me for my opinion, I know it’s far from it. “Yeah?” I try not to sound as interested as I am as I sit in the chair across from him and set my drink on the desk.
“I have a few friends I’m inviting over for a get together. I think they’d very much like to watch you fight.”
I glance at Tony, whose face is impassive, unreadable, then look back at Stamos. “What kind of friends are we talking about?” The FBI’s intel listed his known associates as drug cartels, arms dealers, and human traffickers, so I have a pretty good idea of the kinds of “friends” he’ll be entertaining, and it’s exactly the kind of thing Fisher and I need to bring him down. If I can catch him in the middle of a deal with any of those . . .
“Ones that will make your time worthwhile for the right kind of entertainment.”
Tony smiles then, his mouth wide open, like a shark. And there’s a gleam in his eyes that is, truthfully, worrying. But for now, I have to stay focused. I need to find out the details of this fight. I can deal with Tony later.
“So, you interested?”
I nod. “Hell yeah.”
He looks pleased. “That’s the attitude.” He turns to Tony. “Make sure to get him the details soon.”
Tony’s back straightens at this order. And I can clearly see how hard he’s working to get his father’s approval. It’s the same reaction I saw the first time we met, when his chest puffed with pride at an offhanded compliment that Stamos likely forgot as soon as he said it. How far would he go to please his father? To our knowledge, he didn’t grow up in a violent environment. But I make a mental note to get some background on this, and question the ability of the previous agent on the case. What else don’t I know about this little father-son duo?
The door behind us opens and in walks another suit—black. Again. Must be part of the Official Stamos Bodyguard Brigade. He whispers something into the ear of the guy on the right, who nods and then gestures him forward. New Guy approaches the desk. “Sir, we found him.”
“Bring him in,” Stamos orders.
“You should leave,” Tony says, addressing me like I’m nothing but a fly.
Stamos stands and walks around his desk, one hand in his pocket. “No. He should stay. He deserves to see how we handle things around here.”
Tony scowls at the reprimand, but Stamos doesn’t see. The double doors swing open and in comes two more men in black suits, dragging a guy with battered face between them.
“Mr. Chavez. How good to see you,” Stamos says, like he’s the gracious host of a dinner party.
The guy, Chavez, doesn’t move, his head hanging lifelessly. I’m not sure he’s even conscious. He looks like a beehive collided with his face, and his arms rival the fireworks on the Fourth of July, they’re covered in so many shades of red and blue.
“Did you not receive my instructions?” Stamos walks toward him.
Chavez wheezes. Conscious, then. But defeated.
Stamos places a hand over one ears. “What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
“I couldn’t.”
Bodyguard #1 roughly jerks him up by his hair. He cries out in pain and my hands turn to fists.
“You should have thought of that before you started sending your kids to private school and your wife on those fancy trips to Paris.” Stamos smirks and I see the same expression mirrored on Tony’s features. Seriously, how could we have not seen the resemblance? “Because I know your government salary sure as hell didn’t pay for all of that.”
“I’m sorry. Please.”
Stamos strikes him across the face and it takes everything in me not to move, to continue to watch the exchange expressionless. Now I know why Stamos wanted me to stay. This is a warning, a demonstration of what will happen if I step out of line.
“That last stunt you pulled cost me ten million dollars.” Stamos kicks his feet as he walks behind the whimpering Chavez. “But, because I’m in a forgiving mood, I’m going to give you three options. You can thank Mr. Killshot here for that,” he adds, tossing a smug smile my way.
I swallow the rage boiling inside me.
“One: you pay back the money I lost and do what I’m paying you to do by keeping the cops off my operation. Two: you can pay with blood . . .”
Stamos steps forward and the black suit lets go of Chavez’s hair. His head bobs forward and he sobs. But not for long. Stamos grabs his hair and jerks him backward, making him yelp and quiver as he looks Stamos in the eye.
“Or three: perhaps that beautiful wife of yours won’t mind paying back the debt in other ways. Your choice.” He lets go of Chavez and stands. The other man crumples to the floor, sobbing. Tears stream down the length of Chavez’s cheeks as he pleads for Stamos to leave his family alone.
Stamos, on the other hand, ignores him and simply walks out the door. I’m stuck between wanting to help this man by putting a bullet in Stamos and trying to preserve my cover so I can see him rot behind bars.
Stamos calls for me to join him as he leaves, his henchman and son tagging along behind him. And with a last look at Chavez, I grit my teeth and follow.
Stamos turns and faces me as I join him in the hallway leading back to the main part of the club. “There are a lot of things I can let go of, Killshot. Crossing me isn’t one of them.” Then he smiles, as carefree and light as if he didn’t just threaten to murder a whole family, as if he didn’t just threaten me. “But that won’t be a problem with you, now, will it?”
I don’t respond, and he takes that as answer enough, ushering us all toward the thumping bass at the front of the club.
I LAY FLAT on my stomach, earbuds in my ears, listening to the latest tune Jarod sent me two nights back. He may not understand the concept of personal space, but damn does he write some killer music. His songs raise the hairs on my arms every time I listen to them, with their smooth, enticing lyrics and his soothing, velvety voice. It’s almost hard to critique them. But I jot down a few notes on places where we could add a little punch to the song by changing up the rhythm.
My bedroom door swings open and Cat walks in. Her white hair is pulled up into a messy bun and yet she still manages to look stunning, as usual.