by S W Vaughn
The leaders and their respective seconds nodded, or grunted assent. He sent Doc a look of disbelief. He’d expected to be the only one incurring Mendez’s wrath—and the last thing he wanted was to see Doc burn by association with him.
“Wait. I... Never mind. Forget I said anything.” He glanced at Doc, shook his head. “Just drop it, all right?”
“So you were lying.” Mendez grinned at Slade. “You ought to exercise a little more control over your lapdogs, there, Chief. Somebody could get hurt.”
“He’s telling the truth.” Doc moved closer to him. “Don’t worry about me, kid,” he said quietly. “Mendez can’t touch me.”
“Wanna bet, Doctor Dead Man?”
“Mendez, if you don’t shut the hell up, I swear to Christ I’ll shoot your ass right now.” Wolff gestured to Doc. “All right, let’s hear it.”
“I examined G...Angel after the fight. His injuries were inconsistent with reasonable force. The breaks were too clean for blunt force trauma without enhanced weight and a corresponding increase in velocity. He exhibited localized contusions and hematoma within constricted areas, absent the typical spread caused by repetitive applications.”
Wolff grunted. “Any chance you could repeat that in English?”
“He was seriously fucked up.” Doc’s jaw clenched for an instant. “Medically, the pattern of damage couldn’t have been caused by one person’s strength alone. The worst injuries he sustained were the results of single, concentrated blows. Whoever beat him down had help, something heavy and small.” He paused, and sent Mendez a cold stare. “Is that plain enough for you, or should I use smaller words?”
Nails growled and lurched forward. Mendez put a hand on his arm. “Easy, ’mano,” he said. “They ain’t got jack. Tell me somethin’, Doc, how does this prove anything other than Duke hit him really fuckin’ hard? Because I’m just not following you here.”
“I told you, it’s not possible to cause that level of damage in one hit without augmentation. If it were from multiple blows, the injuries from the breaks would have spread further, created larger, uneven areas of bruising. He either used a weight, or a baseball bat. And since no one saw him bring a bat into the ring, it must have been a weight.”
“Oh, give me a break. This is pure speculation.” Mendez’s eternal smile had fled. “Just let me know if you need me to use smaller words, like this. I’m calling your bluff. You can’t prove a damned thing. Your evidence is long gone, ese.”
“How about a demonstration?” He strode the length of the table and stopped in front of Mendez. No turning back now. Determined to see this through, and to protect Doc with the meager means available to him, he peeled his shirt off and spread his arms aside. “Pick a side and hit me a bunch of times. Then get yourself a weight—if you don’t have one, I’m sure Apollo will let you borrow his—and try the other side. Slade has cameras everywhere in here. I’m sure we can find some footage to compare with the results.”
Mendez flashed him a look capable of crushing diamonds. “If I hit you right now, maricon, you ain’t gonna get back up.”
“So does that mean you’re confessing?”
“You little—”
“Enough!” The Pandora leader, a stone-faced Japanese man who looked older than Jenner, punctuated his statement with a fist on the table. The tall, pale red-haired man beside him, whom he assumed was his lieutenant even though he wasn’t Japanese, displayed no reaction. “Mr. Mendez, your childish behavior only adds to your guilt. The boy has demonstrated his willingness to back his accusations. It is sufficient proof for me.”
“Same here, sugar.” Dell frowned at Mendez. “You and yours slip outta trouble too often. We can’t let it go this time.”
The Pandora leader nodded. “Indeed. I am tempted to disallow your House from the tournament.”
“Harada-san.” The mocking rebuke in Jenner’s voice commanded the attention of the room. “Though your suggestion may have merit, surely you do not believe the authority to decide Mendez’s fate rests with you?”
Deep crimson suffused Harada’s features. He spat a mouthful of harsh syllables.
Jenner smirked and bowed slightly. “Sumimasen. I would, but I am afraid that is not physically possible...Tomi.” He drew out the name like a curse, and Harada whitened with fury. Jenner ignored his outrage. “Since all but Orion have agreed, we need not pursue the question of guilt. However, Captain Wolff, if you would care to offer your opinion for decorum’s sake?”
“Wait just a goddamned minute.” Mendez glanced at Jenner before his gaze settled on Gabriel again. “You all aren’t doing shit to me. Especially not because of this little scrap. Something’s not right with this kid. Why don’t you tell ’em how much you paid me to bring him in, Chief?”
“You did what?” This time, Slade received the weight of Wolff’s stare. “Slade, what the hell is the deal here?”
“Angel and I have an agreement, which is none of your business, and not what we’re discussing. Don’t try and change the subject, you worm.” Slade drew himself to full height. “We’re dealing with whether or not your man cheated. He did. Now we’re deciding what to do about it.”
Mendez opened his mouth, but Jenner spoke first. “For the moment, it would seem monetary restitution is the most fitting course of action. Determine what the boy would have commanded in winnings, and pay that amount to Ulysses.”
“Fuck no. His odds were long. It’d be more than twice what Duke brought in.”
“Perhaps you would rather we implement Harada-san’s suggestion and ban Prometheus from the tournament?”
“You...” Mendez closed his eyes, opened them. “Fine. I pay you, and you get off my back. Right?”
“Your fighters will be monitored, of course. If you break any more rules, I am certain we will impose a more permanent penalty.”
“Who appointed you the fucking emperor, freak?”
Jenner arched an eyebrow. “If anyone here disagrees, you are welcome to speak.”
Silence answered, signifying general assent.
“Cowards. The bunch of you. You’re a flock of goddamn chickens. And you.” Mendez swung a vicious snarl in his direction. “Vamos a matarle, pendejo.”
“Mendez. It’s settled. Stand down.” Wolff thrust an arm between him and Mendez, and pushed the Prometheus leader back.
Mendez shoved the arm down. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me. It’s settled, but it ain’t over. You got that, fish? Not over.”
Wolff’s gun seemed to appear in his hand, pointed at Mendez’s chest. “It is over, damn it. You save that shit for the streets, and pray I don’t ever catch you. In here you follow the rules or you’re gone—and so is your protection.”
Mendez stepped back and raised his hands. “All right. Chill, capitan. I’ll back off.” An assured smile graced his lips. “I got better things to do than gut fish.”
Wolff lowered the weapon. Mendez remained frozen, then his expression morphed to disgust, and he spat at his feet. “That don’t mean I like you, though. Stay the fuck away from me and my boys, and I’ll return the favor.”
A flicker of real anger surged through him.
“Seth,” Slade said before he could respond, “Take the boy upstairs. We have business to attend to.”
Doc strode across the room and grabbed his arm. “Come on. Let’s go,” he said carefully. “Just let it drop.”
Though he was tempted to spit back at the bastard, he pivoted and headed away. He kept his gaze straight ahead, but something compelled him to glance at Jenner on the way out.
He could have sworn the lieutenant was smiling.
* * * *
“So, Doc. When did you develop suicidal tendencies?”
Adrenalin draining fast, he collapsed on the low bed in Doc’s office. Doc shut the door and turned to him with a smirk.
“I told you, Mendez can’t touch me. Won’t touch me,” he corrected. “He’d lose his police protection. He’s not as stupid as he acts.”
Doc looked away. “No.”
“Liar.”
“My Spanish is rusty.”
“Come on, Doc. You do know. If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to ask Lonzo.”
Doc sighed. “Gabriel, you really don’t want to hear it.”
“Yes I do.”
“Damn, you’re stubborn. Talk about suicidal tendencies.” Doc shook his head. “I’m serious, my Spanish is rusty. But I think he said ‘we’re going to make you dead, asshole.’ Or something like that.”
“Heh. That sounds about right.” He closed his eyes. “So, as long as I work for Slade he won’t touch me. But when I leave, I’m fair game.”
“Yeah. Right.” Doc whispered the words, and his voice caught.
He stared at him. “You don’t think I’m leaving, do you?”
“Gabriel. Don’t do this. Please.”
The revelation hit him, a phantom fist to the gut. “I’m not leaving. Am I? Slade never intended to let me go.” He stood slowly. Sick fury made his muscles tremble. “Why would he, when I’m making him so much money? Shit! I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out—” He met Doc’s stunned gaze, and his voice shook. “You knew. You must have known. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Doc didn’t reply.
“Damn it, Doc! Why?”
“Because it wouldn’t have made a damned bit of difference!” Doc’s eyes glittered with emotion. “If anything, it would have made things worse. Don’t you understand?” He staggered back and propped himself against the desk, head hanging. “If you hadn’t believed you had a chance, if you hadn’t gone along with Slade’s twisted little scheme, he would have just killed you. And Lillith. You’d both be worthless to him.”
His throat tightened. The urge to vomit threatened to overtake him. “Jenner was right,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Jenner. He told me not to trust anyone. Not you. Not me.” He swallowed hard and blinked a few times. “Look, Doc. I understand your position, and I won’t hold it against you. But I am not staying here forever, and neither is my sister. There’s no way in hell I’m going to keep fighting for that bastard. After I earn his fucking blood money, we’re gone.”
“And just how do you plan on doing that, without getting yourself killed?”
“I don’t know. Yet.” He clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead. “But damn it, I’m going to figure it out.”
Chapter 22
The urgent whisper of light rain, amplified by its impact with the surface of the bay, sang through the evening air when Gabriel boarded the boat that would take them to House Pandora. Actually, the term “boat” didn’t quite fit. Slade’s yacht, the Private Ambition, seemed almost as large as a cruise ship to him. A hundred feet long, easily, and the width of a small house.
He’d arrived in a group with the other Ulysses fighters, along with Slade and Jenner. He had been told Sol would arrive shortly with the girls, which he understood to include Lillith. Attendance at the tournament was by invitation only. Other than members of the organization, there would be only a few hundred guests—high rollers, all criminals or “gentlemen” with a lot of money to burn.
Torn between excitement and terror, he paced along the rail edging the front deck of the ship. The waterlogged air misted his skin, warm and almost pleasant. He breathed in the scent of the water and listened to the slow, steady waves slosh against the shore while the boat swayed gently beneath him. The rhythm lulled him, dulled his screaming senses. He could almost forget why he was here and what he would have to do in a few short hours. He could almost forget everything.
“Hello, angel.”
The voice behind him shattered the moment. “Jenner.” He remained facing the bay, unable to directly address the lieutenant.
“Waiting for someone?”
He closed his eyes. Though Slade had officially decreed Jenner’s work over—whatever that meant—he doubted the lieutenant found it necessary to listen. “What do you want?”
“Ah. An interesting question.” Jenner approached, stood beside him, and looked out across the glittering gray expanse of the water. He wore a full-length charcoal trench coat against the rain, an odd contrast to his typical attire. “And not one with an easy answer, I am afraid,” he continued. “Perhaps we could discuss what you want instead.”
“Okay. What do I want?”
“I cannot read your mind, angel. To be honest, I do not wish to.”
He sighed. “I’m...sorry.” He paused, scarcely able to believe he’d just apologized to Jenner on purpose. “You were right, you know. About not trusting anyone.”
“Of course I was.”
“And you’re so modest, too.”
Jenner said nothing, but he practically heard his smirk.
“I figured out a few things.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. I know Slade isn’t going to let me go.”
“Correct.” Again, a hint of approval colored the lieutenant’s tone. “And?”
“And...I have no idea what to do about it. Any suggestions?”
“I am no longer involved.”
“Yeah, I got that. But it does look like we have a common enemy.” He inhaled and let it out slowly. “Speaking of enemies, you and that Harada guy don’t get along too well. He looked ready to kill you at that meeting.”
Jenner gripped the rail hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “The relationship between myself and Tomi Harada is none of your concern. I warn you, angel, do not pursue this. I am aware that you have not heeded my advice in regards to Shiro. You will speak with him again. Do not discuss me.”
“I...okay. I won’t.” Shaken by the lieutenant’s snake-fast reversion to his vicious demeanor, he concentrated on the water again. For a moment he’d believed he and Jenner might at least establish an accord. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Hey. Runt,” someone snarled behind him.
Apollo. “What?” he said without turning.
“Slade wants to see you. Now.”
A hand clamped his arm and pulled him across the deck. He tried to wrench free. “I can walk all by myself. Honest.”
“I don’t give a shit what you think you can do.” Apollo didn’t release him. “Move your ass and keep up. Now means yesterday.”
Scowling, he stumbled to match Apollo’s long-legged stride. He glanced back at Jenner, who stayed in place, maintaining a death grip on the rail before him.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Fuck you, too.”
Apollo shook him. “What was that, boy?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
* * * *
Apollo led him through rooms and corridors, deep into the heart of the ship, until they stopped in front of a closed door. Soft light spilled from beneath the entryway into the absolute silence around them. With a weighted glare, Apollo opened the door and stepped aside, giving him just enough space to walk through. He did, without hesitation.
The door closed behind him. “Sit down,” a familiar voice said.
He looked around for Slade, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. A slender floor lamp provided the room’s only illumination, its circle of brightness pooled on a single metal folding chair in the middle of the floor. He approached the seat slowly, squinting into shadows that swallowed the room’s dimensions. A vague shape just beyond the light’s reach might have been a table, and behind that, the silhouette of a man. Slade.
What was he playing at? He lowered himself into the chair, fixed his gaze in the direction he assumed Slade to be and waited.
“What do you think of my boat, Mr. Morgan?” Slade said.
The question took him aback. “Why?”
“Just curious.” A shuffling, a shifting of limbs, crept from the shadowed void. “Mr. Morgan, I think you should know that I expect you to w
in this tournament.”
He couldn’t reply. He conjured Lillith’s face, blank with terror as the “client” Slade had forced on her approached. His captor expected the impossible, or at least the improbable, and he already knew the price of failure.
“I’m sure you doubt your capacity to live up to my expectations,” Slade went on. “So I have something for you that will ensure your success.”
Lillith! He stood halfway from the chair. The scuffling sounds resumed from the back of the room.
“Sit down!” Slade said. “Your precious sister is safe, for now.”
He backed down, turned toward the sound—and Doc materialized at the edge of the light. His face reflected pure misery and resignation. He stepped closer, a syringe in his hand.
“No!” He shot to his feet, knocking over the chair with a resounding clatter. The sound seemed to be a signal. The door flew open. Apollo launched himself at him and bore him to the floor. Through sheer brute force, the bigger man wrenched his arms behind his back and jerked him to his feet, where he met Doc’s haunted visage.
“Sorry, kid,” Doc muttered. With his free hand, he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. “Struggling won’t do you any good. If you don’t hold still, he’ll just knock you out and I’ll have to give it to you anyway.”
“What is it?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“It’s...a performance enhancer.”
The needle hovered inches from his skin. He stilled, and then twisted violently to the left, away from Doc. He managed to break free of Apollo’s grasp. “You little shit,” Apollo growled. The thug lunged for him, missed.
“Marcus, you truly are an idiot.”
Jenner spoke from the doorway, his tone dripping disgust. The occupants of the room froze.
Slade recovered first. “I told you to stay out of this. Angel doesn’t concern you anymore.”
“You did, and I am. It is not about the boy. This concerns House Ulysses.” Jenner stepped inside and flipped a switch on the wall. Soft light emanated from the baseboards, revealing rich furnishings around the perimeter that banished the illusion of a bare interrogation room. “You have just levered charges of cheating against Prometheus, and now you would sabotage your own fighters?”