Kane- Tooth & Nail

by Mark Allen

  The mob responded with vigor and enthusiasm.

  “TIMMMMMBBBERRRRRR!”

  A couple of inmates hustled into the ring and dragged out Lumberjack’s body, leaving behind a crimson smear on the floor like slug-slime.

  “Next up,” the announcer said, “is the man who don’t need no nickname, ‘cause his real name is already badass. Tommy Gunn!”

  The blond-haired, chisel-jawed inmate who climbed down out of the stands and entered the ring lacked the bulk of Kane’s previous opponent. Gunn topped out at only six feet tall, giving Kane a clear height and reach advantage.

  But as he sized up his new foe, Kane recognized the danger lurking beneath Gunn’s deceptive surface. His muscles might not bulge with ‘roid-rage intensity, but their lean power could prove deadly. Kane also expected Gunn to be much faster on his feet than Lumberjack.

  “As the current prince of the Pit, Reaper gets to choose the weapons for this match.” The announcer looked expectantly at Kane.

  There were plenty of exotic and oddball weapons arrayed on the racks, but Kane stuck with the familiar. “Knife.”

  The armorer appeared with a bucketful of blades. Not chintzy, makeshift prison shanks, but real, honest-to-goodness knives, including several tactical options.

  Kane preferred a Ka-Bar, but he didn’t see any, so he selected a Schrade SCH9 with a 6.4” drop blade and a weight of only sixteen ounces. With its blunted nose, the Schrade worked best for chopping and slicing rather than stabbing thrusts. Kane tended to be more of a slasher than a stabber, so that didn’t bother him.

  Gunn selected a SOG SEAL Pup Elite, a full-tang knife with a partially-serrated edge. The handle sported a deep diamond pattern for a better grip. It was a few inches shorter than Kane’s blade but weighed just five and a half ounces—light and lethal, just like the man wielding it.

  The announcer shouted his pre-fight shtick. “You know the rules! One man dies! One man lives! THIS IS THE PITS!”

  The crowd roared encouragement, but neither man rushed to engage. Instead, they circled each other warily. Every twenty seconds or so, Gunn feinted, but Kane refused to take the bait. He also refused to make the first move. He had all night. The onlookers started demanding action, with loud boos coming from the assembled mob. Kane didn’t give a damn. He would dance to his tune, not theirs.

  Gunn proved to be less patient. As the crowd started calling them pussies, he came in fast, looking to score first. He feinted for the tenth time, started to draw back as usual, and suddenly lunged forward in a fake-out attempt. As Kane had suspected, he was quick. His blade flicked out like a silver serpent’s tongue.

  Held low, Gunn’s SOG went for a gut strike, trying to tear a hole in Kane’s lower abdomen. He came close, but close only counted when you were playing with grenades, not knives.

  Kane spun away from the stab, the blade just kissing his shirt. He tried to punch Gunn’s jaw with his left hand but only succeeded in delivering a glancing blow to the neck that did no damage.

  He brought up his right knee, catching Gunn’s elbow and popping his arm up into a horizontal position. He tried to thrust his Schrade underneath the outstretched limb and into the vulnerable armpit, but Gunn dropped his arm in time to block the blow.

  With his knife deflected downward, Kane let momentum carry the blade across Gunn’s kneecap. A shallow wound, not much worse than a shaving cut, but it still meant Kane had drawn first blood.

  Gunn went for payback with a wild slash. Kane jumped back out of range, and the SOG caught nothing but empty air.

  The crowd started chanting again—“Reaper! Reaper! Reaper!”—as he went on the offensive. Knife-fighting was not his specialty, but his skills were well above average. Gunn countered better than expected, but within minutes, his arms were cut to shreds. He managed to deny Kane a killing blow, but his forearms looked like they had been run through a threshing machine. Blood dripped like rain all over the floor.

  That blood almost cost Kane his life.

  He spotted an opening that would let him shove the Schrade into Gunn’s belly. After that, it would just be a matter of slitting him open and letting his insides come out.

  He stepped forward to make the kill…and his foot slipped on the blood.

  It was like stepping on spilled grease.

  He recovered quickly, his boot only sliding a few inches, but it was enough to make him miss his opportunity. Worse, it left him momentarily vulnerable.

  Gunn was no chump fighter, and he seized the moment. Seeing Kane off-balance, he bulled forward, knife slashing. The blade caught Kane high on the left shoulder and sliced a burning path of pain down across his collarbone. Nothing deep and certainly not fatal, but too close a call for Kane’s comfort. A few inches higher, and the SOG would have sunk into the side of his neck and severed an artery.

  As he retreated from the slashing blade, Kane’s left hand shot out, fingers wrapping like steel bands around Gunn’s wrist. Using the man’s forward momentum against him, Kane rolled down onto the floor, slammed his boots into Gunn’s stomach, and executed a tactical rear somersault that sent the convict sailing over his head.

  As Gunn crashed down on his back with spine-jarring force, Kane regained his feet and attacked. Before his opponent could recover, he stepped forward, dropped to one knee, and drove his blade hilt-deep into Gunn’s belly. He immediately dragged the knife upward until he hit bone.

  The crowd’s savage roars of approval drowned out the agonized groans from Gunn. As bluish-gray loops bulged from the gaping wound, the inmate reached down to hold them in, fingers fumbling with the slippery coils spilling out onto the floor.

  Kane quickly ended Gunn’s pain by cutting his throat.

  Primal energy crackled through the building as the mob once again took up the chant.

  “Reaper! Reaper! Reaper!”

  Kane rose as Gunn’s gutted corpse twitched at his feet. He despised being forced to kill for sport, but it was the only way to survive. He either killed or died. The crowd screamed for blood, and he would give it to them—not because he wanted to, but because there was no other choice. He would give no quarter, show no mercy, until he gained his freedom. When he was free, he would avenge Luna’s death.

  He fixed a cold-eyed stare on the Dunkirks seated next to Nazareno. The sheriff and his deranged son were dead men walking, and they didn’t even know it. Kane would crawl out of hell to kill them if that was what it took.

  The corpse-removal cadre swept in and dragged the very dead Gunn out of the octagon.

  Right on cue, the announcer stepped forward. “We always knew Tommy Gunn had guts, but leave it to Reaper to show them to us!”

  The crowd yelled and shouted and pumped their fists in the air.

  “One more fight,” the skinny man announced. “Who will be tonight’s final challenger for Reaper?”

  Nazareno stood up.

  An absolute hush fell over the mob.

  The drug lord descended from the bleachers and entered the octagon, careful not to put his sandaled feet down in any of the spilled blood.

  Kane glanced up at Kumi Ghastin. The warden looked stunned. He understood how she felt. He could hardly believe it himself. What would make the Nazarene Dragon come down here and fight him to the death?

  Nothing, as it turned out. Nazareno had no intention of fighting him. But he did have other plans, and they were almost as shocking.

  He took the microphone from the announcer. “Is everyone enjoying the show?”

  The rafters rocked as the mob expressed its enthusiasm. Nothing like eight hundred bloodthirsty men screaming, “Hell, yeah!” at the top of their lungs to make the walls rattle and shake.

  “For our final showdown, we have a special treat for you,” Nazareno declared. “A bona fide grudge match.”

  He walked over to Kane, who still had the knife in his hand. He experienced another flickering temptation to just stab the drug lord in the face and call it a night, but it passed immediately. He would ne
ver make it out of the octagon alive. The crowd would tear him to pieces.

  Standing next to Kane, Nazareno pointed up into the stands at Paul Dunkirk. “Tell us, Reaper, what that man did.”

  Paul looked stunned to suddenly be the center of attention.

  “He raped and murdered a woman I cared for,” Kane said.

  “You want to kill him? Eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, that sort of thing?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Excelente, because you are going to get your chance.”

  Up in the bleachers, Paul’s face turned white and stricken.

  “That’s right, hombres,” Nazareno said to the crowd. “Tonight’s final contest will be a vengeance match between Reaper and the man who killed his woman. To the death, with no mercy given!”

  The mob erupted into absolute bedlam. They stomped and cheered and shouted, their enthusiastic roar shaking the building like the thunder of the apocalypse. This was next-level entertainment as far as they were concerned, and they loudly expressed their appreciation.

  Sheriff Dunkirk, Paul trailing close behind him like a shadow, shoved his way through the raucous crowd and stormed into the ring. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Nazareno?” he demanded.

  “Spicing things up,” the drug lord replied. “Adding a personal component to the Pit fights.”

  “I work for you,” Dunkirk said. “I’m on your side. You need me out there to run your operations. My son doesn’t fight for the amusement of these dirtbags.”

  “Dirtbags,” Paul echoed.

  Nazareno stepped in close, his voice dropping to a hiss that didn’t even carry to the bottom row of the bleachers. “That’s right, you work for me, which means you do what you’re told, or you’ll find yourself rotting at the bottom of the bog. And you’re not on my side, Dunkirk. You just like my money. You’re a mercenario, not a partner.” His thin lips peeled back in a predatory smile. “And while it’s true that I need someone on the outside, that someone doesn’t have to be you. You’re expendable, Dunkirk. Nothing more than a peon, and don’t you dare forget it.”

  “This is crap, Nazareno, and you know it.”

  “You know it,” Paul repeated.

  “Your son fights,” Nazareno stated. “That is the end of it.”

  “Dammit, man! I just lost a son yesterday!”

  “That was your fault, not mine. Your sons roughed up a chica and took a beating for it, but they couldn’t just leave it at that. No, like a bunch of tontos, you had to go mess with the man, rape his woman, and cut her throat.”

  The sheriff looked dumbfounded. “How the hell do you know all that?”

  “I’ve told you before that I know everything that happens in this town. It’s my fucking town.”

  “Yeah, well, that stuck-up little bitch had it coming.”

  “Had it coming,” Paul agreed.

  Seething with rage, Kane nearly ripped their throats out then and there.

  “Maybe she did, maybe she did not.” Nazareno shrugged. “That is not my concern. What is my concern is that by giving ‘that stuck-up little puta’ what you say she had coming, you pissed off a man who happens to be the head of a black-ops task force with just one mission: destroy the cartels and anyone associated with them.”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Dunkirk whined.

  Nazareno ignored the question. “You fucked with this man and then dumped him here. You stirred up a shitstorm and then tossed it in my lap for me to deal with.”

  “Like I said, how was I supposed to kn—”

  Nazareno cut him off. “I will deal with it, but not until you have paid the price for your stupidity.” He pointed at Paul. “He fights, or I will have you both chopped into pieces an inch at a time. No more conversation. Make your choice.”

  “C’mon, man!” Dunkirk gestured at Kane. “Paul doesn’t stand a chance against this bastard.”

  “Make your choice,” Nazareno repeated.

  During the exchange between the drug lord and the sheriff, Kane watched the color return to Paul’s face and the fear leave his eyes. His jaw clenched, and his hands curled into fists. “Let me fight him, Dad,” he growled. “Let me kill him for Nick.”

  “He’ll destroy you.”

  Paul shook his head. “Not today, he won’t. He can fight for that stupid whore, and I’ll fight for my brother. When it’s over, I promise you Kane will be burning in hell.”

  The look on the sheriff’s face made it clear that he knew his son didn’t stand a chance. It would take a miracle for Paul to survive, and God wasn’t in the habit of wasting His miracles on murdering rapists.

  Sheriff Dunkirk looked at Nazareno again. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “I told you. You dumped shit on my doorstep. Now you pay the price.”

  “Something tells me there’s more to it than that.”

  Nazareno’s eyes flashed with dark, hostile fire. “You thought you could run guns out of my town and not tell me?”

  “That’s what this is about? Hell, Nazareno, we can square that up right now. I’ll cut you in for fifty percent of the profits. Hell, buddy, make it sixty.”

  Nazareno shook his head slowly, like a cobra trying to hypnotize its prey. “I am not your companero, and I do not get cut in on deals. I am the one who does the cutting, and you are about to learn that some lessons cut deep.” He stepped back, raised the microphone to his lips, and shouted, “They fight! To the death!”

  Looking distraught but accepting his fate, or rather, his son’s fate, Sheriff Dunkirk returned to his seat in the bleachers.

  Paul stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. Sweat beads glistened in the tangled nest of his chest hair. If Kane had his way, that sweat would soon be mixed with blood.

  Nazareno whispered something to the announcer as he handed him back the microphone. The skinny man nodded and stepped into the ring. “All right, you mad dogs and motherfuckers! Get ready for the main event! Man to man, mano a mano…with no weapons!”

  The crowd thundered its approval.

  “That’s right,” the announcer shouted. “Reaper and the sheriff’s son will battle each other using nothing but tooth and claw. One fights for a woman. One fights for his brother. They both fight for VENGEANCE!” He thrust his fist into the sky in a rock star pose and screamed, “You know the rules! One man dies! One man lives!” He held the microphone out to the mob. “Give it to me!”

  Eight hundred spectators roared, “THIS IS THE PIT!”

  The announcer moonwalked out of the octagon again—Kane wondered if the skinny guy knew how to bust any other dance moves—and the war began.

  Except it wasn’t much of a war.

  More like a beat-down.

  With Luna’s face at the forefront of his mind, Kane demolished the man who had violated her. He opened up with a hard, looping right cross that struck Paul flush on the jaw and sent him reeling sideways. He followed up with a short, sharp punch to the ribs.

  Paul managed a weak swing that didn’t even come close. Kane punished him for his pathetic fighting skills by hammering his already-broken nose. Cursing and snorting in pain, Paul staggered backward. Kane chased him like a lion stalking a crippled antelope. His left hand feinted a jab. Paul fell for the fake, moving to block, and Kane instead sank a vicious blow deep into the bastard’s belly, doing his damnedest to drive his fist all the way through to the spine.

  The air exploding from Paul’s lungs sounded like a blacksmith’s bellows. He backed away, retching and gasping like a beached fish as he struggled to reclaim his ability to breathe.

  Kane grabbed him and pivoted, rolling the man over his hip in a judo throw. Paul flipped through the air and landed on his back.

  Anger burned through Kane’s veins. He wanted Paul Dunkirk dead for what he had done. Spurred by vengeance, he stormed over to the fallen man and raised his boot to stomp Paul’s face into a broken, bloody mess.

  Desperate not to die, Paul managed to move his
head just enough. Kane’s boot missed a direct hit and instead raked down the man’s left cheekbone, tearing open the skin before hitting the floor.

  Paul grabbed the boot, pulling hard, trying to bring Kane down.

  The rage boiling Kane’s bloodstream abruptly turned ice-cold. He reached down, took hold of Paul’s left arm, and with a savage pull and twist, popped it from its socket with the harsh sound of ripping tendons. As Paul howled in pain, Kane stretched out the arm like that of a criminal about to be crucified, then jerked it back against his knee. The bone snapped like a dried twig, and the jagged ends burst through the skin.

  Then Kane broke his other arm. Even the bloodthirsty mob winced at the sharp crack, although they continued to yell encouragement as he systematically decimated Paul Dunkirk.

  Kane didn’t need encouragement. All he needed to do was think about Luna.

  He broke both of Paul’s legs as well, stomping on his knees until they resembled crushed eggshells.

  Completely crippled, Paul thrashed his head from side to side, words blubbering from his lips, begging for mercy.

  Kane towered over him, a stone-cold pillar of rage and revenge. “Did Luna beg for mercy, you son of a bitch?”

  He kicked Paul between the legs as hard as he could.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Until he was damn sure nothing remained of Paul’s manhood except pulped meat.

  When he finally stopped kicking, breathing heavily from exertion, the thunder of blood-red rage in his ears gave way to the roar of the crowd.

  “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

  A primal rhythm, a chant for carnage, the mob hungry for the coup de grace.

  Paul had passed out after the third kick to his ruptured balls. Kane now knelt beside him and clasped his head in his hands, ready to deliver the sharp, savage twist that would snap his neck and shoot vertebrae fragments into his brainstem. Ready to claim his vengeance.

  Ready to kill.

  “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

  Kane’s muscles tensed.

  At the last second, he looked up into the bleachers and saw Nazareno watching him. With a cold, cruel smile, the Nazarene Dragon held out his hand with his thumb raised, like a Roman emperor granting a gladiator permission to finish his opponent in the arena.