by Bethany-Kris
The door opened.
Renzo turned back around.
It felt, sort of, like he was staring into hell for a second. Like he turned around to see faceless people dressed in all black, their bodies strapped with weapons, and he was the intended target.
“You can fight if you want,” the guy murmured behind his skull bandana. “It’s still gonna happen, New York.”
What would happen?
Renzo didn’t ask that.
He had a different question.
“Where in the hell am I?”
The man’s eyes gleamed—amused, Renzo thought. He looked amused. “The League.”
• • •
Renzo blinked out of the memory, and knew exactly why it had been pulled forward in his mind and so quickly yanked him out of the present. The red lights surrounding him were far too bright. Even when Renzo closed his eyes, he was still seeing a shine of red behind his eyelids. It certainly wasn’t the blinking red light over the black door that changed his life that night, but it was the thing he remembered first before anything else.
Everything else was … difficult.
His gaze scanned the room he was currently in just because he could, and this was what he had been taught to do. Renzo knew better than to move, or make some kind of scene. It didn’t matter that he was mostly naked—in nothing but boxer-briefs—and standing on a raised platform of sorts while facing a wall of mirrors that weren’t mirrors at all. He knew they weren’t just mirrors—more like windows for the people behind them to watch him.
To appraise him.
The windows continued all the way around the room in sections of eight-feet wide by ten-feet tall. Except for one off to the left—another black door. The League loved their black doors. He always felt those black doors were a warning, of sorts. A way to tell people … you don’t belong here; do not pass.
Over each section of windows, a red light rested behind metal cages. For now, they were all lit up and unblinking. Just stark, red lights shining down on him. Overhead, far brighter, white lights gleamed down on his body. The heat from those lights was more than enough to keep him warm, but that didn’t mean he was fucking comfortable.
No, those were two entirely different things.
“Six feet, three inches,” came a distorted voice ringing throughout the room. Renzo didn’t know where in the hell the speakers were, but he stiffened in place as the voice continued on with listing his physical stats. Everything from the length of his arms, to the width of his shoulders. How much he could bench, the distance and speed at which he could run, and finally, they finished it off with, “One hundred ninety-two pounds.”
Renzo blinked.
How in the hell did they know his weight, and he didn’t even know that? Oh, sure, The fucking League certainly kept up with all of that when they brought him in twice a week to be weighed and checked over, but damn.
He maybe weighed one-seventy-five when he came to this damn place. That weight gain spoke to the intensity the last year had been for him. One year—that’s all it took from the time he stepped into the compound run by The League to the point he now stood here.
On a platform.
Being appraised.
Soon to be sold.
Like cattle.
• • •
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Renzo blinked awake with fuck as his only thought as the rattling overhead started up again. His warning that the chains attached to the harness that was connected to the straight jacket he wore was about to start lowering him.
Again.
Into that tank of water.
Again.
How long had he been in here again? This black room … it felt dead, he thought. Dead, and cold. No life, no light, and no sound. At least, not that he had ever seen.
The darkness and silence wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that it was just one of those things or the other. But when both of them were put together, it made a hell of a combination. It was enough to make a man’s mind play tricks on him. Renzo often thought he was seeing or hearing things that didn’t exist in the space. And it didn’t matter how much shouting and fighting he did, he was not getting out of that straight jacket.
Oh, sure, occasionally someone came in, pulled him down from the harness, and let him out of his restraints. He’d tried fighting back once—quickly learned that wasn’t going to change a thing. It was one person who came in, and the man beat the shit out of Renzo himself before putting him back in the straightjacket, and hooking him back up to the harness. He didn’t get to eat or relieve himself that day—or night; he didn’t even know what time it had been.
For the most part, Renzo was alone.
He thought … it had to be a few days, now. A few days he had been doing this same thing over and over and over—
He didn’t get to finish his thought before he was plunged into freezing cold water. If the rattling of the chains overhead hadn’t properly woken him up and reminded him of the hell that was his current life, the fucking water sure did it.
Because he couldn’t breathe.
He’d learned the first time the hoist let him fall into the water that as soon as he was dropped down, a cover on some kind of automatic arm flipped on the tank to close it up tight. Or as tight as it could get, anyway. Tight enough that he couldn’t open it.
Basically, he was dropped in the tank of water, the lid closed him in, and then for several minutes, he was under water with no way to breathe while being entirely bound by a straightjacket. He basically had no sense of what was up or down while he was in the tank because he couldn’t see anything. He was rarely able to get to the top where he might find a small pocket of air to breathe in, and he mostly just focused on trying to stay alive.
Fun, right?
Yeah.
The panic didn’t swell as hard this time. Sure, he gulped in a mouthful of water, and choked on it because he’d been distracted when he fell in. Too distracted to prepare himself for another round of this goddamn game of torture.
Shame on him.
Renzo had gotten used to counting the seconds when he was in the tank. Even as his body twisted to find the spot to come up, and even as he kicked and struggled because that was human instinct to try and save one’s self, he still counted the seconds.
Usually, around the three minute mark … he knew he was going to be coming back up soon. Except this time, three minutes passed.
That panic he hadn’t been feeling before started to rise hot and heavy in his throat. He became acutely aware of his heartbeat as his lungs started to scream with the need for air. With his eyes wide, though he couldn’t see a damn thing, he felt his shoulder hit something hard. The wall of the tank, likely. It wasn’t that big. A six foot by six foot box, maybe.
At the four minute mark, he was damn sure he was going to die. He didn’t even think about it when he opened his mouth, and let out a shout. Instinct again, maybe. Who knew? All that caused was for water to rush into his mouth, and he swallowed it down.
Ever vomit under water?
Renzo did.
Yep.
His back hit the wall again, and again. He managed to get some kind of leverage with his foot in the corner, and he pushed his weight against the top—or what he thought was the top—of the tank, and the side wall. His gaze started to blacken, and the constant swell of fear and panic became a background noise to the humming in his ears.
Well, not so much a humming as a white noise.
Constant, and low.
Death was on the way.
Just as his eyes started to close without his permission, his body finally giving up the fight, he felt the pressure release. It wasn’t the hoist pulling him up this time, though. No, instead of going up with the hoist, he dropped fast. Like a sack of rocks being released from six feet high. He heard the rushing sounds fill his ears, and felt his body skim across something hard as more water rushed over his face.
He didn’t know when he came
to a stop. He didn’t know why it was so bright when he opened his eyes. He didn’t know the faceless people who now stood above him in a tight circle—each holding a long, rod in their hands.
It looked like bamboo.
Maybe?
Renzo choked and coughed, his lungs aching with every breath he sucked in. And with every exhale, he vomited more water. Humiliation filled Renzo in a way he’d never felt before. He probably looked like a fucking idiot. Rolling over to his knees, he finally figured out what happened as his gaze landed on what used to be the box he suspected they were using as his fucking torture chamber.
All four walls of plexiglass had collapsed. Because of him, or because it was time to let him out, Renzo didn’t know.
Water fell from his face in droplets as he breathed heavily and tried to calm his racing thoughts. The anger was most present—rage so strong it was thick in his throat. But there was a darkness there, too. Like the darkness he’d been kept in for so long felt like an old friend who now made a home inside his mind.
It wasn’t about to leave anytime soon, either.
“Almost too late, Cree,” someone murmured above him. “Another ten seconds, and—”
“He looks fine,” came a feminine reply. “He was strong-willed. He needed that, didn’t he, Cree?”
“Mmm, we’ll see. Get up to your fucking feet,” someone else—Cree?—barked. The voice sounded familiar to him. It was the same voice belonging to the man who walked him to this hell with the skull bandana hanging around his neck. “Time for something different, New York.”
Renzo didn’t move.
The first strike of the bamboo rod came down across his back. He shuddered, and shook. Still didn’t stand, though.
“Maybe that extra ten seconds would have been good for him, then,” the first voice muttered.
“Remember what I told you?” The familiar voice—Cree, if Renzo was to believe the people around him talking—came close as a man bent down beside him. Sure enough, when Renzo tipped his head to the side, he recognized the man’s eyes. “Do you remember what I said about this place, New York?”
Renzo swallowed hard. “It’s gonna break me.”
Cree nodded. “Yeah, just let it happen. It’s easier. Renzo Zulla, that person who walked in here a few days ago, he doesn’t exist anymore. You get to be whoever you wanna fucking be here, all right? Just let it happen, man.”
He stood, then, despite the fact he didn’t want to. Not that it mattered. The second he was up on his feet, someone knocked him to his back when they hit him across the chest with a bamboo rod. He found the cement almost welcoming, if it wasn’t so goddamn cold.
Letting out a bitter, breathless laugh from the pain, Renzo said, “Jesus, at least let me be dry for this, or something.”
“Learn to enjoy being in a state of discomfort, and it will never be used against you,” Cree murmured from up above him. “Comfort is for the weak.”
Well, then …
“All right,” Renzo muttered.
“Stand again.”
He did.
Only to get knocked the hell down again.
More fun.
• • •
“Scores,” came the voice again through the speakers to drag Renzo from his thoughts once more. “Ten out of ten—hand to hand combat; excellent. Seven out of ten—hacking; moderate. Ten out of ten—weapons, in both practical and applied; excellent.”
The distorted voice continued on describing skills that had been, for the most part, either beaten into Renzo during his first year at The League, or ones he already had that were picked up on and honed. Everything from his understanding of vehicles, to his ability to survive.
The scores went on for at least ten minutes before the man moved onto something else. They’d already described the tattoos on his body that the people behind the mirrored glass might not be able to see fully—he’d been told once not to mark up his skin when he was first allowed a bit of freedom from The League. He went ahead and did it anyway.
Suffered for it, too.
It was worth it.
Renzo kept going until he had one whole fucking sleeve of tattoos. Memories he didn’t want to forget because it seemed like with every passing day that he spent here, he forgot something else. Like the way his little brother sounded first thing in the morning when he got his favorite breakfast. He started to forget the color of his sister’s hair, too. Or how Lucia’s eyes glinted with her slyness when she knew something he didn’t.
He was so controlled—constantly. No phones, no access to the outside without someone else right there. A chip implanted into his arm to keep track of him nonstop. Which lead him to believe, yes, they knew every single time he went in for more ink, and while they could have stopped him, they didn’t.
They never stepped in.
They punished him after.
Worth it.
He was here.
This was his life for the next … well, four years now.
That was the fucking deal.
Right?
He wasn’t gonna forget while he was here.
Simple as that.
“Excelled specialty for The League—explosives,” the distorted voice drawled on, bringing Renzo back to the present. “Bidding will begin at one-point-three million.”
Instantly, those red lights over the windows started flickering.
Renzo blinked.
Bids, he realized.
It had begun.
His life was now up for sale.
• • •
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Renzo didn’t move his gaze away from the ceiling of his room. His one space in The League’s compound that was just his. So much so, as were the rules set out for the trained assassins who lived within these walls, that Cree didn’t inch past the threshold of the doorway. That’s why Renzo liked it in here—outside of his room, anybody above him could make sure he knew he was the lowest fucker on the totem pole. Inside here, nobody could say a damn thing.
“What do you want?” Renzo asked.
His trainer—for all purposes—let out a grunt. He eyed the Native from the corner of his eye, and watched the man shift from foot to foot. His slick, black hair had been braided over his shoulder today, and his dark russet eyes narrowed. A good sign of his impatience.
Mostly, Renzo liked Cree. He kept Renzo in line, and gave him a wide berth of space when he needed it. Cree was also the only one who thought to give Renzo a heads up about what The League was going to be like. No need to fill his head full of bullshit, after all. He respected that. It didn’t mean he always liked Cree, though.
Cree was usually the one meting out the punishment when Renzo deserved it. He was the one pushing and pushing when Renzo just wanted someone to back off. Cree was the one beating the hell out of him in hand-to-hand combat and bringing in others when the training became more intensive.
This man woke him up and allowed him to sleep.
This man told him when to eat and shit.
This man drove him fucking crazy.
Renzo figured Cree was a higher up in The League because of his closeness to the man running the place. Except he also worked alongside the assassins. He was one in a team of ten. Although, according to Cree, his team varied. They could do a rescue, a retrieval, or even take something or someone out. They weren’t picky as long as they were paid, and on time.
And whether Cree was higher on the totem pole at The League, it didn’t matter. Most were treated the same. The League gave new recruits—as few and far in between as those were—to assassins who had already earned their stripes, so to speak. It reminded those who were already well-established in The League that they still had a responsibility, and if they failed … if they failed for any reason, well it wouldn’t end well for them.
That was the thing about Cree.
If Renzo failed, then so did Cree.
“I know you were supposed to be in basics an hour ago,” Cree said, “so y
ou wanna explain to me why you’re sitting in here playing with your fucking cock?”
Renzo glanced over at the man. “Do you see my dick, or …?”
“Don’t be a smartass, New York.”
“Could you use my name?”
“No, it helps me to disassociate.”
Renzo blinked.
Huh.
That was the first time Cree ever admitted that.
It made sense.
“I’m not going anywhere today. I’m not doing anything.”
Cree grunted under his breath again—a sign he was quickly losing his patience. “Why?”
“Because for the six months I have been here, I haven’t had one single day to—”
“You think anyone gives a fuck about what you want?” Cree interjected sharply. “We don’t, Renzo. What we care is that you’re capable. That if, by chance, you’re put on a team, we can trust you. That you know what you’re doing. That’s what we care about. Stop being a selfish child, and get to basics.”
Renzo didn’t move. “When will I be able to leave?”
“Not for a long while.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“Ask specific questions, then,” Cree uttered.
Well, he did ask.
“I want to walk outside. And not with the rest of you. I want a cheeseburger from In-and-Out. I want to call my little brother, or my sister.” Lucia, too. God, he wanted her more than anybody else could possibly ever know. “I want—”
“You’re back to thinking I give a fuck what you want, and I don’t.”
Renzo’s jaw tightened.
Asshole.
“Other people here have outside contact,” Renzo said, trying to keep his tone level. “Why can’t I?”
Cree folded his thick arms over his chest, and leaned against the doorjamb of Renzo’s room. “Here’s what I haven’t explained to you yet, Renzo. At one year here, you’re going to be put in front of buyers. Whoever wins your bid will take over your contract from The League for the next four years, at which point, as long as you are still alive …”
The man trailed off before sighing, and adding, “You will be able to decide whether you want to go through the auction again to contract yourself out, whether you want to leave The League entirely, or if you want to remain as an independent contractor. But do you know what happens when you’re fucking useless because you’ve spent too much time whining in your room about people you want to see instead of doing what you should be doing?”