Page 8 of Ignited

Stabby’s remains were now enshrined on a pedestal. Candles burned. Flowers periodically appeared, and gifts—homemade cards, religious statues from Jesus to Buddha, spent ammo shells, and ‘Never forget’ signs.

Then Switch had gotten creative with the new Roombas, and started making them into waiters. And, apparently, making them judgmental. A few of those had bullet holes in them too. One of them was now dressed like a pirate and had an eye patch.

By a miracle, Boomer found an empty seat at the bar and ordered a beer. While he waited, he fingered the dog tags around his neck. They weren’t standard-issue; he and his brother had had them specially made. They worked as both homing beacons and communication devices, activated by tiny, almost invisible buttons along the edge. They were strung on industrial-strength elastic so they could wear them whether they were human or wolf.

His brother had gone off without his tonight. He did that sometimes, when he needed alone time. He’d been through a lot of shit and it made his wolf wild. As for Bro himself, it made him hold everything in like his skin was a dam, keeping all the rage controlled and only letting it out a little at a time, where it would do the most good.

His wolf was the raging river and the safety valve all at the same time.

Boomer didn’t usually worry about him, even when he went off without his tags. But today he did. The two of them had always been close—they could feel when the other one was in trouble. Boomer’s brother wasn’t in trouble, exactly, but something was off. And it was giving Boomer an antsy feeling in his stomach.

Not even nachos or the amusement of watching one of Switch’s waiter Roombas whaling on one of Mickey’s buddies for stealing a beer made it go away.

The feeling didn’t ease up till almost midnight—a shifting of tension that told Boomer his Bro was home safe, and coming this way. Boomer called for two fresh beers.

His bro came in ten minutes later, impassive as always. A pathway subtly cleared for him as he walked across the room—also typical. He didn’t seem to notice, but Boomer knew he liked it that way. Never getting too close to anyone, because there wasn’t anyone he could trust.

He joined Boomer at the bar, giving him a gentle nudge with his shoulder, like an ‘everything’s all right.’ Boomer felt the pieces of himself rearrange into a familiar pattern. All was okay in his world, at least for now.

He shoved the second beer toward his brother, and was rewarded with a faint hint of a smile. Boomer said, “I was about to send the Sanchez brothers out after you.” They were the Ridge’s top trackers.

The smile grew a quarter of an inch. “Only one of us would have come back. And they wouldn’t be named Sanchez.”

So it had been a bad night. Boomer nudged his brother back. “You still gonna be my wingman tomorrow? Saturday night in Rockhaven. Woo-hah. How can you resist?”

Rockhaven was the tiny town at the foot of the Ridge. It had two bars. One in a family restaurant, and one road house. That was it.

“About that…” His brother got a miniscule frown between his eyebrows.

Shit. No wingman. “Fine, I’ll go by myself.”

Bro pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. “When I got back to the cabin, there was a ping on the computer. From the web crawler.”

“Which one?” The two of them ran a few web crawlers—programs that searched the internet for word of various people they either wanted to kill, or wanted to avoid.

“This one.” He tapped the phone screen and held it in front of Boomer.

Boomer stopped with his beer halfway to his mouth. It was a picture of a woman, her hair pure white with black tiger stripes. Blue eyes blazed at him through the screen, right into his soul. Just like the white tiger on his cork board.

Boomer slowly put down his beer and took the phone, staring at the picture. “Zoom out and scroll down,” his brother said.

The full picture was a flyer advertising a local unsanctioned pro-am fight venue, one that skated the line of legality and only escaped being shut down because it was a ‘private membership club.’ Which meant you paid five extra bucks on your cover charge the first time you went, in exchange for a bullshit membership card—and therefore the club wasn’t bound by the rules of a public venue.

Boomer had heard about it, but he’d never been. If he wanted to watch people brawl and bet on the outcome, he could stay home, because that was a typical afternoon at the Ridge.

He scrolled down to the caption under the picture. It read:

KARISMA, THE SIBERIAN TIGER QUEEN

UNDEFEATED FIGHT CHAMPION

WATCH HER DESTROY THE COMPETITION

LIMITED TIME

DON’T MISS THIS AMAZING SPECTACLE!

A shadow fell over his phone, and Cisco Sanchez shoved in behind him, trying to get the bartender’s attention. His brother Matéo was right behind him. Of course. Those two got separation anxiety if they got more than five feet away from each other. At least, they never seemed to go anywhere by themselves. Except maybe to the crapper, but he wouldn’t even bet on that.