by Mark Allen
“What are you talking about?”
Before Nazareno answered, the door opened and Goatsack, along with several members of his team, entered the cell.
“Take him,” Nazareno ordered. “Put him on ice until esta noche.”
“What happens tonight?” Kane asked, although he already had a good idea.
As Goatsack and Breezy stepped forward to flex-cuff his wrists, Nazareno replied, “Since you enjoy killing bad guys so much, we’re going to give you the chance to do exactly that. Tonight, you fight in the Pit.”
“Kill or be killed,” Goatsack growled.
“To the death,” Breezy said.
“No mercy,” Big Belly added.
“Yeah,” Kane rasped, “I get the fucking idea.”
As he felt the plastic loops slip over his hands, Kane thought about resisting, putting up a fight, making these assholes earn their keep. He quickly discarded the idea. There was no way to win. He would get in his licks, break a few limbs, and maybe snap a neck or two if he got lucky. But in the end, between Goatsack’s crew and Nazareno’s gang, he would be subdued and beaten. His body still ached from last night’s welcome-to-Black-Bog beat-down, so adding bruises on top of bruises didn’t seem like a smart play. He would need all his strength to survive the Pit tonight; better to conserve his energy now.
As Goatsack and Breezy escorted him out of the cell, Nazareno called, “Enjoy the rest of your day, Reaper. I’ll see you tonight.”
Over his shoulder, Kane tossed him a bared-teeth wolf-smile and replied, “Just remember, asshole, they don’t call me Reaper for nothing.”
Chapter Thirteen
Vesper Lake Sheriff’s Station
Sheriff Dunkirk set the phone back down in its cradle as Paul entered the office, which was really just a glass-enclosed cubicle in the back corner of the station.
His sole surviving son plopped down in one of the two chairs arrayed in front of the desk. He looked like he had been crying, but he also looked sweaty.
“Where have you been?” Dunkirk demanded.
“Banging Jailbait.”
“Where?”
“Back room of Baldy’s.”
Dunkirk said, “That little slut is gonna give you an STD one of these days. For God’s sake, Paul, she’s been with damn near every guy in a fifty-mile radius.”
Paul sniffed and shrugged. “I wanted to forget about Nick.”
“Did it work?”
“For about sixty seconds, yeah, it worked great.”
Dunkirk shook his head again, but he understood Paul’s need to do something—anything—to not think about his brother’s death. Hell, he was being hypocritical because he had screwed the shit out of Jailbait last night in the back of the Bronco, but there was no reason to tell Paul that. He had done it for no other reason than to stop the pain inside. He felt nothing for the girl, nor she for him, but he didn’t care. For the better part of an hour, he had taken from her exactly what he needed.
But it hadn’t lasted. By the time he’d crawled into the shower, the grief had pounced on him again, Nick’s ghost haunting his mind. He couldn’t believe his son—the only one worth a damn, although he almost never said that to Paul—was gone, snuffed out by a lucky bullet from a stuck-up whore who thought she was better than them.
Nick was now laid out on a mortician’s slab at McCulley’s Funeral Home on Church Street, funeral scheduled for the day after tomorrow. No point in waiting to bury him. Wasn’t like there were going to be carloads of friends and family rolling into town to pay their respects. His wife had run off to Manitoba with some neck-bearded lumberjack shortly after Paul was born, and the other relatives had never factored much into their lives. Partly because they were so isolated up here in the mountains, partly because Duncan Dunkirk was a mean, ornery son of a bitch who nobody wanted to be around.
Made scheduling a funeral real easy.
Paul pointed at the phone. “Who were you talking to?”
“Nazareno.”
“What’d he want?”
“Just letting us know the Pit is open tonight.”
“We going?”
“You want to?”
Paul shrugged. “Nick always liked the Pit fights.”
“That cocksucker Kane is fighting.” Dunkirk leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “Turns out he’s some kind of spec-ops federal agent.”
Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “Federal agent? Shit, we fucked with a fed?”
“Relax. Nazareno’s got it covered.”
“Still…” Paul looked worried.
“Do you want to go tonight? Watch him die with your own eyes?”
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it for Nick. If that damn fed hadn’t come to our town and got Luna all hot an’ bothered, Nick would still be alive.”
Dunkirk didn’t bother pointing out that if Paul and Nick had just left Luna alone, Kane wouldn’t have messed with them, and Nick would still be alive. Let him blame Kane for his brother’s death. The delusion provided him with a focus for his rage and grief.
“Go home and get some rest,” Dunkirk said. “Meet me back here tonight at seven-thirty.”
“Seven-thirty.” Paul grinned. “Watching Kane get killed tonight is gonna be fun.”
Yeah, Dunkirk thought. Killing is always fun, as long as you’re not the one getting killed.
Black Bog Federal Prison
2030 Hours
Kane stood in the “arena” as the mob roared, hungry for blood.
The Pit turned out to be the prison’s old textile factory, which had once manufactured backpacks and canteen holders for the U.S. military, until mandatory sourcing laws changed and Uncle Sam found cheaper manufacturers on the free market. The industrial sewing machines and fabric-cutting tables had been stripped out and sold off, leaving the hangar-sized building empty.
When Nazareno seized control of the prison, he’d had the factory retrofitted into a makeshift coliseum. Portable sports bleachers, enough to seat eight hundred people, formed an octagonal ring in which the combatants battled. Racks of weapons—clubs, axes, knives, machetes, spears, etc.—hung on the walls. Loudspeakers were suspended from the exposed steel rafters.
All this had been explained to Kane by Goatsack. He and his SORT team had escorted Kane from Alpha Unit directly to the factory and spent the rest of the day guarding him. It had given Kane a chance to get to learn the individual team members’ personalities as he listened to them grumble and grouse. Not that it mattered; he still fully intended to kill them all.
“This is some bullshit,” Yippy had snapped. “Yesterday we’re gunning down bitches, today we’re babysitting.”
“Least you ain’t got blue balls,” Big Belly had said. “Hey, Goat, really wish you had let me nail one of them girls yesterday before we smoked ‘em.”
“Reaper looks bored.” Sirius had waved at Kane. “Hey, Reaper, you okay with getting diddled by Big Belly here? It’ll help pass the time and take care of his blue ball problem.”
Kane hadn’t bothered responding.
The team swapped war stories, told dirty jokes, boasted about sexual exploits, and played cards. Around noon, Red Cent and Happy went out and fetched some pizzas the team scarfed down like a school of piranhas attacking a monkey that fell in the river. They didn’t offer Kane any, ignoring his growling stomach.
When the feast ended, Goatsack came over with a couple of crusts and tossed them on Kane’s lap like a master offering scraps to a mongrel mutt. Kane’s hands remained flex-cuffed in front of him, but he was able to pick up the crusts and get them to his mouth. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he needed the fuel for the upcoming fights.
Goatsack perched on the bleachers nearby and studied him. “You really some kind of badass fed, Reaper?”
“Not officially, no.”
“Black ops?”
“Something like that.”
Goatsack shook his head. “How the hell did you end up in here, Reaper?”
&
nbsp; “Long story.”
“I’ve got the time if you’re interested in telling.”
“I’m not.”
“Figured as much.” Goatsack stood up.
“Hey,” Kane said.
“Yeah?”
“You were a good man once, right?”
Goatsack pondered that, then replied, “Yeah, I guess I was. A long time ago.”
Kane nodded. “I’m gonna do you a favor and kill you quick.”
Goatsack burst out laughing. “I appreciate that, Reaper. I really do.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “Damn, man, but I like your style.”
They spent the afternoon napping, Kane included, resting up for the evening’s blood-sport. Dinner turned out to be Chinese takeout. They gave Kane half an eggroll and the dregs of the pork fried rice.
Duck crumbled a fortune cookie in front of him and made a big show of reading the slip of paper. “Hey, Reaper, I’ve got your fortune right here. It says, ‘You’re fucked.’”
The team had a good laugh at that one.
Goatsack took him to the bathroom and let him drink some water out of the faucet and use the toilet. “Almost game time, Reaper.”
“Wasn’t sure I was gonna make it,” Kane said. “Thought I might die of boredom first.”
Around 8:00 p.m., some of Nazareno’s posse showed up to open the main doors so that the spectators could filter in and fill the bleachers. Within minutes, the quiet of the day gave way to the bloodthirsty noise of the night.
The Pit was ready for some rock ‘n’ roll carnage.
Men wove through the crowd, taking bets. The loudspeakers blared to life, and some kind of reggae-infused heavy metal blasted through the factory like a sonic cannonball. Even that paled in comparison to the thunderous roar of the crowd.
Goatsack motioned for Kane to stand up, then snipped off his flex-cuffs. “Get ready,” the SORT leader said. “Nazareno will be here any minute now, and then this party will really get started.”
“The warden come to this shitshow?” Kane asked.
“Ghastin? You bet. Nazareno makes her come.” He chuckled at the double entendre. “She’ll be right by his side like a good little pet.”
As if on cue, the Nazarene Dragon appeared, wearing a robe so dazzlingly white that it had to be bleached. Six hard-eyed men swarmed around him, including Pentagram, all sporting the distinctive tattoos of the murderous MS-13 gang. All carried machetes, and all looked more than ready to use them. No, not just ready—hoping to use them.
To his left and slightly behind, heeling like a well-trained dog, walked Kumi Ghastin. Her eyes locked with Kane’s for a brief moment, then slid away. Her hair was damp as if she had just showered. Kane suspected he knew why she had needed one.
Try as he might, Kane just couldn’t bring himself to hate her.
The same could not be said for the men on Nazareno’s right.
The sight of Sheriff Dunkirk and his son Paul sent hot rage seething through Kane like molten lava. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as he stared at the men who had murdered Luna, wondering if there was any way he would get a chance to kill them tonight.
The sheriff spotted him, flashed a toothy grin, and mockingly dragged a finger across his throat to remind him of how Luna had died. Because of his repetition tic, Paul mirrored his father’s actions.
Kane welcomed the hate he felt for the two men, and the anger and fury their presence spawned. He let it pump into his bloodstream like fuel and fill his veins like an adrenalized narcotic. That hate, that rage, would keep him alive tonight.
He would live so that he could see the Dunkirks die.
A section of the bleachers had been reserved for Nazareno and his entourage. Once they were seated, a tall, skinny black man walked into the center of the octagon with a wireless microphone in his hand. He had long, slender fingers like a concert pianist.
The ring announcer raised the mic to his lips. As the last note of the heavy metal music faded, the announcer bellowed, “Mad dogs and motherfuckers! Welcome to the Pit!”
The mob roared, the cacophony echoing and reverberating and rolling off the concrete walls and metal roof.
“Are you ready for blood?” the announcer shouted.
This roar was even louder than the last. A jet engine could have fired up in the next room and nobody would have heard it.
“You know the rules! Three rounds! Last man standing lives to die another day!”
More screams and howls and shouts of approval. The throng began to stomp on the metal bleachers, kicking into a well-known rhythm and chanting a famous rock anthem with altered lyrics.
“We will, we will, KILL YOU!”
The announcer spun three hundred and sixty degrees, leg cocked in some weird dance move that looked like a combination of the moonwalk and the hokey-pokey. Clearly, the guy loved playing to an audience. Had probably been a DJ in his pre-incarceration life.
“Now listen up, y’all.” His voice boomed from the loudspeakers. “We have a newcomer tonight. Bastard came in like a wrecking ball and has been stacking up bodies since his boots hit the compound. You can call him a newbie, you can call him a cherry, you can call him the new fish on the block…or you can just call him by his motherfucking name.” With a flourish, he pointed a bony finger at Kane and shouted, “John ‘the Reaper’ Kane!”
The crowd erupted. Word of Kane’s combat prowess had spread through the prison like wildfire, and they were all expecting him to bring the pain tonight. They began chanting his name.
“Reaper! Reaper! Reaper!”
Kane wasn’t fooled into believing they actually liked or respected him. They simply expected him to unleash the carnage they craved, and for that, they would cheer him on.
The announcer motioned for silence, and the mob complied.
“His opponent, the current reigning champion of the Pit,” he pointed at the inmate as he stepped down from the bleachers and entered the octagon, “is the man we call ‘Lumberjack!’”
It wasn’t hard to figure out where the convict’s name had come from. A black knit cap perched on his head, thick tufts of red hair sprouting from underneath. His bristly ginger beard hung all the way down to the middle of his barrel chest, which was clad in a sleeveless red-and-black checked flannel shirt that left his bulging biceps exposed. His jeans were tucked into calf-high steel-toed logging boots.
Lumberjack glared across the ring at Kane and snarled, “I’m gonna split you open like a rotten log, asshole.”
The crowd roared its approval at the trash-talk.
The announcer raised the microphone to his lips again. “As the reigning champion of the Pit, Lumberjack gets to choose which weapons they will fight with tonight.”
“Axes,” Lumberjack said. “Gonna chop this fucker down like a tree.”
An inmate wearing a black t-shirt with the word Armorer stenciled in white letters on the back walked into the ring holding two double-bladed axes. He tossed one to Lumberjack and one to Kane, then scurried back out of sight.
Kane hefted the weapon, getting a feel for its weight and balance. The hickory handle was worn smooth. He took a test swing, making sure to keep a tight grip. The wood slid against his palm slightly. Not enough to cause concern, but if the handle was slick with blood, weapon control might become a problem.
Nothing he could do about it. This was the hand the gods of war had dealt him. All he could do now was play the game.
“You know the rules!” the announcer shouted. “One man dies! One man lives! THIS IS THE PITS!”
The skinny man moonwalked out of the ring. Kane had to give him style points. The guy knew how to fire up a crowd.
There was no bell to signal the start of the deathmatch. As soon as the announcer exited the octagon, Lumberjack bellowed a roar that would have made Godzilla proud and charged across the ring. He swung the axe like a baseball bat, aiming to hit a homerun on Kane’s neck.
Kane saw that while Lumberjack might be big, he was also
slow.
He easily ducked the blow and the axe whistled over his head. He fired an elbow into Lumberjack’s flank, connecting just above the hipbone but missing the ribcage. He cursed silently. He’d been hoping to break a rib and make it harder for the man to maneuver.
He powered upright before Lumberjack could bring the axe around for another swing. Gripping his own axe just below the double-bladed head, he jabbed his opponent in the face. Not enough force to punch through bone, but the honed edge split Lumberjack’s nose open like a sliced pear. Blood drizzled into his beard, staining the bristles a much darker shade of red.
Lumberjack staggered backward, clutching his hacked-up face. He looked surprised as hell to be bleeding.
Kane hooked a heel behind the man’s ankle and sent him to the ground. As he fell, Kane raised the axe and brought it slamming down in a hard, vicious chop.
Lumberjack landed on his back and raised a hand to ward off the blow.
Kane’s axe struck him between the middle and ring fingers, shearing all the way through to split his forearm open halfway down to the elbow. Blood exploded from carved flesh and severed tendons.
Lumberjack howled in pain, his bloody mouth forming a large, perfect circle.
Ripping the axe free, Kane swung again, using that circle as a target.
The axe scored a bullseye, silencing the howl in a sickening crunch of bone.
The whole fight had barely lasted thirty seconds.
Kane pulled the axe out of Lumberjack’s bisected face, brains dripping from the blade, and stared up at Nazareno in the bleachers. “That the best you got?” he rasped.
The crowd had lapsed into stunned silence following his rapid destruction of the fearsome Lumberjack. Now it erupted into hoots and hollers. Their tongues took up his name and turned it into a primal chant.
“Reaper! Reaper! Reaper!”
There was a new champion in the octagon.
Nazareno did not look pleased.
The announcer stepped forward and raised the microphone to his lips. “Did not see that coming, y’all. Lumberjack went down, and I mean hard. Damn fool fell like a chain-sawed tree.” He cupped his free hand behind his ear. “Can I get a ‘Timmmmmberrrrrr?’”