by John Dixon
Davis just shook his head.
“Screw honor,” Tex said. He was more hyped up than ever now that he had a match.
“Why are you fighting, anyway?” Davis said. “What’s in it for you?”
“Best things in the world,” Tex said, “money and freedom. I win this, they ship me home. Clean record, fresh start, call it whatever you want, boys. Old Texarkana back in the world, free as an otter and ten million bucks in his pocket.” He grinned at them, then feigned sorrow. “I’d build Mama a house, but they don’t have those up in heaven, so I’ll probably just buy a double-wide and a pickup, then blow the rest on strippers and booze.” With this, he burst into grating laughter that made Carl feel like knocking him out.
He was imagining his right hand catching Tex behind the ear and finally shutting that big mouth, when he realized Davis had asked him something. “Huh?”
“I asked why you’re fighting,” Davis said, “What’s in it for you, boss man? Promotion?”
Carl didn’t feel like another go-around with this new, morally superior Davis. “Don’t worry about it.”
Davis snorted and shook his head. “It is, isn’t it?” He laughed bitterly. “Perfect, baby, perfect. You got your head so far up Stark’s—”
And then he was pinned against the wall, his shirtfront gathered in Agbeko’s big fists.
“Choose your words carefully,” Agbeko said, and bounced the medic off the wall.
“Take it easy, big man,” Davis said.
“Commander Stark is a great man,” Agbeko said. “I would die for him.”
“You might get the chance,” Davis said, nodding at Carl, “if the climber gets his way.”
That’s it, Carl thought. He pushed Agbeko out of the way and poked Davis in the chest. “Tell me something—when did you become Mr. Morality? Who are you to judge me?”
“I’m just saying it like it is, man,” Davis said. “You’re the Phoenix Island poster boy now. All you care about is winning, even if these cats get killed along the way.”
Carl resisted the urge to slap the haughty look off Davis’s face. “That’s pretty ironic, coming from a guy with tattooed tears. I’ve been meaning to ask—where’d you get that third tear, Davis? Last I remember, you only had two. Now you show up with another one, preaching nonviolence. What’s that one for, saving a life?”
Davis’s face twisted with rage and something else—pain?—and he swung at Carl.
Carl dipped the punch easily, scooped Davis into a fireman’s carry, and dumped him onto the floor. He got behind him, locked him up, and slid a forearm under his chin, ready to choke Davis out if necessary, suddenly on point with the paradoxical calm and clearheadedness that came to him whenever combat called.
“Take it back,” Davis said in a trembling voice—like they were second-graders going at it on a playground or something—and Carl almost laughed, until he realized something so odd that it was scary: Davis, the hard-time gangbanger with three tattooed tears, was crying.
Carl was so stunned, he let him go and backed away.
Shaking badly, Davis stood, wiped tears from his face, and pointed at Carl. “You got no idea what you’re talking about. You got no idea what I been through.” Then he stormed out of the room.
Tex’s opponent limped into the octagon, his entire body purple with bruising. Carl could tell by his hunched posture that his ribs were broken. When the ref called everyone to the center of the ring, Carl focused on the guy’s eyes. Yes, he was in pain, and he no doubt knew the odds, but he was also clearly without fear, resigned to both the fight and his fate. Quite unexpectedly, Carl felt a wave of respect for the guy. The Japanese trainer, a hard-looking middle-aged man with a boxy head and a glass eye, gave Carl a sharp nod, his face stony, equally resigned. Carl nodded back, and then the referee told the fighters to touch gloves, the two teams separated, and the corner men left the cage.
The fight lasted less than a minute. Tex steamrolled him. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t surprising, and Carl was ashamed, during the aftermath, when Tex circled the cage, pounding his chest and shouting, “What now? What now?”
Carl was nonetheless glad his fighter had won. With Tex and Agbeko both advancing to the semifinals, a team title—which had seemed like an absolute impossibility—wasn’t entirely out of the question after all. That would guarantee his promotion.
What’s in it for you, boss man? Davis’s accusing voice echoed in his mind. Promotion?
The medic hadn’t spoken since their weird fight, other than to answer questions monosyllabically, but he’d shown up to work the corner, so Carl had let it ride.
During the break between Tex’s match and Carl’s, the others went upstairs to order food, but Carl went instead to the elevated bleachers to watch fights. At least that’s what he told his team. In reality, he spent most of his time looking for Octavia, who never showed. It was maddening, knowing she was here, somewhere, and not being able to talk to her. He felt horrible about their train wreck of a reunion. He was upset at himself for getting angry, but his confusion lingered.
She made no sense. Here they were, against all odds, together again. They really could escape, head back to the world, blow the whistle anonymously on Phoenix Island, and start over.
Not yet, she’d said—and that had pretty much been her answer to everything. Not yet. Later. Trust me.
He needed to talk to her.
Down in the ring, the fights played out their bloody spectacle. Most competitors were already visibly injured when they entered, and these bouts proved even more brutal than the first round. Carl saw one lightweight poleaxed by a spinning kick to the back of the head. Boom and down. They carted him out, clearing the ring for the next battle, which ended with a broken leg.
When the lightweight matches were over, and the first set of middleweights—a tall Chinese guy without a mark on his face and a burly Turk with the build of a wrestler—entered the octagon, Carl headed down to the locker room to warm up. Agbeko and Tex were already there, waiting, but Davis was nowhere in sight. No surprise. Carl pretended not to notice the missing medic and got down to business.
By the time the doors atop the ramp banged open and the voice called, “Fighter 19, on deck,” Carl had a good sweat going, his mind was focused, and yes, there was Davis, clutching his med kit. Minutes later, the call came, and Team Phoenix Force ascended into the loud arena, where Kruger escorted them once again across the flashing black bridge to the octagon.
Agbeko kneaded Carl’s shoulders, telling him, “Remember: you are a tiger, Carl.”
Seeing Baca’s cocky smile and the obvious confidence of the Z-Force middleweight, Carl cursed himself again for not studying the fights. Then he pushed his anger away. No going back and changing it now, so why beat himself up? Besides, he was ready.
It started like the first fight. The coldly beautiful announcer did her thing, and the ref called the two teams to the center of the ring, where Carl’s opponent tried to stare him down and Carl just stood there, looking through him, sweating, and waiting.
“Now we will see how the teacher’s pet does outside of the classroom,” Baca said, and grinned at Carl.
“You really want to see,” Carl said, “come on in after I knock him out, and I’ll show you.” Won’t take but a minute, he’d meant to add, but then the ref told them to touch gloves, and the Z-Force middleweight swung his fists, intentionally missing Carl’s cesti and smashing his forearms.
Carl shouted and surged forward, smelling ashes, and the teams collided in a shouting tangle of arms, everyone pushing and shoving and hollering until the trainers dragged their fighters to opposite sides. “I’m going to kill him,” Carl said. “You see that cheap shot?”
Tex slapped his back. “Smash his face in, buddy.”
“Relax, my brother,” Agbeko said. “Use your mind. They have goaded you into anger.”
Davis tapped Carl’s shoulder.
Carl snapped around. “What?”
“Open,�
� Davis said, and shoved the mouth guard into place.
Tex held up a water bottle and raised his eyebrows.
Carl shook his head, bit down on the mouthpiece, and drew air through his nostrils, savoring the ashes of rage. His dark twin cheered. Faintly, some part of his mind fretted, telling him to remember Sanderson—but Carl thought, Screw Sanderson.
He was going to wreck this punk. Rocking back and forth, he ripped a furious combination, urging the bell to ring.
But then the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise. The Few have entered the arena.”
Carl glanced toward the opera box, where the purple-robed, golden-masked bloodmongers were taking their seats. Great, he thought. This time, I’ll give them a show. He didn’t bother to face them or bow or any of that nonsense. He just stared across the ring and knocked his leather cesti together. His forearms throbbed, already swelling from the sneak attack. He dialed the discomfort away, leaving only the pain he could never dim: the throbbing in his knuckles.
The beast within him snapped its jaws and surged against the frail bars of its cage.
The bell rang, and he raced across the ring into a world that downshifted into slow motion. The Zurkistani shot for Carl’s legs. Carl swiveled easily aside then waited, smiling as the Z-Forcer regained his feet and rushed again, his fists raised in a high peekaboo guard.
Carl flicked out two jabs, not blasting through the high guard but instead drilling his cesti straight into the Zurkistani’s forearms—crack-crack—and the punk jerked with pain and skittered away. Carl cut him off at an angle, trapping him against the cage, dipped under a pitiful one-two, and bolo-ed crushing hooks into the guy’s ribs.
The Zurkistani winced, dropping his cheap-shot hands to guard his broken ribs. Carl rocked back, creating the proper distance to launch a barrage of punches that would pound the Z-Forcer to mush—but the voice of reason whispered in his mind, cajoling his rage. Why let him off the hook? Let the punk humiliate himself. Make him tap out and live with the shame forever. He leaned over his hunched opponent. “Tap or I hit you again. Your choice.”
“Carl!” someone yelled, and Carl’s rapidly firing mind realized it was Baca, breaking the rules again, saying Carl’s name, his real name, publicly this time, shouting it, and he heard the magnified echo—Carl!—blasting from the speakers for everybody in the whole arena to hear. All of this came to him in a flash of shock and anger, and in that second, the Zurkistani middleweight launched the attack he’d been planning.
Unlike Carl, Z-Force had studied the previous night’s fights and therefore anticipated—and trained for—Carl’s tap-or-else ultimatum. The Zurkistani middleweight had surged forward with a stomping kick aimed at Carl’s knee.
Thanks to the superhuman reflexes the chip gave him, Carl moved his knee just in time, and his opponent’s heel slammed down not on this crucial joint but on his foot instead. He felt his big toe break.
The beast within Carl reared its head and roared.
Unhinged with rage, Carl launched his counterattack, a crushing hook that walloped the guy’s skull right behind the ear—thock!—and the Zurkistani dropped. He didn’t try to break his fall, didn’t shout, didn’t even convulse, just collapsed into a flaccid pile and lay there, still as death.
SEVENTEEN
OCTAVIA RETURNED TO HER ROOM with great news and a bad headache, and found their gray-haired steward, Valdez, in the hall, talking with Julio, who leaned against the doorjamb.
“Sorry,” Julio said. “I won’t make the mistake again.”
“I’m certain you won’t, sir,” the steward said. Then, seeing Octavia, he gave a nod and stepped aside so she might enter the apartment. He glanced at his watch and said, “Lakeside services in just under two hours.”
Julio said they would be there and reached out to shake Valdez’s hand.
“Very good, sir,” Valdez said, and then excused himself with a polite bow.
Julio closed the door and sighed. His face was badly bruised, and he looked exhausted. As if fighting back-to-back matches wasn’t tiring enough, he’d spent his nights snooping rather than sleeping. He was very dedicated, very brave, and she’d never heard him complain. He had a good sense of humor, too, and despite her early fears—looking back, she realized just how irritable she’d grown during their seemingly endless travel—he had proven a perfect gentleman. In public, he still hugged her, draped an arm over her shoulders, or kissed the top of her head, but in private, he gave her space. He was merely one more actor, playing a role.
He motioned, and she followed him into the dining room.
“What was that all about?” she asked, feigning more interest than she felt. She was so excited to share her big news.
“Got caught on one of the restricted floors,” he said, and dropped into a chair.
“What?” she said, shocked.
“I had to try,” he said. “I’ve checked all the lower levels.”
Directly after every Funeral Games, the Few blew up the venue, eliminating any forensic evidence. SI3 wanted Julio to find and deactivate these explosives. By the time the Few discovered this sabotage, Octavia and Julio would already have passed beyond the local sat-jammers, escaped the faraday-shielded buses, and fled into the wilderness, allowing agency satellites to pick up their signal. Crossman didn’t expect to capture the Few, but he hoped SI3 would arrive in time to secure the Cauldron before the Few could reactivate the explosives.
“Tell me what happened,” she said. “Did you find anything?”
“Do me a favor and sit down first,” he said with a weary smile. “I’m getting tired just watching you stand there.”
She took the seat across from him. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he said. “After the fight, when you went to the bleachers, I got on the elevator and pushed the wrong button.”
“One with a red X?”
“Good guess,” he said. “When the doors opened, I was staring at a submachine gun.”
“Holy crap,” she said. “What did you do?”
He grinned. “Put my hands up.”
“Dork,” she said, and slapped his shoulder.
He winced.
“Oh—sorry,” she said. He’d just fought a knock-down-drag-out fight a few hours ago. What a nightmare it had been, trying to stanch his bleeding. Feeling stupid for slapping him, she rubbed his arm. He was as hard as sculpted marble. “So what did you really do?”
“I pretended to be punch drunk from the match,” he said. “Asked the guy was this where they made the food. He gave me the stink eye and motioned with his rifle, and I got out of there.”
“If they’re watching the elevators,” she said, “how do we investigate the restricted levels?”
He propped his elbows on the table and lowered his face into his hands. “I don’t know.”
“You need sleep, Julio.”
He lifted his face, looking more fatigued than ever. One of the bandages had come loose and hung from his high cheekbone. “I don’t have time for sleep.”
She reached up and gently reattached the bandage, covering the cut there.
He smiled with surprise.
Oh, crap, she thought. Unaware of the malfunctioning bandage, he’d mistaken her handiwork for tenderness—maybe even an affectionate caress. Set him straight, or let it go? Considering his battered face and exhaustion, she decided to let him think what he wanted. She’d just have to be more careful moving ahead.
She didn’t want to give him any false signals, but she did care for him, or at least about him . . . which made her big news ten times better. “I have something that will perk you up,” she said, unzipping her jacket. “Ready?”
He grinned slyly. “Oh, I’ve been ready.”
Grand, she thought, realizing her mistake. So much for being careful. Pulling the paper from her Windbreaker and unfolding it on the table between them, she said, “Meet Lady Number One.”
His jaw dropped as he studied the intricate sketch, which depi
cted the face of a beautiful woman with angular features and intense eyes. “Amazing. It’s really one of the Few?”
She nodded and couldn’t help but laugh. After all that had gone wrong in her life, after all the injustice and suffering, it felt awesome to have succeeded.
He sat up straighter, suddenly fully awake. “The blond one?”
She nodded again. “I waited in the bleachers until they called the Phoenix Force guy, and then the Few showed up. It was tough at first, tuning in.” Of course, she wasn’t going to confess why it had been so difficult. She couldn’t let him know about Carl. Things would be safer for both of them that way.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Tough or not, you did it.”
“Not in one shot, though,” she said. “The fight ended too quickly, and the Few left the arena, so I had to hang around until the announcer called for the scary heavyweight, the one like a gorilla?”
“Zurkistan,” he said. “They like that guy, too.”
“Apparently,” she said, “because they came back, and I was able to finish the sketch. It was incredible!” She slapped the table, remembering the strange rush that always accompanied successful mapping.
“Did you puke on anybody?” he asked, giving her half a smile.
“Of course not,” she said, feigning offense. “I reserve my vomit for special people.”
“I’m honored. How’s your head?”
“Okay,” she said. In truth, it felt like someone was drilling a hole into the top of her skull, but she’d endured worse. Far worse. “I’m getting better, stronger.”
He shook his head in approving disbelief. “You’re incredible.”
“Thank you,” she said, and gave a little bow.
He folded up the sketch and handed it to her. “Now hide this. Anybody finds it, we’re never going home.”
“I’ll keep it safe,” she said. “Crossman’s going to flip.”
“He might even smile,” he said.
“I wouldn’t put any money on it,” she said.