Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  He shuddered at the quiet fury pulsing through the doctor’s words. Seth seemed about to elaborate, but sounds from the hallway stopped him. The office door opened to admit Slade. Apollo stood behind him, scowling, his arms folded across his chest like a child denied a treat.

  Fresh apprehension shivered down his spine.

  “Are we through here?” Slade addressed Seth, but he received the full weight of his stare, and returned the look with all the strength he had left.

  “Yeah, but I’ll need him back tomorrow. He needs more shots, and those bandages will have to be changed.”

  “Fine. Come along, Mr. Morgan. I’ll show you to your...room.”

  He stood with exaggerated slowness. Slade raised a hand. The handcuffs dangled from his loose fist.

  Slade expected him to hold his arms out for them. Son of a bitch.

  “Don’t put those on him,” Seth said before he could manage to goad his weary limbs into movement.

  Slade shot the doctor a warning look, but Seth held his ground. “I just cleaned his wrists. They’ll never heal if you keep him cuffed, and he can’t fight like that.”

  Slade displayed a slight smile. “Very well, doctor. But I’ll remind you that I am in charge of our boy here, and you are to stay out of it. As promised.”

  Seth nodded. “You know I keep my promises, Marcus. Just lay off the cuffs for now. I’m sure the kid will behave himself.”

  Slade turned to him again, and a sly grin graced his features. “Oh, yes. Mr. Morgan won’t step out of line again. Will you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Slade stepped forward. His fist blurred, too fast to see—but he felt it ram his stomach. He doubled over, and his breath left him in a rush.

  “I asked you a question.” The smile fled.

  “Y-yes...no,” he gasped. “I—won’t.”

  “Good.”

  Slade turned to leave, but Seth said, “Wait, Marcus. I need to talk to you. Can you have Apollo bring the kid up for now?”

  Slade hesitated. “All right. I have a little time. Apollo, take Mr. Morgan upstairs.” As he faced him, he straightened with hatred searing his chest. “Go. I’ll deal with you later,” Slade said.

  He took a step, stopped, and turned to look at the doctor. “Thank you, Seth,” he said softly.

  Seth looked taken aback, and shook himself slightly. “Call me Doc. Everyone else does.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Yeah. Sure, kid.”

  With a final glance at Slade, he moved past him and out the door, where Apollo waited for him with malicious glee.

  Once the door to Doc’s office closed, Apollo reached out with a speed that belied his size and dug his fingers into his arm. He had to run to keep from falling as Apollo dragged him down the hall and toward the stairs they’d ascended earlier.

  Another flight in the stairwell led up. Apollo climbed them quickly, maintaining his grip, not bothering to wait for him to catch up.

  His shins banged every step. They reached the landing of the third floor, and the bigger man hauled him up and flung him against the wall.

  “Keep up, boy.”

  Apollo led him down yet another hallway, and he forced himself to concentrate on moving his legs. This hall, too, featured lines of closed doors, though it seemed somehow darker than the second floor. They reached the end of the hall and turned left into another endless corridor of doors. Just before the next corner, Apollo stopped and opened one of them. A wooden staircase stood inside, swathed in shadow and dusty with the cobwebs of long neglect.

  Apollo jerked him forward and sent him crashing into the stairs. Blackness flooded his vision, chased by white starbursts. Consciousness wavered and returned. He shook his head and wobbled to his feet.

  “Get up there.” Apollo stood framed in the doorway, his backlit bulk radiating menace.

  Without a word, he turned and mounted the stairs. Heavy footsteps followed. He reached the top, complete blackness, and waited.

  An arm pushed past him. The sound of a doorknob turning, hinges squealing, echoed in the stairwell. A fist drove into his spine and knocked him through the doorway onto a rough floor. Brutal, mocking laughter filled the darkness.

  “I’ll get my hands on you eventually, you little shit.” More laughter, and the door slammed shut. A click announced a deadbolt sliding into place. Vibrations of massive feet tromping down stairs shook the floor.

  He didn’t get up. Couldn’t get up. For the second time in as many days, conscious thought left him and he drifted in a black void.

  * * * *

  “Marcus, the kid’s pulverized. Do you really think it necessary to bring Jenner in?”

  Doc struggled to keep his voice down. Screaming at Slade would get him nowhere...or worse than nowhere. But the House leader had gone too far this time.

  He’d seen some bad shit since he started working for Slade—fighters with shattered bones, or knife and gunshot wounds they didn’t dare hit the public ER with. Men with faces so obliterated their own dealers wouldn’t recognize them. One of them had lost a finger in a bar brawl, back at the beginning. That one had since decided there were safer career options than street fighting.

  This kid, though. Christ, he’d seen corpses in better shape, and the kid was still walking around taking orders. Slade damn well knew he’d keep doing it, too.

  Slade’s expression didn’t change. “Yes, Seth, I did find it necessary to consult Jenner. The situation is—different, to say the least. I don’t usually have to force anyone to fight for me, but I believe this boy will be worth my trouble. So far he’s proven to be everything I’ve suspected he is.”

  “What? Brave, tough, and stupid? If his sister wasn’t here, he’d either escape or die trying before he let you and your goons near him.”

  “In that case, it’s a good thing his sister is here, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not! Damn it, Marcus. Not everyone exists to make you money.”

  “They have to make money for someone.” Slade favored him with a chilling smile. “In business, the biggest payoffs come from calculated risks. I’ve calculated this one, and I intend to have it pay off enormously. The boy’s a solid investment.”

  “He’s a kid. A human being.”

  “Not for long.” The smile stayed in place. “When I get through with him, young Mr. Morgan will be a fighting machine. My machine. And I keep what’s mine.”

  Something inside him withered. “You’re not going to let him go.”

  “Of course I will. Provided he meets my conditions. It’ll be his own fault when he finds out he can’t.”

  “This is low, Marcus. Even for you.”

  Slade’s complacent expression evaporated. “I don’t remember asking your opinion.”

  “You didn’t. I’m giving it to you free.” He narrowed his eyes. “After all, you always enjoy getting something for nothing.”

  “Why, Seth. You seem to have grown some balls while I wasn’t looking.” Slade stepped closer with wicked promise in his eyes. “Watch your step, doctor. I can assure you that federal inmates don’t make nearly as much as I’m paying you.”

  Damn him. Slade had a knack for helping anyone who crossed him look forward to twenty-to-life, without a whiff of suspicion coming his way. He’d seen it happen more times than he cared to think about.

  “Stay out of this. Do your job, and keep your mouth shut. I won’t tell you again.”

  Slade turned and left the office. The door closed. He collapsed in his chair, head bowed, and blinked back regret.

  He couldn’t save the kid any more than he could save himself.

  Chapter 7

  Light shimmered at the edges of Gabriel’s closed eyes. Voices rose and fell, ghosts in a misty forest, garbled words strung together in the wrong order. Kid...get dangerous...criminals sick...fuck sister... He couldn’t discern the spoken words from his thoughts.

  Where was he? His eyes didn’t seem to work. Only light-drenched shadow existed. S
natches of memory played out in his head, gray and crackling like homemade movies. Seth—Doc—who wouldn’t get involved but he stopped Slade from cuffing him again. Apollo, dragging him through deserted hallways and into darkness, leaving him... somewhere. Here.

  Someone spoke, a heated voice. The words refused to form in his ears. He had to move before there were consequences, but his mind remained mired in fog.

  The voice intensified. “Get up.”

  Wait. He tried to say it aloud, but none of his muscles responded. His tongue sat idle and motionless in his mouth.

  A shock of bitter cold engulfed him. The haze dissipated. He choked and spluttered. His eyes flew open and attempted to focus. He lay on the floor. Wood this time, not concrete. Moisture coated him, soaking skin and clothes. Fever sweat, he assumed before he noticed the puddle of clear liquid around him.

  He raised his head. Slade stood over him. A still-dripping metal bucket dangled from one hand.

  “Ah, so you are still alive. Good for you.” Slade pointed to his right. “Drink what’s in that cup there, and then I have shoes for you. You’ll be training today. I want you in shape soon so you can start fighting.”

  He pressed his mouth tight and dragged himself into a seated position. How long had he been unconscious up here? Hours? Days?

  The cup Slade had indicated sat on a small table two or three feet from him. Its contents were thick and foamy, the grayish-yellow color of used dishwater. Whatever it was, he couldn’t refuse the stuff. The bastard would only hurt Lillith. He struggled to his feet and inspected the room.

  It looked like an attic loft, windowless and musty. Bare rafters sloped up from the tops of two-foot walls at either side of the room to a point around eight feet high at its off-center acme. Like the basement, the furnishings were sparse. The table boasted one chair. Against the back wall, a worn cot sagged as though it had been rejected by the Army and taken it personally. A scuffed vinyl punching bag hung suspended from the midpoint of the angled ceiling. The bag had probably been black at some point, but had since faded to the muddy color of old tires.

  So this place would be home for a while. At least until he managed to get Lillith away from this madhouse. He picked up the cup. A faintly metallic, earthy odor wafted up from it.

  “Don’t worry, boy. It’s not poison, or even drugs. Just a protein shake.”

  He turned to meet Slade’s eyes at last, debated whether it would be worth it to fling the contents of the cup into his smug face. Since he wasn’t yet strong enough to wage a war, he’d have to settle for drinking it.

  He raised it to his lips and drained half in one swallow. The taste matched the smell: metal and dirt, thick and gritty. Forcing himself not to gag, he poured the rest down his throat. His stomach clenched and threatened revolt at the invasion.

  Slade pointed again, this time to two black shapes near the closed door.

  He picked them up. The shoes, made of suede, resembled moccasins. No solid soles, no rigidity at all. He put them on the floor and slid his bare feet into them. A perfect fit.

  “Seth wants to see you first.” The look on Slade’s face said it was the last thing he wanted, but he would nevertheless allow it. “Are you going to come quietly, or do I have to restrain you?”

  “I’ll come.”

  “Fine. Follow me.”

  Slade led him down the ghostly staircase, back through the long corridors of the third-floor rooms and down again. Outside Doc’s office, he turned with his hand on the knob.

  “Seth won’t help you escape. I know you think you can trust him, but you can’t.” Slade took a menacing step toward him. Anger tightened his face. “No one here is on your side. No one. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Despair turned the word into a choked whisper. He’d known that from the moment he and the doctor left the dining room. At least Doc would treat him decently, though.

  “Go. I’ll be waiting.” Slade stood back, opened the door and closed it after he went through.

  Bandages, scissors and ointment had been set out on the desk, but no one stood waiting to use them. “Doc?” he called hesitantly into the silence. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Be right there.” Doc’s muffled voice drifted out from behind the blue curtain. A quick smile flashed on when he emerged. “Hey, kid. How’re you feeling?”

  He laughed bitterly. “I’ve been better.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” Doc nodded at the bed. “Sit down and get your shirt off. We don’t have a lot of time. I want to check you again, and change those bandages.” After he disappeared into the bathroom, he peeled off his shirt and sat.

  Doc came out drying his hands. “I live back there.” He jerked his head toward the curtain. “Like to keep things simple. Now, let’s see those wrists.”

  He held out one arm obligingly. While the doctor cut and unwrapped, he said, “Doc, can I ask you a question?”

  Doc favored him with a wary look. “What?”

  “When did I meet you...how long ago was it?”

  “It was yesterday. Jesus, kid, where’ve you been?”

  “In the attic, I think. Apollo brought me up there and I...passed out. I didn’t know how long I was gone for.”

  “Passed out. Yeah, sure. I bet you had a little help getting there. Am I right?”

  He saw no need to reply.

  Doc had the bandages off now. The wounds looked the same, no better and no worse. Doc reached for the tube of ointment, smeared on a generous amount, and rewrapped with fresh gauze. Finished, he released the arm and began to work on the other wrist.

  “I’m going to give you another dose of antibiotics and reposition the wraps on your ribs. A hot shower will do you a world of good. I’ve already talked to Marcus about it, and he agreed that you’ll have one after your...training.”

  “Sounds great,” he muttered. “Do you happen to know when I’ll be starting this training?”

  Doc didn’t meet his eyes. “Immediately after I’m done with you.”

  No surprise there.

  Doc poked, prodded and wrapped, and he mentally prepared himself for another day of brutality. He would survive. He had to. Lillith needed him.

  The doctor finished quickly and ended the treatment with another shot. He returned his supplies to their proper places and produced an unmarked bottle of tablets. “Let me give you a dose of the strong stuff, kid. You’re going to need it.”

  He stood and shook his head. “No. I won’t take drugs.” It was easy to get hooked on them. It had been for Lillith. After they moved away from their father, she’d started having frequent headaches. Bad ones. The doctor he’d taken her to see prescribed a powerful painkiller, and as far as he knew, she’d still been taking them when she disappeared.

  He would not allow drugs to cloud his mind. Especially now, when he needed more than ever to think clearly.

  Doc sighed. “Okay. How about a couple of Tylenol?”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  “Extra strength?”

  “Don’t push it, Doc.”

  Doc laughed. He moved to the other side of his desk, extracted a white plastic bottle and uncapped it, shook three small white pills onto his palm. “Here. Six hundred milligrams of non-addictive acetaminophen. You can take another three in four hours. I’ll give you the bottle.” He pointed to the bathroom. “There are cups in there next to the sink. Go wash ’em down, and do whatever else you need to do.”

  He gave him a grateful nod, then entered the bathroom and closed the door. Five minutes later, after another bout of burning elimination, he emerged pale and shaking.

  Doc seemed to notice the change in him. “Don’t worry. The antibiotics I’m giving you will get you better. In the meantime, keep taking these as needed.” He pressed the bottle into his palm and held it there for a moment.

  The door to the office opened and Slade scowled in at them. “I hope you’re finished, Seth. We’re going now. Mr. Morgan has an appointment to keep.”

  Doc paled. “Christ, M
arcus. I told you he isn’t ready for that. He’s in bad shape.”

  “And I told you that it’s none of your concern. Didn’t I?”

  “Fine. Don’t blame me when this blows up in your face, then.”

  “Seth. It would be in your best interests to shut the hell up. Right now.”

  Increasing dread filled him. He’d assumed this training was a foregone conclusion. Why would Doc try to talk Slade out of it now?

  “Come on, boy. Don’t make me restrain you.”

  With a wary glance at Doc, whose expression could have melted glass, he walked toward the door. “Tomorrow, Marcus,” Doc said in a stern voice behind him. “I mean it. I need to see him every day, for at least a week. Probably longer.”

  Slade arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

  He joined his captor in the hallway. Slade closed the door, and shook his head as though ridding himself of the past few minutes. “We’re going back to the basement. The training room is there.”

  He followed his lead. They reached the basement, passed the heavy door which opened on the dungeon, and walked to the end of the corridor. The hall terminated in another steel door with a large window set into the top third. Slade opened it and gestured inside.

  He entered a room half the size of the building, walled with more gray cement. Several heavy bags hung from the ceiling, and a collection of weight machines lined the left wall. A large, roped sparring ring with a black mat floor dominated the far right corner. There were a few warm-up benches and an open door that appeared to lead to a locker room.

  Slade pulled the door closed, reached for the ever-present phone, dialed, and said, “We’re waiting.” He snapped it shut and regarded him standing rigid and mute, hands clenched at his sides.

  “I’ll make this easy for you,” Slade said at last.

  He couldn’t suppress a derisive snort. Easy? It would be easier for him to sever a limb or two with a butter knife than it was to submit to this man, to do his bidding and pretend everything was just fine, thank you.

  Slade ignored his sarcasm. “Regarding my terms for your release, and your sister’s. I’ve calculated the amount of money Lillith would bring in should she remain in my employ. I’ll spare you the details of how I arrived at this figure—” He paused to measure the effect his words had. “—but the final tally is ten million dollars.”