Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  They waited for him. The announcer, the mob, Slade and Jenner. Akuma. Compassion flooded the fighter’s face—and from it he drew the strength to step into the roped-off square.

  “Begin!”

  Thankful Akuma didn’t rush him after the announcer retreated, he loosened the knot at his waist with stoic determination. Under his opponent’s puzzled gaze, he let the belt fall, then pushed back the hood.

  There is only Akuma. He tried to work up the courage to remove the robe. No crowd. No Jenner or Slade. Just Akuma and him. Despite his best efforts, the roar of the crowd lingered. It became soft and far, an echo. A pale shadow of itself.

  Do it.

  Before his nerve could fail him, he tugged the material away from his shoulders. The robe slid down his skin to puddle on the floor.

  The mob shut down with an audible crunch, like a plug pulled on a stereo.

  Across from him, shocked out of his ready stance, Akuma stared open-mouthed.

  A single voice rang out, a shot parting the stunned and heavy silence: “Oh, baby! Now this is action!”

  The ringing laughter that chased Dell’s impassioned shout startled his heart into beating again. Grateful, he turned in her direction and gave a slow, open-armed bow to a chorus of whistles and catcalls, and brought his attention back to his opponent.

  Akuma held a hand in the air and pivoted in a half-circle to quiet the mob. When only a slight murmur remained in the air, he faced him and said, “I cannot fight you like this.”

  Panic infused him with the statement. What would Slade do to him if the match didn’t even take place?

  “You have an unfair advantage.” Offering a predatory smile, Akuma began to unfasten his shirt. “Without clothing, I cannot hold you. You will slip from my grasp.” He stepped from his flat shoes and slid his pants and undershorts off, rendering himself exposed.

  “There. Now we are even.”

  “Lord, have mercy!”

  Both fighters’ heads whirled in the direction of the statement. Dell shot to her feet, waving one hand before her face in an exaggerated flutter. “You boys want me to bring in something wet and slippery? Mud, jell-o, whipped cream—you name it, it’s yours.”

  Raucous laughter engulfed the arena and infected even his desolate mood. He faced Akuma with renewed resolve, as prepared as this abysmal situation would allow him to be.

  “Ready?” Akuma asked.

  The fighter’s easy grin bolstered him. He might not win, but he wouldn’t hand over an effortless victory. He owed Akuma a good fight, and he would deliver.

  Nodding once, trying to convey his gratitude with a single look that was far from sufficient, he struck a defensive pose and waited for the onslaught.

  Akuma attacked with the grace of a leaping jungle cat, and he barely dodged a blow to the midsection. Knuckles grazed his skin as the other fighter passed. He laced his fingers together, tried to connect with the retreating back, and failed. Akuma dropped to the floor, rolled and sprang to his feet a safe distance away.

  “You missed.”

  “So did you.” An unfamiliar smile stretched his lips at the verbal thrust. The two fighters circled each other, both waiting for the other to move.

  He tried the double punch that had worked for him in the past. Akuma caught the first blow in mid-flight, batted aside the second as though he were swatting a fly and maintained a grip on his hand.

  “You will have to do better than that.” Akuma grinned.

  “I will.” He feinted a hit and swept a leg to hook his opponent’s ankle, felling him with a quick tug. Brief surprise flooded Akuma’s face, but he caught himself with a mid-air twist and pushed off the mat, propelled his body upright again. A collective exclamation of awe rose from the crowd, and he paused to stare at the display.

  Akuma lunged back the instant his feet touched the floor, and this time connected with a solid jab.

  Wheezing, he concentrated on blocking a blur of fists. Rising panic threatened as he realized in his present condition, he couldn’t win.

  He didn’t think he could best Akuma even in top form.

  Desperation drove a blow that somehow broke through and struck his opponent’s jaw. Blood-flecked spittle flew in a fine spray. Akuma recoiled.

  He dropped back, panting and rubbing sore knuckles.

  Akuma straightened with a wicked glint in his eye. “Very nice.” He passed a hand over the redness along his chin. “Now it is my turn.”

  The mob drew to its feet, gazes riveted to the ring. Their unorthodox match was becoming the very thing Akuma had predicted—an epic battle, the likes of which the organization had never seen.

  Twenty minutes in, exhausted, he staggered and fell hard on his knees. Akuma, too spent to take advantage of his defenseless state, dropped into a squat across from him. “I think...we are...an even match,” Akuma panted, swiping one palm across his sweat-soaked brow.

  “Yes,” he gasped. His lack of clothing no longer bothered him. In the heat of their battle, he had forgotten Slade’s ridiculous punishment. The torment of having to fight the only man who might be on his side eclipsed every other factor—Lillith’s safety, Slade’s cruelty, even Jenner’s presence at this demented spectacle.

  In a whisper, Akuma said, “One of us must finish this. Now.”

  It wouldn’t be him. Weary resignation filled him. With effort, he rose to one knee, but before he could gain his feet Akuma reached him. A powerful hand gripped his forearm, wrenched upward. The rest of his body followed. Bloodied knuckles rushed toward his face.

  Though he had intended to surrender, instinct removed his head from harm’s way. Only a rush of air connected. In a past sparring bout with Apollo, he’d had the thug in a similar hold—and he knew what he had to do.

  Using his sweat-slicked skin for lubrication, he twisted in Akuma’s grasp. His hand clamped the arm beneath it and gave a tremendous jerk. The other man’s grip relaxed in surprise. At the height of Akuma’s forward motion, he let go and drove one bent leg sharply into his stomach.

  Fingers skittered for purchase on him. Akuma landed on all fours on the mat. Tasting bitter regret, he raised his arms and formed a two-handed fist over his head. He dropped to his knees beside the dazed fighter and hammered down with every ounce of strength remaining in him, directly into the small of his opponent’s back.

  Akuma’s limbs shot from beneath him. He landed prone with a snarl of pain. His body’s impact with the mat turned on the background noise at full volume, as if a switch had been thrown. The announcer began the count. On “two,” the crowd joined her.

  The chant swelled. He closed his eyes and remained kneeling beside his fallen opponent. Akuma struggled to rise. His hands scrabbled for purchase on a floor slick with perspiration and blood.

  Get up. Whether the command issued from his captor or from within his mind, it had to be obeyed. He drew on strength he hadn’t known he possessed, managed to stand, and swayed in place while precious, decisive seconds ticked by.

  Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...

  Twenty disappeared in a colossal cacophony of cheers. He allowed the announcer to raise his arm in a victory salute, but couldn’t summon the strength to lift his head and face the crowd. He stared at Akuma instead. The fighter lay motionless on the mat, eyes closed, skin pale and slick with sweat. At least he was still breathing.

  When the purple-costumed girl released him, he limped toward the stairs. A Pandora fighter vaulted into the ring and pushed past him. He glanced back. While the other fighter collected the discarded clothing, Akuma pushed up and onto his knees. Their eyes met, and Akuma bowed his head briefly. A small smile curved his lips when he raised it again.

  He nodded in return. He reached the stairs, where a scowling Apollo waited with the robe that had been shifted to the sidelines. Accepting the garment, he pulled it on and negotiated the steps. Apollo grunted and moved to support him.

  He shoved him away. “Don’t need your help. Thanks. Fuck off.” He made his way
to the pen and collapsed on an empty couch. The gazes of the astonished fighters seemed to burn holes through him. He jerked the hood over his head and ignored them.

  No one approached him for the rest of the night.

  * * * *

  No matter how quickly the traffic moved, it would be a long ride back to the hotel.

  Gabriel slumped in the back of Slade’s limo, facing the rear of the vehicle. Sol and Apollo occupied the front, separated by a smoked glass partition. The other Ulysses fighters had gone their own ways after the fight—leaving him alone with Jenner and Slade.

  Jenner, seated beside him, had little to say. Slade had plenty.

  “What in the hell were you trying to prove out there, boy?” Slade sat opposite him, rigid and flushed. “What did you say to Akuma to get him to do that? You must have struck a deal. I saw you talking to him. Best fucking pals now, are you?”

  He drew a breath and tried not to scream. “I did what you told me to. I fought naked.” He favored Slade with a disgusted glance. “I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

  “Bullshit!” Slade’s eyes narrowed, and shifted to Jenner. “You—Akuma is your fucking flunky. You put him up to this, didn’t you?”

  “Shiro and I do not discuss this ridiculous organization at work. You know that, Marcus.” Though Jenner must have been furious, he spoke in calm, even tones.

  “Ridiculous? Insulting me isn’t a good idea right now, lieutenant. You must have said something to him. Damn it, I want to know what it was. I won’t have you going behind my back!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Slade.” He straightened and glowered at him, dimly aware that for the moment, he seemed on Jenner’s side. “This is dumb. I won, didn’t I? What’s your problem?”

  “You keep your mouth shut. I fucking own you.” Slade shot Jenner a scathing look. “Come to think of it, I own you, too.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  He shivered at the undiluted hatred in Jenner’s voice. If Slade noticed, he didn’t show it. “Yes. It is. I’m tired of your fucking games, old man.”

  “And I am tired of your feeble attempts at discipline, Marcus. Watching my work does not make you me, any more than you staring at your precious paintings makes you an artist.”

  This time, Slade noticed. He sputtered incoherently, and finally spat, “Your work with the boy is through. I’ll handle it from here.”

  “Oh, I am certain you will.” Jenner almost smiled, but the expression on his face failed to convey pleasant emotions. He raised a hand and rapped the glass partition. It slid down with a droning hum. “Sol. Stop here for a moment. I believe I will walk back.”

  “Yes, sir.” The glass lifted back into place. The limo slowed and drifted to the right as Sol changed lanes.

  “Damn it, Jenner, don’t you dare get out of this car. I’m not finished with you.” Slade’s commanding tone wavered a bit. He punched a button on the side wall and barked, “Sol, we’re not stopping. Keep driving.”

  The limo slowed further and halted at the curb.

  Jenner smirked. “We are quite finished, Marcus. You have set the terms yourself, and you cannot take them back. You are a...businessman, after all.” He gripped the door handle and faced him. “Sumimasen, angel. I must take my leave, and allow Marcus his tantrum.” A soft click sounded, and light filled the interior of the car as Jenner opened the door.

  “You son of a bitch.” Fury leached the color from Slade’s features. “If you set one foot outside—”

  “What will you do, Marcus? Dismiss me? You cannot subject me to my own devices. However, if you wish, I will tender my resignation immediately.”

  “No you won’t! You work for me, you sadistic freak.”

  “Very well. I would bid you good evening, but the sentiment is rather pointless. Baka.” With a final, inscrutable glance in his direction, Jenner exited in a rustle of silk. The door snicked shut, trapping leaden silence inside the limo.

  “One word,” Slade said through clenched teeth. “One sound out of you, boy, and your sister is finished. I’ll slit her fucking throat myself.”

  He stiffened, closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat, uncertain whether the tightness in his throat stifled a sob, or a laugh.

  Chapter 21

  Three days after his humiliating nude fight, Slade released him from Doc’s care under terse instructions to continue training. He made his way slowly to the basement, and to his relief saw no sign of Apollo or Sol.

  But Lonzo lay on one of the benches, working with a barbell. Hoping the exuberant fighter had somehow missed his latest spectacle, he crossed the room and took a seat on the bench beside him.

  Lonzo replaced the bar on its brace, sat up, and grinned. “Hey, Angel. I see you’re going for the modest look today.”

  He shrugged, attempting to appear lighter than he felt. “Yeah, I figured I’d save my modeling skills for special occasions.”

  Laughing, Lonzo clapped him on the back and rose to stretch. “Well, mijo, I still don’t know what that was all about. But if you’re trying to make a name for yourself, you succeeded.”

  “I did?”

  “Oh yeah.” Still smiling, Lonzo plucked a towel from a nearby bench and mopped his face. “Everybody’s talking about the crazy kid from Manhattan who likes to fight in the buff. Akuma too—they figure he’s just as loco as you.”

  Akuma. A spasm of guilt wound through him at the name. Beating him was the hardest thing he’d done since his arrival here, and he prayed he’d never have to do it again.

  “So, you gonna enter the tournament?”

  He looked up. “Tournament?”

  “There an echo in here?” Lonzo shook his head. “How do you fight so well and still know so little? We have an all-House tourney every year. This one’ll be in Staten Island, at Pandora.”

  “Oh.”

  “First prize is five mil.”

  “Five million dollars?” Half of Slade’s ridiculous price of freedom, all in one shot. “When is it?”

  “Three weeks from Friday.”

  Less than a month away. How much training could he get in before then? Forsaking the scraps of freedom Slade allowed him, and giving himself time to rest and recover, he could make twelve to fourteen hours every day.

  He would win.

  The thought evoked a rueful smile. Determination had never been his strong suit. Most of his life he’d taken a passive stance in just about everything—school, work, leisure activities, such as they were. He’d even taken the punishments his father meted out with fearsome regularity as a matter of course. The only active steps he’d taken were on Lillith’s behalf. Now the cycle had begun again. Only the names had changed.

  This time he looked forward to the fight, relished the opportunity to prove himself once more. The fragile flicker of interest worried him. If he enjoyed the fights, did that make him one of them?

  Dismissing his concerns, he turned a grin to Lonzo. “Let’s spar.”

  * * * *

  “What the fuck is he doing here?”

  Diego Mendez, the last of the House leaders to arrive at the meeting in the lobby of the Marquis-Grant, folded his arms and glared at Gabriel. Nails slipped in behind Mendez and mirrored his leader’s fierce expression.

  “Funny you should ask, Mendez.” Slade stood and pointed to the far end of the conference table he’d had set up for the occasion. “He’s here for you. Sit down. You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”

  He stayed in place, standing against the far wall by the bathroom, tracked the drug lord across the room, and refused to drop his gaze. His report would have to be convincing. If he let Mendez intimidate him, he’d probably get himself killed.

  Mendez reached his designated seat, settled in and shook his head. A languid smirk crossed his lips. “This ain’t like you, Chief. We’re supposed to be talking tournament. What’s the deal with the fish?”

  One of the others, a man he hadn’t seen before tonight, shifted to face Mendez. A gun and
a badge were clipped to his waistband. That had to be Captain Wolff of House Orion. “Before we get to the tournament, there’s something we need to discuss.” Wolff looked pointedly at Mendez. “Slade. Go on.”

  Slade motioned for him to approach. “Angel here tells me one of your fighters cheated during the last match at your place.”

  “Is that right?” Diego smiled, but his gaze hardened. “You’re a sore fucking loser, aren’t you? There are no rules, kid. Maybe somebody should’ve explained that to you before you went up against my boy.”

  He stopped just behind Slade and Jenner. “He brought a weapon into the ring.”

  Mendez’s smile froze and fell away. He stood slowly, put his hands on the table, and leaned forward. “You’re so full of shit I can smell you from here.”

  “He had a weight. I saw it.”

  “You fucking pussy! Duke didn’t need a weapon to kick your scrawny ass.”

  “I guess we’ll never know for sure, because he sure as hell used one.”

  Mendez loosed a rapid stream of Spanish, caught a breath and fixed him with a lethal, glittering stare. “You’d better be able to prove it, little fish. You have no idea who you’re fucking with. I will end you.”

  “That’s enough, Mendez.” Wolff rose and strode to Mendez’s side of the table. “We’ve all seen how big your balls are. Now tuck them back in, before I blow ’em the fuck off.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Wolfie. You’re not buying this cocksucker’s line, are you?”

  “He has the right to bring it up.” Wolff’s scowl fell on him. “But he’d better be able to back it. This is a serious accusation, boy. If you’re lying, you can drop it right now and I won’t arrest your sorry ass. You get one free fuck-up.”

  “Jesus. I’m not lying. But how the hell am I supposed to prove it?”

  “I will.” Slade turned to Jenner and nodded. The lieutenant stood without a word and left the room. He returned a moment later with Doc in tow. “Seth,” Slade said. “You’re all familiar with Dr. Stephens, I assume.”