Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  Chapter 26

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes.” Shiro spoke softly, grimacing as the Japanese doctor—Hoshi, he thought—pulled a bandage tight around his bruised ribs. With two hours until the next round, he had accompanied Shiro to the medical facility to assess the damage.

  Shiro insisted he could still fight. The doctor didn’t appear pleased with his decision.

  Hoshi secured the bandage and gestured to Shiro’s bloodied hands, and then his torso. He spoke in chopped phrases. Shiro shook his head. Hoshi grunted and walked away.

  He frowned. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, man. That wasn’t nothing.”

  “It is nothing, Gabriel.” Anger tightened his features and ended in a wince.

  “Right. You’re just as stubborn as him, you know.”

  “Hoshi?”

  “No. Jenner.” He folded his arms. “He acted like this when I asked him about Harada. Shut up, Gabriel. None of your business, Gabriel.”

  Shiro choked on a laugh. “I am sorry, my friend. Truly, I cannot imagine Jenner saying such things.”

  “Well, he didn’t exactly use those words, but that’s what he meant.” He relented with a smile. “Fine, don’t explain. I can pretty much guess what he said—in his professional opinion, you’re fucked up.”

  “Gabriel. Do not make me laugh. It hurts.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “You are correct. But I cannot...”

  Hoshi returned with a plastic basin. Muttering, he moved a wheeled table in front of Shiro, set the basin down, and removed a brown bottle, gauze packages, a roll of tape, and a folded towel. Shiro held his hands over the basin, and Hoshi uncapped the bottle to pour liquid on the fighter’s wounds.

  “You. Gaijin.” Hoshi addressed him in heavily accented English. “He is...friend of yours?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “You tell him no fight. Too great risk.”

  Shiro exploded in Japanese before he could respond. Hoshi interrupted him with angry words and gestures. The doctor grabbed the towel, dried Shiro’s hands none too gently, and opened a package of gauze, then glanced at him. “He bleeds inside. You tell him no fight.”

  “Damn it, Shiro!” His hands clenched tight. “Can’t you die from internal bleeding?”

  “It is possible.” Shiro watched Hoshi wrap his hands and avoided his gaze.

  “You can’t do it. Please, withdraw. No one will think any less of you.”

  “I will.” His voice strained with effort. “I cannot dishonor my House, or myself, by giving up. I will fight to the death if it becomes necessary.”

  “And what if you’re paired off with me?” Anger born of frustration fueled his words. “Do you expect me to fight you, knowing I could kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  The barely audible reply, laden with regret, cut deeper than any knife could. He turned away.

  “Please understand.” Shiro tried to get to his feet, but a stern look from Hoshi seemed to force him into reconsidering. He sat down. “It is a matter of honor. Of pride. I must fight, until I am either victorious or beaten.”

  He caught his gaze and held it. At last, he nodded.

  Hoshi finished dressing Shiro’s wounds. He taped the gauze and moved the table away. “Sunil-kun gahanashimasudesu.”

  “No. Hoshi-sama, dôzo...”

  “Ache kaere.” Hoshi pointed to the door.

  Shiro stood slowly and bowed. “Dômoarigatougozaimasu.” He headed for the exit. A glance at the furious doctor, and he followed Shiro out.

  In the hushed corridor, he cleared his throat. “I won’t push you about this, but I’d really like to know one thing. Who is Sunil-kun?”

  Shiro stopped. He didn’t turn around. “Jenner.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  * * * *

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the betting window is now closed. The first single finals match of the evening will begin in fifteen minutes.”

  Gabriel sat at a table beside Shiro, who huddled around a steaming mug of green tea as though it were the only thing keeping him alive, and had remained silent and still since Hoshi finished treating him in an attempt to conserve energy for his upcoming ordeal. They’d announced the match-ups for the final rounds, and Shiro would not be fighting him, but Wolff.

  Shiro didn’t expect to win.

  A slender figure materialized in front of them. In the darkened outskirts of the room, it proved impossible to determine who it was—but the figure spoke, leaving no question of its identity.

  “Hello, angel. I see you are consorting with the devil. How interesting.”

  He didn’t bother to reply.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Jenner sat down in the empty chair across the table. “I wish to speak with you before the match.”

  “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  Jenner snorted. “Not you.” He leaned forward and extended a finger toward Shiro. “Him.”

  “Doushita, sempai.” Shiro’s weakened voice drifted across the table. Jenner replied with a short string of Japanese that had Shiro shaking his head.

  “No. He can stay.”

  “Very well.” Clearly displeased with his presence, Jenner spoke, the words flowing as though Shiro’s native language were his own. Occasionally he stopped, and Shiro interjected a word or two in answer to some question or statement.

  Something Jenner said made Shiro pause. At last, the fighter answered, “You know I cannot do that, sempai.”

  Jenner stared at him. “Kohai. You would die for Tomi Harada’s honor?”

  “No,” Shiro replied. “For my own.”

  Silence befell them. At last, Jenner rose with a frown twisting his narrow features. “Kentô, Shiro.” He turned to him. A smirk lifted one corner of his lips. “And good luck to you as well, angel. Watch out for the wolf. He bites.” He turned and walked away.

  “What was that all about?” he asked, staring at the space where Jenner had been.

  Akuma raised his mug to his lips and swallowed. “He wanted me to withdraw. I refused.”

  “What? You mean Jenner actually cares about someone?”

  “I am not certain of that. However, his behavior is...odd.”

  A loud click signified the speaker system coming to life. “Fighters, please enter the ring,” the voice boomed. Shiro stood, stifled a groan and wove slowly through the throngs. He stayed by the fighter’s side. They gripped each other’s wrists in parting, and Shiro climbed the stairs. Wolff already waited in the opposite corner.

  The cage had been drawn upward into the recessed ceiling to leave a more traditional square ring with roped borders. He stood as close as he dared, aware he risked one of Pandora’s omnipresent security team removing him bodily from the area.

  In the dazzling glory of the spotlights, Shiro appeared fragile. Recent bruises from the cage match stood out livid and grotesque against ashen skin. His blond hair lay lank along his skull, and his wavering stance betrayed his exhaustion.

  The bell sounded, and Wolff rushed Shiro. His dismay swelled—it looked impossible to avoid. Shiro’s eyes lit with a predatory gleam and his body drew itself erect a split second before impact. He stepped aside in a blur of motion. Wolff, who had been assured of an easy target, hurtled by and crashed to the mat with the force of his intended blow.

  Wolff bounded back. The two fighters circled each other, looking for an opening. Wolff lunged again, and Shiro whirled back. Knuckles rushed by him.

  Getting nowhere fast, Wolff changed tactics. He lowered his arms and walked across the mat to Shiro. The injured fighter drew back with a blow aimed at the cop’s jaw, but Wolff bent his knees and dropped, then wrapped both arms around Shiro’s ribcage and squeezed hard.

  A fist glanced off Wolff’s temple, barely fazing him. Shiro gasped and struggled to free himself from the viselike bear hug. He managed a sharp jab to the base of Wolff’s neck. An ominous crack, audible even from the sidel
ines, signaled danger.

  Shiro swung again and connected in the same spot. Snarling an oath, Wolff let go and stepped back. Shiro fell to his knees with a sharp intake of breath. Before he could regain his feet, Wolff drew back and kicked the downed fighter.

  Shiro gagged. Coughed. Bright red blood stained his chin and shirt, spattered the mat below him.

  Eyes snapping fire, Shiro rose to one knee, stood and swung. He connected. Wolff’s head whipped away and back. The cop glared.

  Shiro’s knees found the mat. Wolff lashed out and kicked him again.

  Another crack. More coughing, more blood, neon red under the spotlight. Movie blood, bright enough to appear fake. Horrified, he watched their movements—Shiro struggling, Wolff smirking. Shiro gasping.

  Shiro collapsing.

  One...two...three... Why were they counting so slowly? Shiro’s blood still flowed, collecting in an ominous pool around his head. He needed help now.

  Eight...nine...ten... Shiro wasn’t getting up. Wolff’s impassive face revealed nothing, and his apparent callousness fueled his growing wrath.

  Nineteen...

  Twenty.

  A few subdued cheers rang out when the automated count ended. His feet hit the steps before the last word rang from the speakers. An instant later he knelt at Shiro’s side. With trembling fingers he felt for a pulse, and at last found a telltale flutter beneath clammy skin. He glanced around, noticed two or three crimson-clad men from Pandora rushing through the crowds. Standing, he fixed the scowling cop with a look of pure hatred. “You could have killed him.”

  “Yeah.” Wolff sent a glance at the fallen fighter and raised emotionless eyes to him. “Isn’t this fun, now?”

  “You son of a bitch!” He leaped at him, unmindful of the thunder of feet behind him. Pandora’s security caught him before he reached Wolff and wrestled him to the floor. Two of them drew him to his feet and pinned his arms behind him.

  He jerked and heaved against their grasp. A figure appeared at the far end of the ring, ascended the stairs and entered the cold glare of light. “Enough,” the new arrival said. Tomi Harada. He ceased his struggles. Harada nodded once, and the men released him.

  “Angel, is it not?” Harada strode toward him.

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Well, Angel, though your blatant show of concern is appreciated, I must insist that you do not attack the other fighters outside of tournament matches.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but Harada cut him off. “Akuma chose to fight. He knew the consequences his actions could bring, and he was prepared to take them. End this now or you will be disqualified.”

  Two others he didn’t recognize entered the ring and loaded Shiro’s limp body onto a portable stretcher. His friend was not yet out of danger, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  His eyes met Harada’s, and understanding passed between them. He would drop it. For now.

  “You have twenty minutes until your next match begins, Angel. Use them safely.” Harada turned and walked after the stretcher-bearers. Alone with Wolff now, the temptation to attack proved almost too great to resist. He let his expression speak for him, and silently promised revenge before he, too, stalked from the ring.

  Twenty minutes. Not enough time to see Akuma, and too much to pass quickly. He spent it fuming, letting his anger grow. When he finally faced Ice in the ring, he made short work of his opponent and dropped him in under five minutes. He strode out before the count ended, leaving a disappointed crowd to occupy themselves until the final match—the real match—began.

  He would make Wolff pay.

  Chapter 27

  A thunderous whirring rose in the air and swallowed the sounds of the crowd on the island. From the terrace, he watched a small white helicopter rise into the black sky, turn and speed toward the distant New York skyline—airlifting Shiro to a hospital on the mainland.

  Keep him safe, he thought. Concern, fear and outrage vied for positions in his mind. When the ominous whap of the blades no longer sounded, he turned to go back inside, but found the way blocked.

  “Is your pal leaving so soon?” Dressed sharply in a three-piece suit of obsidian silk, Marcus Slade leaned on the doorjamb and regarded him. A sly smirk played on his lips, a warning that he’d screwed up and was about to be punished.

  Rage prevented him from bowing to Slade’s whim. Only his concern for Lillith’s safety kept his tongue, and his fists, at bay.

  “That last match was rather brief,” Slade said casually when he didn’t respond. “Now, I could be wrong,” he continued, watching his face for a reaction, “but I believe I told you to make sure your fights lasted long enough to entertain me.”

  Nausea hit him hard, and his mouth went dry as sand. Oh no...he’d forgotten his damned rules. A panicked beat lodged against his skull.

  Slade straightened and approached him. He stopped a foot away, reached out and jerked him forward. The smirk fled his face in favor of frosty rage.

  “Since you have come so far in this tournament, and since I am a patient and forgiving man—” He paused and glared, daring him to refute the statement. “—I will forgive you this one transgression. But know this.” Slade pulled him until their faces nearly touched, and his voice dropped to a menacing whisper.

  “If the bout between you and Captain Wolff is not the longest, the bloodiest, the most spectacular match I have ever witnessed, I will rape your sister myself.”

  His eyes bulged.

  “And then I’ll let Jenner have her.”

  His heart plunged into his churning stomach. “You wouldn’t.” The words forced themselves from his throat, but he’d known even before he’d spoken that the bastard would. He’d enjoy it. Would probably watch.

  Harsh laughter erupted from Slade. He released him with a shove. “Do you want to try me, boy?”

  “No.” Damn his weakness. Slade had him by the balls and knew it.

  “Good.” With a final contemptuous sneer, Slade went back inside and left him to simmer in his boiling emotions.

  * * * *

  He wanted to kill the bastard.

  The final round would begin in five minutes. He stood at the base of the ring, glaring at the shadowed recess where Wolff waited. For two hours he’d wandered the corridors of House Pandora in search of anyone who could give him news of Shiro’s condition. At last he’d found out what he could from an unlikely source.

  “He is still alive,” Jenner had told him when he discovered the lieutenant sitting alone in a quiet side room, disconnecting from a cellphone call. “For now.” The look of absolute disgust that twisted Jenner’s face made him decide not to ask any more questions. He’d withdrawn from the room and returned to the main chamber to face his last challenge of the tournament.

  Now, the house lights dimmed around him. Beams of blood-red luminescence shone from the darkness and washed over the stage. A soft hissing heralded clouds of smoke that billowed into the ring. The crowd gasped its pleasure.

  He smirked at the production and mounted the steps to disappear into the mist.

  A blast of cool air issued from above, clearing the fog. Clad only in sleek black pants and his notorious tattoo, he squatted on his haunches inside the ropes, arms draped casually across his thighs. Wolff stood rigid and erect, fists clenched at his sides. A muscle along his jaw twitched spasmodically beneath gritted teeth. He still wore gray. Under the crimson light, he appeared drenched in blood.

  The starting bell sounded a distant chime amid a sea of expectant murmurs. He came up slowly as Wolff strode toward him. He made no move to block the swing that arched up toward his chin and connected. Expressionless, he spat a mouthful of blood at Wolff’s feet and shot the captain a piercing look.

  “If he dies, you die.” His words emerged more statement than threat, a flat timbre with the barest vibration of fury.

  Wolff executed a spirited attempt to break his jaw.

  Displaying exaggerated d
isinterest, he let the fist hit. He sagged to soften the blow, stepped back and ejected a spray of scarlet spittle. A few droplets spattered on Wolff’s chest, darkening the material of his tank top.

  Wolff sneered and brushed the moist spots on his shirt as if they were bugs. “You can’t keep this up forever, boy,” he snapped. “Fight or fall. Now.” He drew back again and aimed for his temple. The strike whizzed through empty air, and he dropped beneath it.

  Wolff narrowly avoided his foot sweeping toward his kneecaps.

  He sprang upright and danced away, just out of range. Wolff charged him. They launched into an awkward shuffling circuit of the ring. More often than not, Wolff’s blows smote the air.

  He didn’t try to strike back. If that bastard Slade wanted this drawn out, he’d get it.

  The tide of the battle took a sharp turn when an uppercut sent him hurtling to the mat. Wolff leapt on him, and they rolled around locked in a crushing embrace—until Wolff pinned him down, one hand gripping his throat while the other repeatedly hammered his stomach.

  Gasping for breath, unable to move, he clung with desperation to his need for victory. The world dimmed around him. His eyes rolled back, and he allowed his body to go limp. The brute above him didn’t relax his hold, or stop the storm of blows he dispensed. Consciousness slipped further away. A black curtain descended. Through it came a ghostly electric slur of sound that sent a bolt of terror into him.

  Se...veeen...eiiight...

  He had to get up. Now.

  He moaned and raised a tentative hand. The crowd gave a collective gasp beyond him, the speakers droned: e...le...veeen...tweeelve... Too slowly, the thickness drained from his senses. He flipped himself over, placed his palms on the mat for leverage. A piercing flare ignited his ribs. Wolff. Kicking him.

  The count reached fifteen. Despite Wolff’s vicious feet, he struggled to his hands and knees—and then something that felt suspiciously like a freight train collided with the curve of his back. The elbow-to-the-spine maneuver, one of Apollo’s favorites. Anguish coursed through him like acid, and he sprawled back on the floor.