Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  “You pulled that number out of your ass.”

  “I never guess when it comes to money, Mr. Morgan.” Slade’s blue eyes leveled coolly on him. “I am a businessman, and I deal in profits. Now, if you’d like me to review exactly how much your sister commands per client, or how many years I expect her to last until she’s...”

  “Stop!”

  “Ten million dollars,” Slade repeated, emphasizing every word. “That is the price of Lillith’s freedom. You fight for me, you earn me ten million dollars, and then you and your sister are free to go. Unless, of course, you happen to have that much money on you?” He laughed at the black look he sent him. “No. I didn’t think so.”

  The scrape of steel on cement announced the arrival of the trainers. Toward the front of the room, two Apollos entered: one smirking, the other frowning.

  He blinked hard and shook his head. There were still two of them.

  Slade indicated the frowning giant. “This is Sol. You already know Apollo.”

  Apollo’s brother—they had to be twins, there was no other explanation for the carbon-copy likeness between them—loomed in front of the door, while Apollo headed across the room and toward the lockers. Sol’s features, though they mirrored his twin’s, seemed softer, his massive body slightly more relaxed. He’d heard that identical twins often possessed opposite personalities. Maybe...

  No one is on your side. The echo of Slade’s words mocked his hope. He could do nothing now but stand his ground and endure whatever torments the twins threw at him. Save Lillith—and save himself.

  “Remember, keep it light for today. The boy has an appointment,” Slade said when Apollo reentered the room.

  What? If this wasn’t the ‘appointment’ he and Doc had argued about, what was?

  Oh God. Jenner.

  That’s what Slade had meant by that cryptic statement. Terror washed over him.

  Apollo acknowledged his boss’s orders with a hideous grin. Slade strode to the door. Sol moved aside to let him pass, and Slade stopped. “I expect your complete cooperation, Mr. Morgan. If Sol and Apollo feel that you aren’t training to full capacity, your sister will pay for your languor.”

  The bastard left before he could protest.

  Sol approached, and he stayed put. Apollo moved around the room, the occasional creak of a bag or the dull thunk of metal on metal suggesting he was checking the equipment. He could attack them, try to escape—no matter what he did down here, he had a feeling Slade would receive a bad report—but he couldn’t take both of them on. Not yet, anyway.

  “I understand my brother has a problem with you.” Sol’s flat and uninflected voice lacked the hatred that laced his twin’s speech.

  He nodded. “Jenner took away his fun.”

  “Fucker needs to learn his place,” Apollo rumbled.

  Sol ignored the comment. “You will pay attention to Sol, and only Sol.” He glanced at Apollo. “My brother is merely a sparring partner. I am your trainer. Do what I tell you, and Mr. Slade will not hear anything negative. Cross me, and it will be otherwise.” Sol’s expression didn’t change. His voice neither rose nor fell. The deliberate speech pattern put him on edge, but it was probably in his best interest to follow directions from him.

  “Today we measure your ability. We start with the arms.” Sol pointed beyond him, and he followed the gesture. Behind him, Apollo steadied one of the punching bags. “You will hit the bag, one-two, one-two. Hard as you can. Go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Your arms are broken?”

  He held up his hands. “My wrists.”

  “Broken?” Sol’s tone stayed flat, emotionless.

  “No. Rope burn. And...Jenner.” The lieutenant’s name alone seemed sufficient explanation for everything else. He hoped it would be this time.

  Sol frowned and pointed to an open floor mat further inside the room. “One hundred sit-ups, then. I will adjust your program.”

  “But...” Hadn’t Doc said his ribs were broken?

  “One hundred sit-ups,” Sol repeated, and pointed again. “Go.”

  Don’t argue. He started across the room. The last thing he needed was a bad report. He stopped at the edge of the mat and glanced back. Sol walked along the row of machines against the opposite wall, occasionally stopping to inspect something. Apollo stood beside the heavy bag, arms folded, glaring. Angry seemed his natural state.

  He positioned himself on the mat, laced his hands behind his head and tried not to put too much pressure on his wrists. The first lift sent knives through his torso. He gritted his teeth, did it again. Twice more. He gasped for breath and fell back, pulling his hands away just before his head hit the mat.

  Stifling a groan, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Sol loomed over him. “Why have you stopped?”

  “Sorry.” He drew his arms in, lifted his head. Under Sol’s blank gaze, he wrenched up, stopped in mid-raise, and dropped. “Damn it!” He’d failed to move his hands fast enough. His wrists smacked the mat hard, and he grunted through the pain.

  “You aren’t breathing properly.”

  “I can’t breathe at all!”

  “Why?”

  “My ribs! Yes, they’re broken! Shit.” He turned his head away from the towering trainer. He’d done it now. Slade would hear about this.

  Sol placed a hand on his chest. “You have them wrapped.”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it off.”

  “What?”

  “The wrap prevents deep breathing. Pain is controlled in this way. Take it off, and you will be able to breathe.”

  Yes. And he’d be in pain. He rolled on his side, sat up, pulled his shirt off and unfastened the clips. The bandage lost tension and slid down his torso. He inhaled, surprised to discover he did feel better.

  Sol nodded. “Breathe out as you lift, in as you lower. Keep your torso straight. It will hurt. You won’t damage your ribs further. Ninety-five more.”

  He stared at him. Sol had counted his half-assed flop toward the total. A small kindness, but more than he’d expected. “Sure. Ninety-five. Got it.” He lay back down, and started again. The sharp pain migrated to a dull ache. He concentrated on counting, breathing, and barely noticed Sol slip away to return to the machines.

  He would train hard. Harder than they made him. He would use their efforts against them and beat these bastards at their own game. His strength would surpass any opponent they could dig up, and he would take revenge on his terms.

  Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. His pace slowed considerably. Straining, bathed in sweat, he struggled up again and barely reached a seated position. He lost it on the way back down. No way he’d make a hundred. His ribs hummed a loud protest. Fire smoldered in his stomach. He drew a breath, tried to lift himself. Failed.

  Sol appeared at his feet. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile, or frown.

  “I can’t,” he whispered. “Please. Slade will...”

  “You can.” Sol knelt on the mat, gripped his ankles and held them down. “Twenty-nine more.”

  He grimaced. With Sol bracing him, he managed to reach one hundred before he collapsed. Momentary triumph blossomed on the tail end of spent energy.

  “A good start. We will work the legs now.”

  More? He wasn’t sure he could get up, much less complete another workout. He started to protest and stopped himself. Sol hadn’t forced him to work against his wrists, and the trainer had been right about his ability to finish the sit-ups. If Sol thought he could do it, maybe he could. He pushed up on his elbows and made himself stand. Sol gestured to the row of equipment opposite them, and he went.

  Sol followed and pointed. “Set the weight at two hundred. Lift one-two-three, stop one-two-three. Go.”

  He moved to the machine Sol indicated, an inclined bench with footrests designed to push down and let up. The weights were already set at 200, so he sat down, gripped the handholds at the sides and started pumping.

  Leg lifts proved easier on his battered bod
y. After three sets, Sol motioned for him to stop and moved the pin to 300 pounds. He finished five more sets, and once again Sol stopped him.

  “We are running short on time. You will shower now, and then we will bring you to your appointment.”

  Wincing, he clambered from the machine and headed to the locker room.

  “Do not believe your training will be like this always,” Sol called after him. “Soon you will spar with Apollo.”

  Great. Another delightful romp to look forward to. He nodded to acknowledge Sol’s words, passed a bank of lockers, and rounded the corner. The communal shower he found there reminded him of high school. The rectangular space, its walls and floor covered in cracked beige tile, glowed eerily in the fluorescent light. Shower heads, four to a side, protruded from rusted circlets of steel, and each station boasted its own hot and cold taps. Small drains dotted the floor, which sloped gently downward to a larger drain in the center.

  He undressed quickly, leaving the wrist bandages in place, and walked to the last station on the left. The tiled floor chilled his bare feet, yet his body salivated in anticipation of the hot water.

  He twisted the hot tap as far as he could and stood aside. The water spat on the floor and swirled down the drain. Steam billowed from the showerhead in short order. He reached around the water, nudged the cold tap, and stepped into the spray.

  Eyes closed, he reveled in the cascade of cleansing heat. He leaned his head back and let the water drench his face, then turned to put his hands on the wall and arched his back into the pelting stream. His overtaxed muscles relaxed by degrees in the relentless soothing force of the water.

  A sudden sharp pain in his side banished the idea of relaxing. He opened his eyes. One of the twins—Apollo, he presumed—stood at the edge of the shower floor. The bastard must have thrown something at him. He glanced down. A bar of soap slid past him, down the slight slope toward the drain. The man had good aim.

  Apollo sneered. “Hurry up. You don’t wanna keep Jenner waitin’.”

  Despite the heat of the shower, he went cold. He’d already guessed Jenner was his next destination, but the confirmation heightened his dread. He retrieved the soap, lathered and rinsed hastily, the notion to stay put until the water ran cold dismissed.

  Apollo was right. He didn’t want to keep Jenner waiting.

  Chapter 8

  Gabriel sprawled on the dungeon floor. The door slammed shut behind him. His muscles jerking with overexertion, he righted himself and glared at the door. Not that Apollo could see him, but he still felt the need to express his fury. This shove-and-run treatment wore out fast.

  He tried to collect himself, but his rising anxiety bordered on terror. Jenner is coming. The simple knowledge of the lieutenant’s existence chilled his blood. He hadn’t felt this helpless against anyone since he lived with his father.

  He had to get up and at least meet Jenner on his feet. Hell, it was probably all he could do. The moment Jenner stepped through that door, he would submit to his will. He’d march to whatever beat the bastard decided to pound out. The choice wasn’t his to make.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that even if Lillith weren’t involved in this, he would end up obeying Jenner.

  He shifted in preparation to stand. Something seemed different about the room. He gained his feet and looked behind him. “What the hell?” he muttered. A thing stood before the wall of chains. It looked like a cross between a dentist’s chair and a motorcycle: a padded bench on wheels, with an oval hole in the headrest. Two pairs of chrome footrest-style bars extended from the lower section, just below the padding at either end. Buckle straps dangled above the bars. Obviously, the bench was not designed for comfort.

  Above the contraption, a full-length mirror had been suspended flat and facedown. He edged closer. A smaller mirror had been mounted on the floor, on a vertical stand below the headrest. The floor mirror angled up and reflected the suspended one. Anyone lying on the bench could look through the hole and see themselves from above.

  Cold too deep to blame on towel-damp hair sunk into him, and when he caught sight of the table beside the bench, penetrated his bones.

  There were needles on it.

  The array of instruments resembled nothing he’d ever seen. Half a dozen foot-long bamboo rods spread in a fan pattern on the low surface. Four short talons, miniature steel claws, tipped each rod. Behind the needles stood three black lacquered pots emblazoned with blood-red Oriental symbols. Two were lidded, and the third bristled with an assortment of slender wooden sticks.

  He shuddered. Whatever the purpose of this equipment, it would bring something unpleasant. He took a tentative step toward the bench, and the door opened and closed behind him.

  “Hello, angel.”

  The sound of that sinewy voice splintered him in anticipation of pain. He couldn’t bring himself to face Jenner, though he heard his approach. The soft footsteps stopped right behind him.

  “You were not thinking of touching my toys. Were you, little angel?” Dry breath whispered on his neck. “Because that is not allowed. You must not touch.”

  Agony branded the back of his right thigh. He fell to his knees with a strangled oath. Though his body shook with effort, he managed to hold his position until Jenner withdrew the needle. A thin stream of blood crept down his leg and soaked into his pants.

  “Remove your shirt.”

  Why, damn it? He bit back the retort and complied without rising. Cool air caressed his skin, eliciting a shiver.

  “Stand and face me.”

  This time he struggled to force himself into obedience. Still, the unspoken threat of further pain had him on his feet in less than a minute. Jenner’s features remained the same as he remembered from their first meeting—calm, expressionless, terrifying.

  Jenner reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a slim black marker. “On the table now, angel. Lie on your stomach, and make sure your face is in that hole. You are going to be there for quite some time, and you will need to breathe.”

  He approached the bench. His attempt to control the rage and humiliation warring within left him weak. He settled into position, and in the mirror below him, his back was reflected clearly. Thin pale scars slashed across his skin, mementos of the last beating he suffered at his father’s hands.

  Jenner grasped the waistband of his pants and slid them down to further expose his lower back. “There are two bars near your feet. Find them, and rest your ankles on top of them.”

  He shuffled his legs until his feet found the metal protrusions. Jenner cinched the leather straps loosely around his ankles.

  “Do not worry, angel. I trust you not to escape. I am only doing this because you will be most uncomfortable in a few moments, but you must not move.” He tightened the ankle restraints. “Now, grasp the handles below your head.”

  Jenner moved to the front of the table, fastened the straps around the sodden bandages clinging to his raw wrists, and tightened them. Christ, he was so weak. Couldn’t do a damned thing to stop the bastard.

  Finished, Jenner stepped back. Shuffling sounds came to him, and in the mirror Jenner’s hand floated over him holding the uncapped marker. The tip darted down to touch his skin. Cold ink inscribed slender letters across his back. The double reflection made the resultant words easily legible.

  GABRIEL JOSEPH MORGAN

  What was he doing? The lieutenant knew his name. So what? Slade knew it, too. Was Jenner trying some sort of reverse psychology, a pseudo-parental reprimand? It didn’t make sense.

  Jenner paused, then bent to write again. He drew away. Under his name appeared NOVEMBER 6

  His birthday. How did the bastard know?

  His wallet. Jenner must have gone through it and read the date on his license. Still, he didn’t understand why the lieutenant was vandalizing him like this.

  The pen moved across his shoulder blades and stroked sore muscles. He gritted his teeth and waited.

  HIGH SCHOOL DROPOUT


  His throat closed on fear at the sight of the new words.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” He bucked against the restraints. Jenner couldn’t have figured that out from his wallet. He lifted his head from the bench, turned—and met the gleaming point of a knife.

  “Now, now, angel. Behave yourself. Put your head back down.”

  Fresh tremors wracked his body. He lowered himself into position again. Silence swelled, broken only by his short, shallow breaths.

  A finger traced one of the scars. “Fascinating angel,” Jenner whispered. “This must have been exquisitely painful.” The softly dangerous voice raised gooseflesh along his spine. “I suppose your father did this to you?”

  He held his tongue.

  “Of course he did. And this is when you left.”

  “How...”

  Jenner smiled. “I know more about you than you do, little angel. I watch, I listen. I know.” The marker resumed, writing at an angle to cross and re-cross the faded line of the scar he had just caressed.

  SON OF A BASTARD

  “Fuck you.” He braced himself for pain.

  “That is twice you have offered. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you will simply have to be patient. I am quite busy at the moment.”

  Jenner’s calm infuriated him. His grip tightened on the bars. The marker scratched another comment beneath the last. Jenner moved back, and he read:

  BROTHER OF A WHORE

  He loosed an incoherent roar. He jerked his body from side to side, ignoring the anguish in his wrists, his only thought to obliterate the worm beside him. The restraints held, and after a long, fruitless struggle, he collapsed with a harsh grunt.

  Jenner waited until his anger subsided. “That was a mistake, angel, and one you will answer for soon. But not now. Now, we will finish what we have started. Oh—and one more display like that, and your dear sister will pay the price.”

  The older man bent to his task again. The marker slid over his skin with slow, caressing strokes. Jenner didn’t straighten between phrases this time. At last he pulled back to admire his handiwork.