In the Heart of Darkness

by Reinke, Sara

  “How sweet,” Nikolić said with a sneer. Reaching over the back of the seat, he grabbed a metal ringlet affixed to the back of Julien’s mask. Giving a harsh jerk, he wrenched Julien’s head back, and Mason sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth, his fists clenching, his brows furrowing. When Nikolić turned to him, he struggled to soften his expression, forcing himself to assume a mask of stoic indifference, but God Almighty, it was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.

  “He tells her, ‘don’t cry, sweetheart.’ He’s alright, he tells her.” Nikolić made a scoffing sound. “Stop now. You’re going to make me cry, too.” To Mason, he added, “You see my gud pas—my good little doggie? Speak, gud pas. Say hello to Dr. Morin. You remember him, da?” This time, when he wrenched against Julien’s mask, he uttered a low, muffled cry. “Speak, I said.”

  “Hey, Doc,” Julien said somewhat breathlessly and strained. “How’s…it going?”

  Mason couldn’t breathe. His windpipe had constricted down to what felt like a pinhole-sized circumference, and his gut threatened to roil at any moment. His heart jack-hammered, his body seized with furious adrenaline. God, all he wanted to was lunge across that bench seat and clamp his fingers around Nikolić’s throat, to crush the wind and life from him, to watch as the son of a bitch’s eyes began to bulge from their sockets with the desperate strain for air, and his face grew dusky, turning purple, then plum-colored, as he gagged for breath.

  “Hey, Davenant,” he said instead, his voice clipped and hoarse. “Nice to see you again.”

  With a laugh, Nikolić turned loose of the mask, and Julien crumpled forward, visibly gasping for breath. As one of the armed guards climbed in beside Julien, the other exchanged a quick thumbs-up’s with Nikolić, then slammed the hatch shut. The entire chassis shuddered slightly as the engine rumbled to life.

  They headed out to the Draka. Mason glanced behind them, through the SUV’s heavily tinted rear window and watched a caravan of headlights pulling out of the parking lot behind them—more SUVs, these loaded down with the fighters Nikolić had chosen for the night.

  “You don’t mean for him to fight tonight,” Mason said to Nikolić. “Davenant, I mean. He’s still too weak. He’s not in any condition to—”

  He jerked in his seat, his hand darting involuntarily to his throat as a slight shock cut through him. He hadn’t noticed that Nikolić had slipped his own remote controller from his pocket and held it in hand now, toying with it. Julien hadn’t been electrocuted, only Mason. Maybe it works on different channels, he thought. One to shock my collar, and one for Julien’s.

  “Begging your pardon, Dr. Morin,” Nikolić said. “But when I’d like your medical expertise on something, I’ll ask for it.” His tone of voice was mild, but the glint in his eyes and the slight cleft between his brows suggested anything but. Mind your own goddamn business, these said loud and clear. Or I’ll make you.

  * * *

  They arrived at the site of the Draka, a multi-story warehouse complex on the waterfront of an inky black river that glistened in the moonlight like a broad ribbon of satin. The caravan of trucks parked along the side streets and alleys nearby, while the drivers dropped off their passengers near a series of opened cargo bay doors at the back of the warehouse that served as entrances to the games.

  Mason felt Sofiya clasp him by the hand, her small, slim fingers locking through his in a vise-like grip as they stood together, looking up at the looming building with its crumbling brick façade and heavy graffiti painting. Behind them, one of Nikolić’s goons opened the rear hatch to let his comrade step out, while Nikolić attached a short leather leash to the ring on the back of Julien’s dog mask and hauled him roughly from the compartment. Again, Mason struggled to resist the urge to tackle Nikolić, to knock the son of a bitch down onto the ground and pound his face into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp. Never in his life had he ever felt such violent, protective urges toward anyone. But as with so many things in his nature and his life, he thought as he drew the tip of his tongue against the plastic and wire bridge of his false canine teeth, that had all changed in recent months.

  And I’m not the man I used to be.

  He’d tightened his grip on Sofiya’s hand without realizing, and glanced down at her when she uttered a soft whimper. At first he thought he’d hurt her, but then realized she was watching Julien, too, her large eyes filled with such sorrow and concern, it tore at his heart—because it mirrored exactly how he felt inside, the tempest of emotions he fought to keep under control.

  Andrei had told him the Draka was popular among Serbian and Russian mobsters, but Mason saw hundreds of people gathered for the fights—men of all ages, races, and ethnicities. Some were dressed to the nines in suits too well-fitted to be anything but hand-tailored, with girlfriends perched on their arms draped in diamonds and furs. Others boasted gang colors and flashed elaborate hand signs and glossy chrome pistols at each other, or wore form-fitting leather motorcycle gear. Inside the warehouse, all of these spectators merged together into a single, unified mob, lining the tiered seats that vaulted up at least three stories in height, ringed in an elliptical shape around the center fight ring. The sound of so many people pressed together, their voices surging upward, funneled toward the ceiling by the shape of the makeshift arena, was thunderous. Cigar smoke mingled with that of cigarettes, marijuana, crack, and God only knew what else, forming a thick, hazy cloud that hung, shroud-like, in the air.

  Guards flanked Mason and Sofiya on all sides as they inched their way along through the throng. Ahead of them, Nikolić dragged Julien in stumbling tow, while behind them, his fighters paraded in a long line, all glistening and gleaming, golden-skinned and youthful examples of damn-near physical perfection. When they reached the stairs leading to the upper levels, they came to an unexpected halt. Mason heard Nikolić utter a delighted laugh, and watched as he stepped forward, embracing another man. They took turns clapping each other on the back in warm, familiar greeting, and then Nikolić turned slightly to face Mason and Sofiya.

  The man with him was tall and lean, maybe in his mid-forties at best. His thick crown of dark hair was going grey along the temples, and above the crisp collar of his dress shirt, worn beneath a suit jacket, Mason caught sight of tattooed Cyrillic lettering on his neck. He smiled at them—or more specifically, at Sofiya—with a dark sort of menace that immediately made Mason tighten his grasp on the girl’s hand and step forward, positioning himself protectively in front of her.

  “Dr. Morin, come, come!” Nikolić waved his hand in beckon, grinning. “This is my man, Miloš Selaković. Miloš, Dr. Mason Morin. I’ve told you about him.”

  At this, Mason cocked his eyebrow slightly. What the fuck had Nikolić said? He managed a crooked smile as the other man, Miloš, extended his hand. A band of gold, studded with diamonds, encircled his little finger. “All good things, I hope.”

  Miloš’s smile stretched wider, but again, his gaze cut toward Sofiya, a hungry sort of glint flashing across them. “But of course.”

  As they shook hands, behind them, the group abruptly broke apart, with the fighters brushing past them to head in one direction, while some of the guards caught Sofiya by the shoulders and pushed her in another. As she stumbled forward, her eyes widened in renewed alarm.

  “Dr. Morin!” she cried. “Dr. Morin!”

  “Sofiya!” Mason started to go after her, but he felt another sharp sting from his shock collar as from behind him, Nikolić pushed the trigger. With a wince, he turned to face the bigger man. “Where are you taking her?”

  “She’ll be fine, Dr. Morin,” Nikolić said. “You’ll be seeing her again shortly when we go to our seats. She’ll be waiting for us there. Miloš will take care of her in the meantime, won’t you?”

  Miloš smiled again, broad, toothy, and Cheshire-Cat-like, as he slid his arm around Sofiya’s waist. “It will be my pleasure,” he assured.

  As he led her up the stairs, Sofiya turned to look back at Mason, h
er eyes round and stricken. Mason balled his fists, but when he started to follow again, Nikolić caught him by the arm.

  “This way, Dr. Morin.” He maintained a tight grip on Julien’s leash, forcing his head slightly backwards, and he turned, jerking Julien into clumsy step with him. The blindfold was still in place; Julien was helpless without Nikolić to guide him through the crowd. “We need to get the boys ready.”

  * * *

  Nikolić brought Mason to another medical examination room, this one smaller and dingier than the one at the gym. Here, Mason administered dose after dose of the juice to Nikolić’s stable of young fighters. Each man lay down on a pock-marked, stainless steel gurney that reminded Mason of the kind found in a morgue or autopsy suite, and turned his head away. Mason would then lean over, a surgical mask and plastic shield covering his face and eyes, and slide a hypodermic syringe deep into the meat of each man’s throat. He aimed for the external jugular vein, which rested atop the sternocleidomastoid muscle, visible in deep, well-defined relief when the men turned their heads. Each received a single, one-milligram dose of the drug. Each administration was a slow, methodical process, lasting at least a minute, to prevent the vein from collapsing under the pressure of a faster push. At first, his hands had grown clammy with sweat beneath his gloves, and the face-shield had frosted as he’d huffed anxiously for breath. But with each successive injection, his apprehension had waned, and by the end, as the last few men stretched out onto the table before him, he worked with confident ease and speed.

  “You did well.” Nikolić clapped him on the shoulder when he’d finished. “Andrei would be proud of you.”

  Mason jerked the mask and shield from his face. Don’t talk to me about Andrei, you son of a bitch, he thought darkly. Forking his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, he glanced at Nikolić. “What about Davenant?” he asked, again being mindful to keep his tone of voice neutral and cool. The guards had delivered Mason to the exam room; Nikolić had broken away from their group shortly before this, taking Julien with him. When he’d rejoined Mason less than fifteen minutes later, he’d been alone, and Mason hadn’t seen any sign of Julien since.

  The corner of Nikolić’s mouth hooked. “What about him?”

  Mason snapped his gloves off and tossed them into a nearby trash can. “You going to have him fight or what?”

  “Why are you so interested in my plans for him?” Nikolić asked. “For a man who claims he’s your enemy, you seem very…concerned about his well-being.”

  “My concern for him is as a doctor,” Mason replied. “That’s all. I saved his life, remember? You get him killed in the ring, you’re fucking up my handiwork.”

  He flashed what he hoped was a winning smile. It must have worked, because Nikolić tipped his head back on his beefy neck and chortled. “Don’t worry, Dr. Morin. I plan on taking very good care of your handiwork.”

  Hopefully better than you did with Piotr, Mason thought with an inward scowl, still wearing a smile on the outside as Nikolić motioned him toward the door.

  “Come on,” Nikolić said with a glance at his watch. “They’ll be starting any minute now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Have you ever been to the Draka before, Dr. Morin?” Miloš said, raising his voice to a near shout.

  Upon finishing the injections, several of Nikolić’s men had escorted Mason through the crowded stadium and up the stairs to one of the middle tiers, where a series of private boxes had been set up. Little more than folding chairs in groups of four sequestered from each other by waist-high curtain dividers, these afforded a birds-eye view of the entire fighting ring below. A champagne stand and ice bucket waited for them in Nikolić’s booth; his friend Miloš had already taken the liberty of popping the cork and pouring some for both himself and for Sofiya, who sat beside him, a half-empty flute in her hands.

  Nikolić had yet to join them, however. He’d remained on the ground level, offering Mason a vague and somewhat mumbled excuse about having “one more business matter to attend to.” Mason had no idea what it might have entailed, but it was keeping Nikolić busy, that was for sure. Which meant he was stuck in Miloš’s company, which he’d decided was not such a bad thing, if only because it kept Sofiya safe.

  “No,” he admitted in response to Miloš’s question. “It’s my first time.”

  At this, Sofiya giggled, a high-pitched sound she immediately tried to muffle with her hand. Mason couldn’t help but turn to her in surprise. She was normally so stoic and quiet, and in the car ride, had been timid and afraid. When she met his gaze, she laughed again, color flushed brightly in her cheeks. “I…I am sorry, da?” she said in halting English. “I…I am…first, too.”

  “She’s drunk,” Mason said, arching his brow.

  “Da, quite.” Miloš tipped his head back and laughed. “Who do you think has been drinking all of this champagne?” He leaned over and topped off her glass, then held up the bottle in invitation to Mason.

  “Yeah. Please.” Mason nodded, with another glance at Sofiya. “What the hell.”

  Miloš grinned as he poured Mason a glass of champagne. “You’re in for a treat tonight,” he assured him. “Vladan’s told you the Draka rules?”

  Mason accepted the flute with a nod of thanks. Taking a long sip, he said, “Don’t they just beat the shit out of each other?”

  Miloš laughed. “Something like that, yeah.”

  “Is good, da?” Sofiya said to Mason, pointing to his glass. She tried to say something else, but kept stumbling over her words. Turning to Miloš, she spoke in Russian and he chuckled.

  “She says the bubbles tickle her tongue,” he said by way of translation.

  “Yes, bubbles.” Sofiya nodded, giggling again. “They tickle.”

  Isn’t she a little young for champagne? Mason wanted to ask, but then realized the ridiculousness of the question. The poor girl was in the United States illegally, living in a brothel, for Christ’s sake, her virginity in the hands—and wallet—of the man sitting next to her, his hand on her thigh, high above her knee. Mason tried not to visibly bristle, reminding himself he’d do a fat lot of good to Sofiya and Julien if he got himself shot for punching the smarmy son of a bitch in the face.

  “So in Draka, the rules…they’re simple,” Miloš said. “Fighters earn one point for each punch, kick, elbow, or knee strike to their opponent. They get two points if they throw their opponent to the ground, and three points if they kick or hit their opponent to the mat. They can win by getting the most points in three rounds, or by knock-out.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” Mason said. “Who counts the points?”

  Miloš pointed toward the ring. “The judges do,” he said, indicating three men at a folding table, all dressed almost identically in nondescript suits, their receding hairlines all combed over and greasy, their eyes squinting against the glare of stage lights as they looked up at the ring.

  Unlike those used in boxing, the Draka ring was more like a cage, encircled by chain link fencing at least ten feet in height, capped at the top by coils of razor wire. Nikolić’s booth was so close to the action that Mason could have literally leaned over and stretched out his hand to brush his fingertips against the edge of the wire, had he wished. The only point of entry or exit was a narrow gate through which a man now stepped; dressed resplendently in a dark suit and blood-colored tie, he carried a cordless microphone in hand and smiled broadly as he turned in a slow-moving circle, taking in the full breadth of the crowd.

  He must be the ringleader of this circus, Mason thought as the man spoke into the microphone, welcoming the crowd to a burst of enthusiastic applause.

  Miloš grinned. “It’s time, then,” he exclaimed, leaning forward to again grab the champagne bottle from its stand. As he topped off his glass, then refilled Sofiya’s, he glanced in Mason’s direction. “Some more champagne for you, Doctor?”

  Sofiya tilted her head back, guzzling the wine. It didn’t take a genius to realize that
beneath the bleary haze of inebriety, the kid was terrified. Not that he blamed her. Not one goddamn bit.

  Scooting his chair closer to Sofiya’s, he managed a disarming smile. “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I think it’s time for a toast.”

  * * *

  Julien couldn’t see for shit and that was the worst part. Worse than the sore spot on the back of his head where he’d been struck by the assault rifle, the gnawing ache that had formed in the muscles spanning his shoulders and spine from where his arms had been trussed together in the goddamn sex-gimp sleeves, or the muggy, musty air he kept sucking in and out of his lungs inside the thick mask.

  He was effectively blind in the mask, and he hated it. He hated the dark, period. Lamar had sometimes locked him in that little, grave-like recess dug out of the floor beneath his library when he’d been a boy, and he had very vivid memories of lying in the dark, gulping for breath, convinced that his father meant for him to die there. He wasn’t claustrophobic as a result; too many years had passed since those days, and he’d learned to overcome the stifling terror that had once threatened to overcome him in tight or enclosed places. But he did still hate the dark. Especially with his telepathy out of commission, because then he really was blind; he couldn’t even see through the eyes of those around him, or rely on their thoughts, their perceptions, to give him some semblance of orientation.

  He didn’t know where he was. He was on his knees, not because Nikolić had left him that way, but because it had been easier to keep his balance. With his hands and arms awkwardly bound, it was nearly impossible to keep his footing. The floor beneath him was concrete, cold and hard. He could hear the muffled bass line of distant music, and the more immediate sounds of footsteps and voices coming and going in rapid succession from somewhere close at hand. If he leaned slightly to the right, he could feel a wall with his shoulder. If he tilted his head slightly up from there, he could feel the bottom edge of a sink. He smelled human sweat, human blood, but most significantly, human urine and feces, which led him to suspect he was in a bathroom. Which made sense if the door could be locked; Nikolić would want him someplace where he could be locked in. The better to keep him out of trouble.