Nick had seen her as well.
‘Euan,’ he said simply, pleadingly. It was all that needed to be said. The rest could be read through his muscles, strung tighter than a bow, and the hard clench of his jaw, the way his fingers formed a fist as they held Euan’s shirt.
Euan’s gaze flickered back to the platform. The smug expression that crossed Mickey-O’s intelligent features was easily decipherable.
Euan moved his body so his words could not be understood by others over the din. ‘I see her,’ he muttered, though his tone was resigned to the undeniable conclusion that he saw shining in Nick’s eyes.
Nick confirmed his assumption.
‘We can’t leave her here.’
‘That’s what he wants,’ Euan murmured softly in reply. ‘He’s done it on purpose to rile us, to make us lose our focus.’
The quotation on the bathroom wall suddenly imprinted itself in the silt at the bottom of his heart. It wasn’t the first time she had been used in such a way. It was likely why the poor creature was cared for so little, to bring about this exact situation. It fueled the fervour and angered the beast in Euan’s heart to think that others had tried and failed to free the broken dove at Mickey-O’s side.
But there was also a sparkle of hope that glimmered directly from the marking on the tiled wall, as though a light shone through the brick and mortar from the outside. Maybe not all the men left were like the earthbound hellions who ruled this nightmare.
Euan sighed heavily and held Nick’s angry stare. ‘I’ll take care of it. Don’t you do anything reckless, feel me?’
Nick’s face tightened in indignation.
He moved closer, watching as Nick’s chin tilted skyward to accommodate his height. ‘I’m serious, Nick,’ he reiterated sternly. ‘I’ll take care of it. But do not, under any circumstances, take this into your own hands. We leave with the pack and her, so be ready, yeah?’
Something flickered in Nick’s blazing eyes. Hope? Gratitude? Euan couldn’t decipher it before he was pulled from the conversation by Mickey-O’s booming voice.
‘Have I got a treat for you gentlemen tonight!’ the man hollered through an old-fashioned rusted megaphone. He stood and held himself as though he truly was the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer himself standing before his horde of demons as they nattered and squawked, fighting for the scraps their monstrous master threw at them.
Mickey-O caught Euan’s gaze across the crush of bodies. Onyx and hardened molasses smashed together in an explosion of flame and light. Euan felt the searing burn of the flare flash through him like wildfire, incinerating his indecision, his hesitancy. He would fight. He would win. And he would take this motherfucking bastard down.
Mickey-O read the challenge that radiated off Euan. He chuckled knowingly, and with malice etched in every feature of his face, he turned to the woman beside him. The barely conscious creature didn’t flinch as he grabbed her matted hair to pull her head back from her chest and expose the long column of her brutalised throat. His tongue traced a provocative line from her protruding collarbone to the bloody shell of her ear. From his viewpoint, Euan witnessed the shudder that rippled through her emaciated muscles. Even in her comatose state, she knew the touch of evil.
The scourge around them erupted into anarchy. The building heaved with their shouts of triumph, their chaos and lawlessness as they leered and jibed. Euan was jostled and shoved as Nick cursed at his side.
Euan ignored it all, holding the malicious gaze of his adversary and curling his lip to growl ferociously.
Yeah, they were definitely getting out of here with the backpack and the girl.
Euan broke the tether that bound the two gazes and pulled his shirt over his head. As he handed the garment to Nick, he paused. Nick was strapping his father’s watch to his wrist, heedless of the chaos around him. When he looked up after the clasp was tightened, his gaze met Euan’s.
‘For luck,’ he whispered.
Hope bloomed inside Euan’s heart like an over-fertilised spring garden. Their gazes held, and where Mickey-O had forced nothing but scorn and vengeance from Euan, Nick’s gloriously optimistic gaze ensured that there was no chance he would come even close to losing. Ever.
Ignorant of the poignant moment vibrating between the two men, Mickey-O continued to prepare the crowd for the spectacle to come.
‘Now, most of you gentlemen know the rules, but for those who are new, I’ll explain them again. You may use whatever you like in the pit—fists, feet, teeth and weapons.’
Weapons?
The magical moment between him and Nick was shattered like glass as Euan’s gaze snapped back to the man on the dais. He did not miss the sinister sneer Mickey-O sent his way. ‘I’ll also remind you that it’s a fight to the death. Winner is the last one breathing. Good luck!’
That motherfucker. The thought of fighting to the death had Euan’s heart shriveling inside his chest. He had been an amateur boxer before the fall of mankind. He had won against countless opponents of all shapes and sizes, but there was always an element of respect that came with punching someone in the face while avoiding having them do the same to him. Euan had fought for money, but he’d also fought for the rush of adrenaline, the endorphins, the high that came with watching an adversary hit the mat, out cold.
But there was always that element of safety that he appreciated; for the men that required it as his competitors, but also on the off chance that he needed it himself. The gloves, the referees, the weigh-ins and drug testing—they were all there to ensure that, though it was a blood sport, it was also performed safely. Or as safely as it could be.
This farce was going to be nothing like the events of the past. This was barbarity and savagery created to appease an inhuman crowd. This was akin to the animal kingdom, merciless and uncivilised.
So Euan would become that animal.
As Mickey-O riled the crowd, Euan shucked his pants until he was only clothed in his threadbare briefs and boots. He pulled his shoulders back and waited for his enemy to meet his eyes again. He was not immune to the significance of his gargantuan body; his immense height, expansive shoulders, bulky arms and powerful legs were a sight to behold. His muscles rippled with tension, his tattoos stood out in relief against his pale skin, his shaved head, beard and the teeth that were visible through his menacing snarl added to the astounding impact his physical form created.
Euan didn’t have to wait long. The men around him and Nick began to shuffle back in trepidation, creating a semicircle of space that only gave the illusion of safety. Their cries of assumed victory died upon their lips. The silence built, and even the girl cracked an eye open to witness the wave of apprehension that undulated through the crowd.
When the lull became deafening, Euan finally spoke. His voice was low, a rumble of disquiet in the face of adversity. ‘You changed the rules,’ he told Mickey-O directly. ‘So I propose my own terms. If I win, I want the backpack, safe passage outta here, and ...’ Euan held Mickey-O’s cruel midnight stare for a heartbeat before he continued. ‘The girl.’
The once-uncertain mass of men exploded, the raised voices causing dust from the wooden rafters to fall upon their heads. The flames of makeshift wooden torches on the walls flickered in their beaten metal sconces. Euan didn’t shift his body. He didn’t even blink, just held Mickey-O’s gaze as though it sustained him. He knew he was dancing to the preordained procedures in the playbook that Mickey-O had designed, so it did not surprise him when dark eyes glinted with triumph and the woman beside him shuddered in remembrance of all her champions who had fallen before him.
When Mickey-O’s lips tipped up in a baleful smile, Euan knew he’d fooled him. He expected him to lose.
‘Deal,’ Mickey-O yelled, to the chorus of utter and profound mayhem. He opened his arms wide and continued. ‘Let the fight begin!’
Euan turned and held Nick’s anxious eyes for only a moment before he lowered himself into the pit. Once his feet hit the dirt, he lifted his wrapped ha
nds to his face and warmed his muscles with traditional jabs.
His muscles initially groaned at the unusual strain, but before long they fell into the memory of the moves and his limbs became nimble, responsive, lithe and quick.
Content, he turned to Nick, who stood as directed on the edge of the pit, his blazing gaze flicking between Euan’s drills and the surrounding crowd to judge when his opponent would appear.
Euan moved to him and reached up to squeeze his boot to gain the agitated man’s attention. When Nick bent, he handed Euan his bowie knife in preparation. If they were to use weapons, Euan would use the best he had at his disposal. The Glock, though effective, still only held one bullet, and he was unsure if it was going to be enough.
As he familiarised himself with the weight of the hilt in his hand, he realised it was not the first time this knife had taken a life.
Now, it would take another.
Running his thumb along the blade’s razor edge, he spoke over the din. ‘Don’t leave my sight, yeah? When we win, we’re gonna need to make a quick getaway, hear me?’
Nick nodded once, his eyes blazing with uncertainty and a little hope.
Euan was worried he could not deliver on the latter.
Chapter 9
It was the quake of the soil under his feet that returned Euan’s focus to the matter at hand. He turned just as his opponent pulled himself up from the dirt-packed floor, having obviously been shoved into the hole unwillingly. His gaze desperately roamed the sea of men that wrangled for a ringside position at the lip of the pit, searching for opportunity to escape. At first, Euan wasn’t sure if he’d even meant to fall, but when his focus returned to the earthen walls that surrounded him and his shoulders slumped in defeat, Euan knew he’d been the unfortunate man to draw the short straw.
He unconsciously curled his lip in fury. Mickey-O was laying out his sheep for slaughter.
Most people assumed Euan was a lumbering fool. Based on his size, they thought he was slow and inept, his strength and reach his only qualities when it came to fighting.
But they were wrong. He’d been professionally trained, and his record was based on his knockouts, not just on his wins. He was fast, but more importantly, he had been committed, obsessed. He’d loved the sport; it had been the only thing that had kept him getting up every morning. He’d always kept his body in peak physical condition, and even though he hadn’t had a sparring partner or been in a professional gym in years, the constant struggle for survival had kept his muscles lean and ready for combat.
Which meant his gut churned as he watched his opponent avoid eye contact and attempt to practice his own techniques.
The shirtless man before him was severely underfed. His footwork was clumsy, and his rhythm and timing were off. He bounced around his corner of the pit, expelling too much energy. His chest already heaved like a bellows and they hadn’t even begun fighting.
Euan set his jaw and focused. Getting sentimental could get him killed. The whole situation was fucked up, but he couldn’t control it; he could control only his actions and his response. In this instance, he chose to fight for the cause, the quote from the bathroom burning an imprint into his memory: All men will die. But only a special few will be given the honour to die for a cause.
Nick was his cause, and now the broken girl trapped under Mickey-O’s thumb joined him.
There was the clanging of a bell, and Euan watched his challenger shudder before finally lifting his head to meet his gaze. The grey eyes that met him were middle-aged. His hair may have been blonde once, but now it was matted and grey. Tendrils hung in his eyes, and the beard around his chin and jaw had nothing to do with choice. Euan would put money on this man not having seen a bath since the last hot-water heater ran dry.
As the man lifted his hands up towards his face, one fist was enclosed around a bearded hatchet. The head was simply carved, the blade unadorned, and the handle was stained oak.
Euan braced himself on the balls of his feet and lifted his hands to his face, one palm wrapped tightly around the hilt of his blade in a solid but gentle grip for maneuverability.
He placed one foot forward to give a smaller target to his opponent, despite the overbearing breadth of his chest, and waited.
He wasn’t at a standstill for long.
His adversary, obviously resigned to his fate, leapt forward with a battle cry, his mouth held wide enough that Euan was able to discern the rot in his molars. His lank hair swung before his face as he ran forward. His fist was tight around the wooden handle of his weapon, and he instantly lashed out as though Euan were a stationary tree trunk. It was easy to use his bowie knife initially as a shield to block the futile attempts to assail his defenses.
He kept his elbows in, feet and hands moving. Every circle of his blade was intended to maim, but he never reached out or overextended. He didn’t need to. His challenger was fighting using adrenaline and nervous energy, which would deplete quickly.
Euan easily deflected the blows that were sent his way, effortlessly parrying and avoiding the untrained attempts at drawing his blood.
As his foe began to wane, Euan decided it was time to end the charade. The rabble above them was bleating for blood and though his body shuddered at the thought, he was there to win.
He advanced on his rival, showing no mercy. Each swipe of his blade met flesh, every jab sending crimson spilling onto the dirt-packed floor. Euan used his fists between slashes of his knife with brutal effect, disorienting and confusing his adversary.
His chest heaved, and his muscles sang with the searing fire of adrenaline. Sweat dripped from his brow to sting his eyes as his grip became slippery with the blood of his assailant. His mind was blank of everything except the need to win, to defeat the man who now only whimpered in pain at every cut of Euan’s knife.
After he had drawn enough blood to appease the anger that bubbled through his veins like boiling water, he decided to end the farce. His enemy was no contender at all; he’d hardly drawn blood from Euan’s body, and his crimson-smeared face was now streaked with tears. His hatchet hung loosely in his grip and his hands trembled. He didn’t plead for his life with his voice, but with his grey eyes that were almost lost behind a curtain of spindly, damp hair.
A flash of humanity erupted inside Euan’s heart. The thought of taking another man’s life in such atrocious circumstances seared what was left of his humanity. It burned the brand that marked him for the devil. He was bound for hell for this. For his decisions, his mistakes.
But to keep Nick intended for heaven, he’d do what needed to be done.
There was a foul taste in Euan’s mouth as he made the final step to the whimpering, unlucky man. His back was pressed to the blood-splattered wall, his skin glossy with sweat in the limited light, his lip trembling as he waited for the final blow.
As Euan reached up, he silenced the scream inside his mind that told him to stop this mayhem, this unforgivable behavior, this mockery of life. He held his blade above him. Its destination was his opponent’s throat. His mind shut down as he tightened his grip and stabbed with resounding force into the side of the man’s neck.
Crimson fluid gushed from the wound caused by the imbedded weapon. The man’s grimy hand slipped on the handle while he tried uselessly to remove the blade from his flesh. His garbled scream and frantic eyes implored Euan to give him a quick death.
Euan kept his face blank as the man stumbled and fell to the ground, a growing pool of his life’s blood expanding under his twitching body.
The crowd roared, the sound so astounding that Euan was pulled from his trance, remembering he was surrounded by a baying mob of bloodthirsty animals. He immediately looked up to find Nick in the crush of people that surrounded the edge of the pit.
It was his blonde hair that Euan spotted first. It was in disarray as the distressed man held fistfuls at his temples. When their gazes met, the almost tangible connection between them combusted, an inferno of suppressed love and devotion ex
ploding along the path that bound them. Euan’s heart sped up with the unspoken shift that radiated from Nick’s features. If they survived this, everything was going to be okay. They were going to be okay.
He watched as Nick swallowed his emotion down with ripples of his corded throat, and Euan felt his own sentiment build with the force of the crowd. It took several calming breaths to ease the mayhem inside his chest.
Their connection was broken by the variation in the noise of the crowd. Cheers of triumph became approbation for further bloodshed. The fervour rose in pitch, and the stamping of feet, the clamouring of steel and the bellowing of voices thundered in Euan’s ears.
Of course. It had been too fucking simple.
From his position in the pit, Euan couldn’t see Mickey-O, but he heard him over the din of the crowd through his megaphone.
‘Did you like that, gentlemen?’ The booming voice reverberated through the warehouse. ‘A little teaser to whet the appetite, yes? Well, let the real show begin!’
Euan used Nick as his compass. When the man’s jaw clenched hard enough that the muscles in his cheeks flinched, Euan knew the agony of the first round of torturous mayhem was only the beginning.
And he was exhausted; the fight for his life, no matter how quick, had drained him. The body of his victim still lay twitching on the ground, his blood having seeped into the earth to create a muddy black puddle. Euan’s natural adrenaline high was diminishing. His fingers tingled and his tongue was thick in his mouth. He needed water, a break, but he knew he would receive neither.
The crowd of unwashed parted, and a man of similar stature to Euan eased through the sea of lice-ridden bodies like a monstrous serpent. His dark hair was long and hung in gleaming waves about his shoulders, his blue eyes shone with malice and intent. His body was bare to the waist and a hairless chest glistened with oil, the firelight casting shadows on a muscular body that rippled with tension and eagerness. His booted feet were steel-capped and his enormous hands were fists at his sides; the meaty fingers of one were wrapped around a makeshift mace, glinting barbed wire wrapped tightly around the end of a baseball bat.
True Refuge Page 6