Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  A discreet door beyond the bar led to a nest of rooms in the rear of the building, where insulated walls and heavy carpeting swallowed the cacophony of sound from the nightclub. Silence reigned in an elevator at the end of a hall.

  The car descended smoothly. They walked through a deserted basement to a hallway hidden in shadow, and up a flight of stairs. At the top, double steel doors stood waiting—a concealed entrance to the deserted building they had passed outside.

  These doors opened on a different brand of clamor. Beyond Sol’s looming bulk, hundreds of people milled about in a vast room of cement and steel beams under the harsh glow of the running lights set into the ceiling. Occasional shouts rang out above the roar of conversation. The bulk of the chatter emanated from a stadium-style vending window across the room, where bets were being placed.

  In the center of the arena, four chain-link walls that stopped just short of the ceiling boxed in a raised platform—a fighting cage. Tables, prime seating, encircled the ring.

  Apollo led him through the crowd to one of the tables, to Slade, seated and deep in conversation with a striking light-skinned black woman in sequined purple. The woman looked up and flashed a dazzling smile, showing flawless teeth. Apollo shoved him into the chair opposite Slade.

  “You must be Angel.” The woman spoke husky and deep, as though she’d been chain-smoking for decades. The slight motion at her throat suggested this was Dell Ramone of Dionysus. She extended a hand across the table, affording him a look at the cascade of elegant silver bracelets encircling her wrist, and said, “Pleasure to meet you.”

  He glanced down at his cuffed hands, still concealed by the jacket. Slade cleared his throat. Dell shrugged, lowered her hand and turned the smile back on.

  “The pleasure is mine, ma’am,” he said with a slight nod. She gaped at him, and then burst into a throaty chuckle.

  “Call me Dell, sugar. There is no ‘ma’am’ at this table.” Still laughing, she turned to Slade. “You really think your Angel is gonna beat my Eddie? Why, he’s nothing but skin and bones.”

  “Oh, I think he may surprise you.” Slade directed his gaze at him. “It’s amazing what one can accomplish, given the proper motivation.”

  His jaw clenched in mute fury. Dell loosed another round of hearty laughter. “How delightful!” She clapped her hands with a jingle of jewelry. “I do love surprises.” She grinned, but then her gaze focused on something beyond their table. The buoyantly flirtatious woman disappeared, and a snarling panther took her place.

  “Just who in the hell does he think he is?” Dell turned and called over her shoulder, “Ania!”

  A compact, unsmiling woman with close-cropped blonde hair materialized soundlessly behind Dell, hands clasped behind her back. Without looking at the woman, Dell said, “Mendez is over there messing with Sammie. Go tell him to keep his slimy paws off my girl.”

  Ania nodded and melted into the crowd, and Dell’s smile banished the panther. “Duty calls. So tell me, Marcus, when can I invite your Angel to my place for a conjugal visit?”

  Slade offered an amused smirk. “Insatiable as ever. Sorry, Dell, but Angel is not for sale. Or rent, for that matter.”

  “Aw. But he’s so cute! Oh, well—you can’t blame me for trying. See you at the races, sugar.” Dell rose with stately elegance and blew a kiss across the table to him before disappearing in the same manner as Ania.

  An involuntary shudder traveled the length of his spine, and he realized just how close he’d been to becoming another man’s sex toy.

  “Relax, young one. Prostitution is not part of our deal, and I’m a man of my word,” Slade said.

  Relax. Yeah, right.

  Tense minutes passed, devoid of conversation. The crowd roared around them. A dozen plans for escape rose and fell, yet he could feel Apollo behind him, daring him to make the wrong move. He stayed seated.

  At last Slade glanced at his watch and rose from his chair. “Come on. Time to go.”

  Go where? He stood and tried to ignore his thudding heart. Slade walked toward the cage. When he faltered, Apollo gave him a rough shove forward and he barely avoided crashing into the table. He strode after his captor, his body tense with self-restraint.

  They circled to the opposite side of the ring and stopped before a distorted extension of the cage. It was lower than the rest of the structure, equipped with a door of steel rods connected by more chain-link. Within this recessed enclosure, a handful of men stood, or sat on one of the wooden benches placed around its interior perimeter. A few shadow-boxed, concentration etched on their hard faces.

  “This is the pen.” Slade faced him again. “You’ll wait here until your match. You’re up last.” The keys were already in his hand. He jerked the jacket away, tossed it to Apollo, and unlocked the cuffs. “Remember your instructions.” Slade swung the door to the pen open. “Do not disappoint me, Angel. You know what will happen if you do.”

  He walked into the fighter’s area. The door clattered shut behind him. Inside, three wooden steps led down to a dirt floor littered with cigarette butts and shards of broken bottles. He stopped at the bottom of the short flight and scanned the competition.

  No one glanced his way, though several appeared engaged in friendly conversation. He tried to guess which of the fighters might be Eddie. A familiar face surfaced on a bench opposite him: Lonzo.

  The fighter noticed him at the same time and waved him over with a boyish grin. He skirted around a shadow-boxer, making his way to the bench to take a seat.

  “Hey.” Lonzo produced a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

  “Thanks.” He extracted one and handed the rest back to Lonzo, who was ready with a light. He inhaled deeply, leaned back and closed his eyes, and let it out slow. The small luxury of smoking had to sustain him. He had no other source of available pleasures.

  Lonzo lit up and took a deep pull. “Nervous?”

  “Yeah. Which one’s Eddie?”

  “He’s not here yet.” Lonzo scanned the room and settled his gaze on the shadow-boxer he’d passed on the way in. “See that guy?” he asked, inclining his head toward the fighter.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m fighting him. Tiger, from House Pandora. Man, I hate those gavrons.”

  He nodded, unsure how to respond. Finally he said, “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Lonzo grinned through a cloud of smoke. “I hear the odds on you are way long. Makes for good cash, if you win.”

  “Great. I’m overwhelmed by our esteemed employer’s confidence in me.”

  Lonzo chuckled. “Slade doesn’t post the odds. He just bets ’em. He probably put up a big chunk of cash on you, too. Hell, I would, if fighters were allowed to bet.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Hey, we gotta stick together. Besides, I—”

  “Don’t I know you?”

  A lumbering form stood in front of them, staring at him. Lonzo squinted up at the speaker. “What you want, ese? We’re talking. Take a hike.”

  He gripped the bench. Kaiser. “Er, no,” he said, hoping the thug was as stupid as he’d seemed in Diego’s bar. “I don’t think so.”

  Kaiser blinked. “Yeah, I do. You’re that kid.” He turned toward the front of the enclosure and shouted, “Hey, Cortez! C’mere.”

  Shit. Cortez definitely wasn’t stupid. He tensed and glanced around the pen. He wasn’t supposed to leave it. He’d just have to hope the fighters weren’t allowed to start the fun before the main event.

  Lonzo’s brow furrowed. “That kid? What’s he talkin’ about? I thought you said you didn’t know anyone from Prometheus.”

  “I don’t,” he muttered darkly. “Think they know me, though.”

  “Hot damn! You ain’t even fought yet, and you got a rep already.” Lonzo laughed and looked at the figure pushing toward them. “Sure did pick a nasty one. Cortez is a brute.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Cortez reached Kaiser and stopped. “What’s up, ’mano? You f
orget your match-up again? You aren’t in ’til next to last. One of the Japs.”

  Kaiser shook his head and pointed. Cortez followed the gesture. “Son of a bitch.” The fighter reached down, snagged his shirt and hauled him off the bench. “I told you to get lost. Guess you didn’t hear me. Who the fuck let you in here?”

  “Hey!” Lonzo shot to his feet. “Leave off, man. He’s with us.”

  “What? You’re shittin’ me, right? Slade signed on this little puke?” Cortez released him and wiped his hand on his shirt with an exaggerated motion. “What’d he do, take out life insurance on him? He ain’t gonna last two minutes.”

  “He is standing right here.” He resisted smoothing his rumpled shirt. “Don’t talk about me like I don’t count.”

  Cortez laughed. “Here’s a news flash for you, kid. You don’t. Get fuckin’ used to it.” He walked away, and Kaiser followed with a confused expression.

  He sat down hard. “Thanks, Lonzo. Sorry about that. I just...”

  “You know what? I don’t wanna know. Seriously.” Lonzo grinned and rejoined him on the bench. “Don’t even worry about those assholes. They aren’t worth the effort.”

  “Yeah. I forgot ’em already.” Until he had to fight one of them.

  A sudden thunderclap of cheering cracked from the spectators, and he sought the source of the excitement. A sable-haired beauty stood poised in the center of the cage, arms over her head to greet every person in the arena. One upraised hand gripped the staff of a cordless microphone. Scant triangles of glistening black leather were all that covered the ripe swell of her breasts, the generous curves of her ass and her private nest of curls. Stiletto-heeled boots hugged her legs to mid-thigh.

  She bent her arm to bring the mike to her lips, and her voice boomed through the open space. “Welcome to House Ulysses!” The applause intensified. She paused, waiting for a lull. “We have a special treat for you tonight...the debut match of our newest fighter!” Again the clamor swelled, ebbed. “The betting window will stay open through the seventh match, for those of you who would like to wager on our final fight.”

  “And now—bring on the boys!” The announcer turned toward the pen with a seductive smile. “For our first bout of the evening, please welcome Tiger of House Pandora to the ring.”

  Tiger slunk past the bench where he and Lonzo still sat. The fighter offered a quick, predatory grin, mounted a second set of stairs that he hadn’t noticed before, and ascended into the cage to the sound of rousing cheers.

  Lonzo stood. The entrance to the pen opened and another fighter walked in, bathed in shadow. “Ah,” Lonzo half-shouted over the din, “there’s Eddie.”

  He strained to make out the new arrival, but he’d already mingled with the rest of the men in the enclosure. The announcer’s voice rang out again. “Competing against Tiger tonight is our own...Lonzo!”

  With a brief wave, Lonzo charged up the steps and into the cage.

  He temporarily abandoned his quest to determine which man would be his opponent and turned his attention to the impending bout.

  Chapter 12

  “Ooh, I don’t think he’s gonna come back from that one.”

  The tall fighter in black next to Gabriel had stated the obvious. Accompanied by a mixture of cheers, catcalls and sighs of dismay, Lonzo’s limp body slammed into the cage wall for the third time in ten minutes. Tiger held a clear advantage from the start. Though Lonzo had the drive and the power, his opponent possessed speed and skills that could only have come from years of rigorous training.

  Lonzo never stood a chance, knew it, and he still fought.

  He watched in mute horror. His fellow fighter struggled to rise and failed. With a long, shuddering breath, Lonzo sunk to the floor and stilled.

  Twenty seconds passed, counted out by the announcer. A bell sounded. “Winner!” the announcer called. She dashed across the ring and held one of Tiger’s bloodied fists upraised in a victory salute. Grinning, though his smile now floated over heaving breaths, the fighter from Pandora soaked in the cheers of the crowd like a cat in the sun.

  Sol entered the ring, silent as shadows while the masses lauded their hero of the moment. Unnoticed, he bent to lift Lonzo—and to Gabriel’s amazement, the beaten fighter managed to walk out of the ring with his arm around Sol’s massive shoulders. At last the cheers began to abate, and Tiger took leave of his temporary glory.

  The fighters in the pen had taken no notice of each other during the match. Now, with a break in the action, they milled about again. Snatches of conversation, reflections and instant replays, a few comments on how they would have won came to him.

  He pushed his concern for Lonzo to the back of his mind and tried to concentrate on his impending ordeal. He turned to reclaim his spot on the bench, and found himself facing one of the fighters, who’d been standing behind him.

  “’Lo, kid,” the fighter said. “I’m Eddie, and I’m guessing you must be Slade’s new guy.” A hand came forward.

  He took it. “Yeah, that’s me.” The guy was big, but not monstrous like the twins, and black as pitch. His hair hung in tight, shining curls to just below his ears, and the deep purple tank top stretched over his chest revealed thick veined arms and contoured muscle. Christ, were any of his opponents going to be his size?

  “Leave your manners back at the ranch?” Eddie’s smile stayed in place, but his arms folded across his chest. Where had he gone wrong? And then he remembered the name. The goddamned name.

  “Sorry. I’m...Angel.”

  “Well, I’m charmed.” Eddie nodded and stepped back to let him through, and he moved to the bench. Eddie added with a grin, “Looking forward to bein’ the first guy with the pleasure of beating you.”

  Great. He managed a weak smile and sat down. The clock moved on, and time rushed him toward the inevitable.

  The rest of the matches passed in a blur. Next up was Boomer of Prometheus, a burly-looking bald slab of a man, against Johnny O, one of Dell’s crew. These two seemed evenly matched, but eventually the slighter Johnny O went down. His defeat elicited a sympathetic groan from Eddie. Boomer gloated and strutted the ring, a misshapen peacock preening for an audience that tossed out more hissing than cheers.

  It seemed House Prometheus was not the favorite.

  Eventually, only four fighters remained in the pen. Two of them migrated into the spotlight. The announcer introduced Kamen of Pandora and Kaiser of Prometheus. He kept his gaze diverted from his soon-to-be opponent, opted instead to try following the movements of the men in the cage.

  The background roar of the crowd faded. Flesh smacked flesh, bone impacted muscle, grunts and sighs ejected from the fighters. Slick with sweat and blood, Kamen and Kaiser rolled across the mat, locked in a violent embrace and landing blows as they went.

  Blur of skin and cloth and hair. Striking like cobras on fast-forward, hissing and spitting. Heads snapped, time whirled. Dragged closer to the moment he feared.

  Thud. Kamen down. Game over. Time’s up.

  The sibilant announcer called the victor’s name. Eddie muttered something under his breath. Hiding trepidation behind a mask of rigid politeness, he looked at him and said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “I said, those fuckers are on ’roids or something. Prometheus.” Eddie frowned and blew an agitated breath. “Winning streak, my ass.”

  He merely nodded.

  “I’d like to kick Mendez’s happy ass from here to Sunday.” The fighter broke off and fell silent. A minute passed, and he said, “Well, kid. You ready for me?”

  “Sure.” Lillith’s life depended on his performance here and now. Don’t kill your opponent, Slade had told him. Don’t disfigure your opponent. Draw out the match. Shirt off. Goddamn it. He had to display the inked horror Jenner branded him with. He shrugged free of both shirts and dropped them in a crumpled heap on the nearest bench, ignoring his opponent’s antagonistic snort. He looked at the ring, the announcer, the spectators. And the last unspoken rule. />
  Don’t lose.

  A cheer rippled through the crowd. The sound crested even before the announcer reached the center of the ring, and his heart sank. Tonight he served as the star attraction—fresh meat. The woman in the cage held up a hand for silence, but the din swelled before it settled into a dull roar.

  She smiled, dazzling. Paused for effect. Raised the mike.

  “And now, the main event!”

  Cheers and jeers, applause and catcalls. A thin film of sweat coated his palms. He rubbed them on his pants.

  “House Ulysses welcomes back to the ring...Eddie of Dionysus!”

  Flash of white teeth. Feet charged up wooden stairs, pounded across the mat. Cheers and jeers—more cheers, less jeers.

  They liked Eddie.

  “And introducing the latest addition to our fine stable of fighters. Please welcome to the arena...Angel!”

  His feet carried him forward and up. Step, step, step, into the searing flood of spotlights. Hands fisted at his sides, determination stiffening his stride. He forced himself to cross to the center with measured gait and proud posture.

  Dimly aware of the awed hush that befell the crowd, he faced his opponent and waited. He would let Eddie make the first move.

  Don’t lose don’t lose don’t lose.

  The announcer retreated with an appreciative wink. A buzzer sounded.

  Eddie moved.

  He jerked back, aside. The blow meant for his jaw whizzed by in a blur of knuckles. From the corner of his eye, his opponent’s other arm began an upward trajectory. He ducked this time and felt his hair ruffle with the force of it.

  Drop to the floor. Roll clear, stand. Don’t let him connect. Draw it out.

  Roaring like an enraged bull, Eddie charged. He sidestepped, neat as a matador, and whirled to face him. His opponent lunged. He avoided one flying fist only to collide with another.