"Exactly like that," Damron said. He scanned the faces in the room, daring anyone to flinch. "We pick a champion. They pick a champion. The winner takes the girl. Loser walks away, or gets carried out."
A noise ran through the room—half disgust, half disbelief.
Carl spat on the floor. "That’s a goddamn trap. Cutler wants to parade our guy’s corpse around like a float at the Fourth of July."
"Maybe," Damron said. "But he’s offering terms. If we win, the girl stays ours. She gets to pick her own fate. If we lose, she goes back to the Leatherbacks, no strings attached. No more blood, no more war."
Seneca looked skeptical, but also interested, which was worse. "You trust him?"
"I trust him to want his daughter back more than he wants any of us dead," Damron said. "And I trust that ifwe say no, he’ll put a bounty on every patch in this room and let the world do his dirty work."
The room went quiet, except for the slow, deliberate click of Seneca’s Zippo as he thumbed the lighter open and shut, open and shut, the flame never catching.
That’s when Melissa appeared in the doorway, hair wild and skin pale under the fluorescents. She looked at the envelope, then at me, then at Damron.
"What’s it say?" she asked, voice raw.
Seneca handed her the paper. She read it, jaw set, eyes going wide at the signature at the bottom—SAINT ETIENNE, in looping, psychotic cursive. Her hands trembled as she folded it shut.
"You can’t," she said, but nobody heard her.
Damron stood up, finally, looming over the table. "We vote. That’s how this works. Majority rules. If we go for it, we pick our man and start prepping. If we don’t, we lock down and wait for the next body to drop."
He went around the table, one by one. Carl voted no, but only after glancing at me. Seneca said yes, his voice bored, but his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store. Nitro voted yes. The next, a prospect barely old enough to drink, stuttered and said yes. It kept going—split right down the line. Half yes, half no.
Damron made a show of waiting, then said, "I vote yes. Tiebreaker."
The room broke into three separate arguments: the old-timers cursing at the kids, the prospects looking like they might puke, Seneca smiling like it was Christmas morning, and all the presents were made of bone.
I stood there, feeling Melissa’s eyes burning holes in my back.
It took a second for me to realize everyone was waiting on me. Not for a vote. For something else.
I looked at Damron. "You want me to do it," I said. Not a question.
He shrugged. "You’re the best shot we’ve got. You want to volunteer, or you want to make me ask?"
I thought about it. Not the odds, not the pain, not even the fear. Just the simple, dumb truth of the matter: If I didn't do it, someone else would, and that someone would be dead before they even put their boots on. I could at least make it interesting.
"I’ll do it," I said.
Damron nodded, not even surprised. "Done."
That’s when Melissa lost her mind.
She came at me, fists tight, eyes wild with panic. "You can’t! You know what Saint does to people? He’s killed three men in matches like this—one withhis bare hands!"
I caught her wrists, held them until the fight went out of her. She sagged against me, breath coming fast. She tried to say something else, but the words twisted into a sob.
Seneca watched, amused. "Maybe he’s hoping for a fair fight."
"Saint doesn’t know the meaning of fair," Melissa said. Her voice had gone flat, dead as asphalt. "He’ll break every bone in your body before he even thinks about ending it. You think you’re ready for that, Augie?"
I pulled her close, my mouth at her ear. "It’s one fight, Mel. One fight or a hundred funerals. I can take pain. I can take him."
She tried to pull away, but I held her, arms locked around her shoulders, letting her shiver against my chest until she could breathe again.
Damron slammed the envelope back on the table. "It’s settled. We prep for the trial. Augustine’s the champion. If anyone’s got a better idea, speak now."
