“You’re walking out of this cage, Wraith.” He emphasizes my name. Pulls something out that he has stashed up his sleeve. Can’t see what it is, but the pinch tells me it’s a syringe, and he’s jabbed whatever it is in my arm. Then it disappears back up his sleeve. “Whatever it takes.”
The fuck?
Oh shit. Trizapam. Shit got real.Fast.Well, okay then. Guess Iamdying tonight. Figuratively only, I hope. I take another deep breath as Lyle comes strolling back toward us, wearing his customary shit-eating grin.
“You’re in trouble now, boy.”
His stupid juvenile taunt doesn’t work on me since I can practically taste freedom. Or is it trizapam? Who the hell knows? I want this over, and I want out. Only way that’s happening is through whoever gets locked in this octagon with me.
I recall a book I read years ago. Something about mind over matter and manifesting an outcome. Seems like something to try right about now. And then the cage door opens, and I tense as my opponent steps inside. The guy has got a shock of red hair and freckles that reminds me of Irish. Original, yeah? But that’s the name Kevin O’Rourke was given the day he became an Unholy. Guy’s old-school Ireland, complete with a brogue. Good man. Loyal as fuck. Tough as the devil himself. Scrappy, too. If Irish is anything to go by, I won’t underestimate this fighter. He’s shorter than me, but he’s a bulky sonofabitch, with a thick neck and beefy hands. He’s not as wide as me, though, but I won’t have to throw the fight. This one looks like he can do some damage, so my loss won’t seem suspicious.
“Good luck.” Lyle snickers.
“Let him hurt you,” Thomas says from behind me as he cuts the zip ties.
Not a problem.
The four handlers rush out of the octagon and take their places outside the cage. Door slams shut. Spotlights flare on, illuminating the announcer perched on a platform outside the cage. Mic in hand, he’s the epitome of showmanship in his snazzy tux and slick black hair.
For Christ’s sake, he’s wearing at least ten pounds of makeup.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time. What we’ve been waiting for. The main event. Tiernan versus Atticus. Underdog against favorite. Two men with a blood feud they’ll settle here. Tonight. Challenger and champion. Good against evil. Only one will leave this octagon the victor.”
That’s some heavy-handed dramatic bullshit right there. But the crowd loses its collective mind, eating up the announcer’s theatrical nonsense like it is the gospel.Good versus evil, for fuck’s sake. Like we’re biblical adversaries instead of two captives forced to kill or be killed for a rabid mob’s amusement. Well, at least the idiot has flair. I gotta give him that much.
The spotlight goes off.
Bell rings. Mob goes crazy.
Game on.
Bell won’t sound again until one of us stops breathing.
My hands go up in a conventional guard. I lead with my right and keep my other against my left cheek as Tiernan wastes no time charging forward. I dodge the first jab, but he’s quick and catches me with the second.Christ, he’s strong. His fist is a hammer to my mouth, smashing lips against teeth to draw first blood. I answer with an effective right-hand jab that snaps his head backward and follow up with a left cross. He’s rocked. I seize the opportunity and land a front kick. I catch him with an ear clap. Attempt a round kick. Fucker grabs my right leg. Pulls me in and executes the takedown. My back slams against the mat. He takes the mount and unleashes a brutal ground and pound. He’s good. Powerful. But I’m better. I break free and shoot to my feet. Guard is up. We stand and bang, landing solid strikes.
Bloody and my vision blurred by sweat, I heave in a breath as we work the octagon. We’re both spent, exhausted, and fall into a clinch to dirty box. His heavy fists do some severe damage to my torso. Something gives inside of me, snaps, and sucks the breath right out of me. But the air rushes back, and I shake off the pain to land an uppercut to his chin. He comes in for another takedown.Not again, motherfucker.I lock him in a sprawl and force us back to our feet. On the attack, I wreck him with a volley of hits. He’s dazed, and I grab him in a guillotine. He batters my torso, and again, there’s a sickening give.
My arms loosen around his neck enough for him to break my hold. He makes the mistake of taking a step back and puts space between us for me to land a spinning back fist. An overhand right sends a spray of blood from his mouth. The follow-up jab knocks out a tooth. Another left cross destroys his nose.
He’s hurt but still standing, and his fists are fucking mallets that put me on the defense that sends me backward. Up against the cage we go. The metal links press into my back as we work our way around the octagon. It’s a struggle to fight my way free from another clinch. I bare my teeth in a snarl and take back domination. Shock him with a haymaker and follow it up with a rain of strikes. He answers me with wild, ineffective punches. When I know I’ve got him, I move behind him and grab him in a rear naked choke. If this were a typical fight, I’d go for the tap-out.
This isn’t that kind of fight.
First, he claws at my arms. Then slaps at them. We fall to our knees, my grip relentless. He grabs at me, but I tighten my hold with my face buried in his sweat-soaked hair. I squeeze harder, applying enough pressure to his windpipe to put him to sleep. Only when he goes limp do I drag the unconscious man toward the perimeter of the cage—directly in front of where Crane is seated.
He wants a front-row seat to a slaughter? Fuck it. That’s what he gets. I want Crane to see what I’m going to do to him.
“Fuck you,” I snarl. Crane can’t hear me over the noise, but he knows damn well what I said—and he knows I’m about to be the last man standing in this cage. Then to Tiernan, “I’m sorry.”
Movies make snapping a neck seem easy. Quick twist, and it’s over.Yeah, no.Takes effort, and as I wrap my arms around Tiernan’s head, I keep my glare on Crane and put all my weight, all the strength I have left, in the jerk of my arms. Tiernan’s head swivels in my hold. I tug harder, and his neck twists. The gross give of his cervical spine and the revolting crack etches itself across my brain. I open my arms, and Tiernan slips to the mat to land in a crumpled heap.
Oh my fucking God.
I drop to my knees and need a second to catch my breath and give silent honor to a worthy opponent. Tiernan gave as good as he got.
Tiernan.I say his name again because it needs to be said and commit the man to memory. He’s joining the others who’ve fallen by my hand in this cage. He’s one more ghost who’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.
The bell sounds. The announcer’s back up on his stupid podium, declaring me the winner and still champion. Thomas rushes in with Lyle behind him. Goddamn Lyle and his cattle prod. He lights me up without provocation, of course. It’s what he does, and what the crowd expects. What they demand. Electricity sizzles through me, knocking me forward. Luckily, my mangled face breaks my landing.
