Feuds (26 page)

Cole heard a branch crack.

“Davis?” He whirled around, looking for the source of the sound. “Is that you?” He kept his voice low. Another crack rang out. It may as well have been gunfire for how it sounded against the silence of the carousel. Another crack, closer.

Hands were everywhere. On his shoulders, his wrists, the back of his shirt. They weren't hers—gentle. They were rough, confident, strong. He fought to wriggle from their grasp.

“Cole Everett. You're coming with us.” A policeman came into view in his periphery as the officer pulled Cole's hands behind his back. Confusion gave way to panic, and Cole struggled with every muscle in his body, but the cop held him.

“What is this? What's going on?” Cole shouted. He struggled. He pulled one arm free, and the cop swore. He wouldn't go down without trying. Cole swiveled partway, throwing a desperate punch that connected with a cop's nose. The cop cried out and released him, and Cole turned, intending to run—but a second cop was on him, pinning him to the ground. Cole twisted, kneeing the cop in the stomach. His heart thudded and his entire body pulsed with adrenaline. He struggled on the ground against the second cop. They were now engaged in a sort of wrestling match, and Cole was surprised by how well the guy fought.

Another set of arms came down and pinned Cole to the ground, but not before Cole got in another good kick. “Forgot this guy's a cage fighter,” one of the cops grunted. Then Cole was on the ground, his face pressed firmly against dirt, his arms twisted firmly behind him. Cole winced against the pain as the cop pulled back his arms and cuffed him. The cop hauled him to his feet, twisting his arms hard in the process.

“You're under arrest,” he said, “on charges of unlawful fraternization with a Prior.”

Cole hung his head, allowing himself to be led to the cop car. His heart sank; there was no way out now, not even a way to get a message to Davis. Her life depended on them finding some way to counteract the illness. He couldn't rot in some prison and hope she'd be okay on her own. He racked his brain for some solution, some way out. There was nothing, only desperation and devastation where there had once been the greatest happiness he'd ever felt.

*   *   *

The detention center was cold and gray, a makeshift facility that looked cobbled out of cinder blocks. Cole thought that it had probably once been a hospital—the cells weren't cells at all but little individual rooms, all in a row, with locked metal doors. The cops hadn't talked on the way over and they didn't talk now—just shoved him into one of the rooms so hard that he stumbled and fell. He struggled to stand with his arms tied behind him, and he heard laughter through the door; he turned and saw the pudgy face of one of the cops frozen in a wide grin. Jeering. Exhausted, Cole sat on a cot in the corner; it represented the only furnishings in the room. It was cold, and he could feel the metal springs through the thin mat that covered it. He couldn't see any of the other inmates, only a heavy stone door with a small window that faced another stone wall.

An hour—or maybe two—passed. Cole couldn't tell; his thoughts were racing in circles. Everything came back to the fact that the tabloids showed his face with Davis's. There was no way out of the situation. It didn't matter anymore that the only reason any of this had happened was because he wanted something better for his family—a happier life, away from the losing battle they were all fighting to survive. If he hadn't fallen for Davis, it might all have worked out. But it was impossible to think back to a time when he hadn't cared about her. None of it was her fault; he'd brought it on her. The thought of Davis suffering, possibly in pain—it made Cole rise to his feet, pace the room. He couldn't sit still and do nothing while she was in danger. He
had
to make things right. She'd been so scared when he saw her last. Her eyes, wide and bright with panic; her hands, trembling. Her mouth, her lips …

Finally the door cracked open, and a gruff voice ordered Cole to follow. He was led into a room only slightly larger than the one with the cot and instructed to sit down. He sat, and the cop sat across from him.

“You're being released on bail,” the cop informed him. Cole straightened, his mind racing.

“But who—”

“Don't interrupt,” the cop ordered, obviously irritated. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, shuffling through some paperwork on the desk. “It's important that you know that you're restricted to the Slants. Under
no
circumstances can you leave the Slants until your case has been closed.” Cole struggled to his feet, his legs weak with adrenaline. Had his family collected money from the others in the Slants? But even with the help of friends, how had they come up with enough, and so fast? He felt sick, imagining what they'd probably gone through to get him out, how much they had to have put on the line.

“Sign here,” the cop said, thrusting a piece of paper at him along with a pen. “I guess I'll have to uncuff you first.” Cole's blood boiled. The cop was enjoying every second of this, and he was making no attempt to hide it. He strode over to Cole and unlocked the cuffs roughly, yanking Cole's shoulders hard in the process. His arms would be in bad shape for the FEUDS—if the FEUDS were even a possibility for him now. The thought hit him with such urgency that he nearly lost his balance. The cop glanced up at him, noticing him falter. Cole fought to appear calm, in control. He'd figure it out—there was always a way. He shook out his wrists and massaged his shoulders, glancing over the release form.

“I don't have all day,” the cop informed him. “Sign it and leave, or get yourself back to the cell.” Cole skimmed the text, which seemed pretty standard—it stated that he'd be staying in the Slants until the trial was concluded, and that any attempts to leave would result in immediate arrest. He signed.

The cop opened the door and gestured with his head for Cole to get lost.

A man in a suit awaited him in the lobby. One of Parson Abel's nameless, faceless staffers. The guy chomped down on some gum, or maybe candy, and held the door open for Cole.

There was a sleek black car waiting. Cole slid inside and faced Parson Abel. Very few Priors let their hair go gray, Cole had noted, but Parson's was so silver it was practically metallic.

“Got yourself into some trouble, huh, kid?” Parson grinned, and his prominent jaw showcased a crowning cleft at his chin.

“Have you heard anything about Davis?” It was the first thing Cole could think to say, and his urgency was clear. Parson laughed, and Cole tried hard not to show his embarrassment. He'd laid all his cards on the table for Parson to exploit.

“She really got under your skin, didn't she?” he wanted to know. “Well, your little ‘girlfriend,'” he said, using air quotes around the word, “turned you in. Betcha didn't know that, did you?”

“No.” Cole reeled. It wasn't possible. “You're lying,” he said, but Parson only laughed again.

“Yeah? I don't think so, buddy. Better just shake it off. Women are trouble every time.” He clapped Cole on the shoulder, laughing, and Cole jerked away from his touch, which only amused Parson further. Cole felt sick inside. So she'd betrayed him. She could have kicked him, punched him, inflicted any bodily harm. Nothing physical could compare to the pain of her giving up on them. His mind reeled. He couldn't focus.

All he could do was glare at Parson Abel, refusing to speak. His skin crawled at the sight of his shiny forehead, his enhanced skin tone, his lab-rat lips. Parson Abel was broad, but not muscular. Powerful seeming, but it was just a carefully cultivated aura, Cole knew. Parson did not have the frame of an athlete.

“Shake off that anger, son,” Parson said. “It's time to get back to training. I'm taking you straight to the Swings.”

“And if I don't want to fight for you anymore?” Cole challenged.

“Oh,” said Parson, raising his eyebrows. “You must be confused. I wasn't asking for your preferences, Cole. I've got a lot of money riding on this thing. You're fighting for me whether you want to or not.”

Cole turned from him, staring out the window. He was trapped. He felt it all throughout his body. His head throbbed and he wanted to scream.

A hint of gold glimmered from inside Parson's suit, and as Parson leaned back, his jacket moved to reveal the gold-handled knife he always wore in his shirt pocket.

For an instant, Cole fantasized about grabbing that knife. He could easily swipe it from Parson's pocket. In less than one minute, Parson could be dead. Cole's body tensed, and he felt his hands begging to inch closer across the seat. Parson Abel didn't stand a chance against him; he knew it. Those broad shoulders and strong jaw hid a weak character and physique. Cole read him as a coward a mile away.

But then he realized: when it came down to it, without Davis, what did it matter? There was nothing left in Columbus for him if Davis was no longer a part of his future.

He'd win the fight. He'd get his family out of there, get out of town. He'd try to find a way to live a life without Davis, somewhere where everything around him didn't remind him of her. For now, he'd do the only thing he really knew how to do. He'd fight.

*   *   *

Cole could barely recognize downtown Columbus from the air as he made his way to the FEUDS in Parson's helicopter. “Protecting my investment,” Parson had told him with a clap to his back, and although Cole had felt dirty—had cringed from the contact—the ride itself was taking his breath away. Cole was alone in the helicopter, as Parson himself had stayed back, instructing the pilot to deliver Cole to the FEUDS. It was smart, too; the violence was everywhere. Priors and Gens swarmed the streets. Cole might not have been able to fight his way through the masses of people to the FEUDS otherwise. The city spread out below him, beautiful despite the turmoil. The towers in the downtown segment rose above masses of rioters. He couldn't identify even an inch of extra space in the streets beneath him. The rioters looked like tiny dots from his vantage point, but they were clustered so tightly that the streets themselves were almost completely obscured.

As they drew closer to the landing pad, Cole could see Prior cops struggling to maintain control of the crowd. He squinted: from the variations in uniforms—some green, some an unfamiliar dark blue—it seemed like reinforcements had been called in from outside Columbus. They wore militia-grade guns and Cole suspected they had any number of other advanced weaponry on them: tear gas, paralytics, grenade launchers, digital revolvers. The Gens, Cole knew, had nothing that could compete with that. If the Prior cops decided to fire on the crowd, hundreds could die in a matter of minutes. He didn't understand why anyone would even want to come see him fight Noah when people were killing each other in the streets. But that was ridiculous; he knew it the second he thought it. They wanted to come see him fight, because they wanted to see him die. The thought sent panic spiraling through Cole's limbs, and he was glad they hadn't touched down yet, glad he still had a minute to himself.

Getting to the FEUDS would have been suicide without Parson's helicopter.
I'm lucky not to die
before
the fight,
he thought grimly. Parson Abel had promised not to let anything happen to him, and so far he'd made good on the promise. But what would happen after the fights were finished?

It would be hard for him to muster the energy to fight when every breath in light of Davis's betrayal was painful. He couldn't believe she'd turned him in. He literally couldn't comprehend it, not after everything they'd been through. Hadn't he shown her how much he cared? How could she take that and throw it all away? He wouldn't think about it—he couldn't. It would ruin him.

The helicopter touched down on top of a building directly across the street from the FEUDS, and when he approached, the crowds parted to let him in. They recognized him. It'd be impossible not to—he was shirtless, wearing a mouth guard along with low-slung shorts and taped wrists. With the sweat and filthy sheen of that afternoon still coating his body, he knew he looked menacing. Parson's guards ushered him roughly to a back office, standing guard outside the door while he shadowboxed.

He climbed into the cage to the sound of taunts and cheers. He moved in place, bouncing from one foot to the next, playing to the crowd. Cole couldn't help it; despite the brutality of the fights, he loved it. He loved knowing what his body could do if he let it. He loved that no-holds-barred sensation. And now, after everything that had happened with Davis, he was extra angry. Extra hungry to expel those emotions. Noah was already there, stretching and warming up. The cage door slammed behind him, and Cole heard its automatic lock click into place. There was no time for him to warm up. The clock was already marking down each second until the start, the crowd chanting along with it. Adrenaline coursed through him; all his nerves were on fire. His heart pounded in his ears.

Three. Two. One.

A burst of smoke, released for effect, filled the room. It clouded Cole's vision. Noah reacted more easily, going in for a punch. His fist connected just beneath Cole's rib cage, knocking him back a few steps. Cole bounced on the balls of his feet, landing a solid punch of his own to Noah's jaw. It knocked him on his back for a second. And then another smoke screen clouded his vision, complete with the thrumming of some kind of hypno-beat, designed to get the crowd wild.

And they were going wild. He could hear them screaming, feel their body heat from where they pressed up against the cage, wanting to be as close to the fighters as possible. As the smoke began to clear, he saw a glint of light in the cage. Then it disappeared. He squinted through the screen, blindly punching in order to keep Noah at bay until he could see well enough to place his jabs accurately.