Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

The blow glanced off his ribcage. The sharp sting faded fast. He hadn’t received the full impact. In front of him, Eddie grinned and jabbed again at his midsection.

  Block. Shove away. Back off.

  Avoidance was simple, but it couldn’t last forever. The crowd wanted action. They came for blood. Minutes passed with no contact and he felt pressure emanating from all sides, a nearly audible chant: punch-kick-strike-hurt.

  He lashed out, aiming for his opponent’s gut. Eddie proved equally effective at defense, and his fist met a meaty forearm. He tried again with both hands—one-two, Sol’s technique—and this time connected.

  It was like punching flesh-covered steel.

  The effort left him unprotected and off-guard. Eddie landed a hit to his face. His lips mashed against his teeth, and the lower one split. Wet warmth engulfed his chin and pattered on his bare chest.

  Just what the mob ordered.

  Eddie paused to savor first-blood triumph. Mistake. He rabbit-punched his left kidney. His opponent doubled over with a gasp, and he delivered a blow to his jaw. Eddie lurched sideways—but instead of taking advantage of the man’s vulnerability, he stepped back and waited.

  Draw it out.

  Eddie straightened and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away dripping blood so dark, he could believe the fighter ate handfuls of iron for breakfast. His opponent bared red-smeared teeth in a can’t-hurt-me smile.

  Eddie came at him again, bellowing, arms outstretched—and this time bore him to the mat. He tried to block. Flailing fists and feet seemed everywhere at once, connecting with dull smacking sounds and blossoming pain.

  He went limp, tried to maneuver the man into relenting. It worked. Eddie hesitated just long enough for him to tense and spring, and reverse their positions. He knelt on Eddie’s shoulders. The fighter bucked and convulsed beneath him.

  The barest tremor of victorious pleasure thrilled through him.

  No. This was not sport. This was survival. Self-directed rage coursed in his veins, and he channeled it into a furious backhand that snapped his opponent’s head into the mat.

  Disgusted with himself, he rolled off Eddie and sprang to his feet.

  The fighters circled each other, trading blow for blow. Time slowed to a crawl. Eddie swung in slow motion, his breath formed great tearing sighs. Limbs moved as though mired in mud. Blood flowed like syrup.

  His opponent crouched, looped one leg outward in a wide arc—a sweep kick. He couldn’t avoid it in time. He crashed to the mat at the base of the cage wall.

  Right in front of Slade’s table.

  Eddie leaned over him. With his fingers entangled in the chain mesh above, he drove his foot into his ribs and stomach. Over and over.

  Thud-rattle. Thud-rattle. Crunch-rattle.

  Gasping in agony, he tried to rise. Eddie struck every time he started to gain purchase. He turned to look at his captor through the cage, and what he saw erased his thoughts.

  The bastard was reaching for his phone.

  Blind fury carried him to his feet despite the hailstorm of kicks. Wedging himself between Eddie and the wall, using the mesh behind him for leverage, he raised his legs and shoved hard. His opponent stumbled backward and sprawled on his ass.

  He rushed him. The other man gained a standing position, and he swung his balled hand toward him, drove it with every ounce of power he possessed, every drop of rage he could produce. And connected.

  Eddie’s limp body followed the trajectory of fist and crashed to the mat.

  Five seconds, ten seconds. Not so much as a twitch.

  Silence screamed from the masses, gathered momentum.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Twenty.

  “We have a winner!”

  A backlash of sound washed over him. The crowd broke in wild delirium. He stood over Eddie’s still body in disbelief. Blood...so much blood. He had beaten another man unconscious.

  As he looked down, sorrow and self-loathing gnawed at his soul, and he came to a terrible realization.

  He wanted to do it again.

  Chapter 13

  Slade smiled and approached the betting window. Payout time.

  Apollo had returned to the House to deliver the boy to Seth. He’d done well—but Slade would never let him know it. The match had lasted a full twenty minutes, the second longest in the organization’s history.

  His own debut bout had been the longest.

  He replayed the fight in his mind like a beloved movie. The boy—Angel—was a natural exhibitionist. Whether the ability stemmed from fear for his sister or an unconscious warrior spirit, it made for an incredible show. His conditioning had proven well worth the risk.

  He neared the front of the line, and a familiar and unwelcome figure approached from the side. Refraining from a childish display of eye-rolling, he looked ahead as though he didn’t see the obnoxious twit.

  “Hey, Chief.”

  “Mendez.” What the hell do you want?

  “Your kid did pretty good out there tonight.”

  He gave him a sidelong glance. “Yes, he did.”

  Diego’s brow creased. He was obviously thinking hard. “A lot better than I expected,” he said, pronouncing each word with deliberation.

  “I’m assuming you bet against him.”

  The statement elicited a strained laugh from his oily associate. “’Course I did. That don’t matter, though. My guys won all night.”

  “Did they. I hadn’t noticed.” Get to the point, you insufferable cretin. He had almost reached the window, and didn’t want Mendez to find out how much he’d earned from the boy.

  “So I was thinking...” Mendez leaned in. “I oughta get a cut of your action, you know,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “For findin’ the kid for you.”

  He whirled on him. “You got your cut already, shit-for-brains. The deal is done. Get lost.”

  “All right, Chief. Chill. Didn’t hurt to ask, now, did it?”

  He glared in thunderous silence.

  “Right. Catch ya later.” Mendez turned and walked into the crowd. The worm had nerve, a lot of fucking nerve.

  He reached the window and cast a self-assured smile at the man behind the glass.

  “Ah, Mr. Slade,” the man said. He was one of the two regular managers the organization used for events—Bentley or Benson, something like that. “Cashing out?”

  He nodded, reached into his pocket and produced a sheaf of receipts, slid them through the slot at the bottom of the window. Bentley-or-Benson riffled through the stack, punched some numbers into the laptop on the counter beside him, whistled softly, and fed the receipts to a shredder.

  “Five hundred gees. Nice little chunk of change. You want it all deposited?”

  “Yes. Wait, no. Give me three thousand cash, deposit the rest.” He still had to pay Lonzo, despite the gung-ho fighter’s penchant for losing, and the two others who’d been in tonight.

  Ben-something poked at the laptop, clicking away, his fingers a scurry of mice. Keeping his eyes on the screen, he used a key on a wrist coil to unlock a drawer beneath the counter. He extracted a slim banded stack of bills, and with his free hand retrieved a slip of white thermal paper from the miniature printer beside the computer. He slid both the cash and the receipt through, and Slade pocketed them both quickly.

  “See you next time, Mr. Slade.”

  He started to respond, but Bentley-or-Benson had already motioned for the next customer. The tide of people jostled him away into the whirling aftermath of the evening’s entertainment.

  * * * *

  The door of the hotel closing behind Gabriel slammed like the gate of a prison cell. The taste of freedom he’d received mocked him, a drop of water on a shriveled tongue. Sweating, bruised and torn, he dragged dutifully behind Apollo to be patched up. They neared the closed door of Doc’s office. Clattering sounds, muffled muttering and cursing penetrated into the hall. He smiled and shook his head. Poor Doc.

  Apollo opened the
door, and he entered. Lonzo lay unconscious on the low bed next to the desk. An IV line snaked from the back of the fighter’s hand. Cuts and bruises dotted his face, and his shallow breath strained through swollen lips. He looked worse than Gabriel felt.

  Doc burst from the bathroom and strode toward Lonzo, his attention focused on the damp cloth in his hands. Apollo left, and he finally glanced in the direction of the door. His scowl deepened.

  “Go. Bed. Sit.” He pointed toward the curtained doorway.

  Grateful for the quiet Doc’s room would provide, he went. The instant he was out of sight, the doctor started grumbling again. “Damned barbarians...can’t just watch a frigging movie or play chess, no...have to try and kill each other...”

  He perched on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. The lingering sense of pride at his win shamed him, made him feel dirty. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy any of this. His sole objective was to extract both Lillith and himself as soon as possible.

  He would not become one of these people.

  With these thoughts swirling, he allowed his body to relax and dreamed of escape. The sound of Doc clearing his throat drew him back to reality. He glanced toward the curtain. The doctor stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a mixture of amusement, rebuke and relief on his weary face.

  “Hi Doc,” he said slowly. The pain of his injuries had started to surface beneath his draining adrenalin. By tomorrow night, he’d be almost immobile with soreness.

  He could see Doc’s mind working, deciding whether to greet him or scold him. At last the man smiled and let his arms drop to his sides. “So, you’re still alive.”

  “Last I checked.” He grimaced and tried to stand.

  “No. Sit.” Concern colored Doc’s expression. He crossed the room and took a seat beside him. “All right, you’re taking something. What’s it gonna be—the good shit, or Tylenol?”

  “What do you think?”

  Doc heaved a sigh. “Fine. I’ll go get it. You strip.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He smirked. Doc grunted his annoyance and ducked out of the room.

  Alone, he battled frustration and pain in silence while the cursed wings burned on his back.

  * * * *

  “Congratulations, boy. You’re half a million dollars closer to freedom.”

  He lay on the floor facing the wall, stiff from the fight and oozing latent rage, and didn’t bother responding to the voice from the doorway of his room. Slade, of course. Come to gloat over his victory.

  If his lack of reaction disturbed his captor, Slade didn’t show it. “You have three weeks to prepare for your next match,” he told him. “And if you can prove between now and then that you won’t try anything foolish, I’ll allow you more leeway.”

  Your generosity is overwhelming. He pressed his lips together to prevent his thoughts from escaping and silently willed the bastard to leave.

  “I have something for you. Call it a reward, if you like, for your victory.” Slade’s voice sounded closer now, although he had not heard his movements. From further away, hesitant footfalls told him someone else had entered the room.

  Jenner.

  But the step was too light and irregular to be the sadistic lieutenant. He pushed himself to his knees and turned his head. His breath caught in his throat.

  “Lillith.”

  Spoken in an astonished whisper, the single word carried anguish and relief. She trembled in the doorway, her wide green eyes already filling. He stood and looked at Slade with gratitude, though he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words.

  “You’re welcome,” Slade said. He walked to the doorway, motioned Lillith aside and turned to face the two of them. “Five minutes. Don’t try anything she will regret.” He withdrew and closed the door.

  Lillith flew across the room and embraced him with a sob. Unprepared for her touch, he stiffened and winced.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she wailed, immediately releasing him. Horrified, he reached out and drew her to him. He ignored the resultant pain.

  “No, no...it’s okay, Lilly. I’m okay. Shh, don’t cry.” He held her and stroked her hair until her cries dwindled to subdued sniffles. She finally looked up at him, and he offered a sad smile.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  Lillith returned the smile with a watery one of her own. “I’ve missed you,” she said in a small voice. “Oh, Gabriel, what have they done to you? Look at you. Look at your back...” More tears coursed down her stained cheeks, and he cursed himself for not putting a shirt on.

  “It’s nothing, Lilly. Just a tattoo, that’s all. It doesn’t even hurt.” Anymore, he almost said, but stopped himself before the words were out. That would only make her feel worse.

  “But it did!” she cried. “I know it did. And what about all those bruises, and the blood... oh, Gabe, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault!” She collapsed against him in a torrent of sobs, and his heart constricted.

  “Hush, don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” He rubbed her heaving shoulders. “Look at me,” he said. She raised her face, and he cupped her chin gently. “This is not your fault.” He pronounced each soft word deliberately. “It’s Slade’s fault. Please, stop blaming yourself. Promise me you will.”

  Lillith hesitated. Her lower lip quivered. At last she drew a shaky breath and said, “Okay. I promise.”

  He smiled. “That’s better. Now, tell me how he’s treating you.”

  “Slade?” She dropped her gaze for an instant. “He treats me all right, I guess.”

  “Are you...working?” He couldn’t bring himself to elaborate.

  She paled and looked away. “Actually, I haven’t been since you got here. He... Slade...told me...” She trailed off, and he laid a comforting hand on her arm.

  “What did he tell you?”

  She turned back to him, her face full of discomfort. “He said that as long as you win your fights, I won’t have to work.”

  Son of a bitch. He’d bring that bastard down. Somehow. He swallowed his anger for Lillith and presented a reassuring front. “Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

  Lillith shuddered. They stood together in silence until she broke the stillness and said, “Gabriel, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I was just wondering...”

  “Go on.”

  She swallowed and looked away. “How much did you make?”

  Confusion washed over him. “What do you mean?”

  “On the fight.”

  His uncertainty grew at her explanation. Why did Lillith want to know about the money? Had Slade explained the price of freedom to her, too?

  “Half a million,” he said slowly. He searched her face for answers to his unspoken questions.

  Her eyes took on a faraway cast. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “It’s blood money.” He backed away from her. “Lillith, what the hell...”

  She snapped back abruptly, as though from a trance, and her face fell at the sight of his thunderous expression. “I’m sorry. It’s just...when I came here, I tried to get money. For us, you know? I thought maybe...” She shivered and blinked rapidly, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t want to go back. And Slade said I would make a lot of money. I thought it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe. Just a few times. And then I could bring you here, with me.”

  “Oh God. Lilly...”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “He wouldn’t let me go. He said I had to earn more, and it was taking so long. It was never going to be enough. And I didn’t want to tell you, Gabriel, because I’m so ashamed. I thought, for once... I could save you. But I made everything worse!”

  A torrent of sobs wracked her slender frame. He reached for her, and she buried her face in his chest. He gave her a gentle squeeze and whispered, “I’ll get you out of here, Lilly. No matter what it takes.”

  The doorknob rattled, and the soft squeal of hinges announced Slade’s return. Over Lillith’s bent head, he met his captor�
��s cool amusement with disgust.

  “Time’s up, kiddies,” Slade announced. “Come along, Lillith. Say goodbye.”

  Lillith gave a faltering smile. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Don’t say that.” He hugged her tight and released her. “I’ll see you soon, and we’ll get out of this place. I love you, Lilly.”

  “Love you too, Gabriel.”

  Squaring her shoulders, Lillith walked away. Slade stood aside to let her pass, and said, “Wait on the steps for me.” She nodded, and with a final glance at him, left.

  “If you even think about trying to sell my sister again, you will regret it,” he snapped at Slade.

  Slade laughed. “Will I, Mr. Morgan? And how will that come about? Do you plan to threaten me to death? Or maybe I should shore up for a serious round of name-calling.”

  He seethed in silent rage. The bastard was right. He could do nothing.

  “I will remind you once again, Angel.” The contempt he infused the hated moniker with made Gabriel’s stomach contort. “You belong to me. And until you earn your keep, you will do as I tell you.” Slade’s eyes were crackling shards of ice. “Never threaten me again, unless you want Jenner to pay both you and your sister a visit.”

  Images flashed through his mind—Jenner, in his room, telling him he’d take good care of Lillith. Leering.

  Never.

  He lowered his eyes and let his head fall. He studied the floor and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

  “Better. Remember, you have three weeks, and the odds on you won’t be as long next time. You had better win.”

  Slade locked him in for the night. A wave of exhaustion rolled over him, and he stretched out again on the rigid floor. With Lillith’s face fresh in his mind, he drifted into his first real sleep since she’d disappeared.

  Chapter 14

  Gabriel stole three nights to recover before he threw himself back into his grueling regimen. Knowing Lillith would be forced to turn tricks if he lost fueled his drive, and he trained with reckless abandon.

  He expected the weeks until the upcoming match, which he learned would be hosted by Diego Mendez, to drag on forever. However, the night arrived with the speed of a bullet train—and with the promise of temporary freedom from Slade’s watchdogs. He had sworn not to attempt escape, and would keep the vow for Lillith’s sake.