Raze & Reap (11 page)

The steel door burst open again. Rolling his neck, 362 spun on his heel and gripped his favorite black sai tighter. A cloud of darkness suddenly masked his face. It was a blank, dangerous expression that made shivers run down my spine. 362 strode into the hallway, no cuffs on his wrists, no guard forcing him into the cage. I stared numbly at the door. Then I heard the crowd burst into cheers. They loved him. Those fucked-up men loved 362.

Dragging myself to my feet, I stepped up to the grimy mirror in the stinking box of a bathroom that reeked of shit and piss, just like the rest of this fucking hellhole. I wiped the glass, a bloodied streak from my sopping bandages leaving its mark.

As I stared at my reflection, I couldn't find the boy I'd always seen. Instead, I thought of my parents, but their images were distorted, so I couldn't picture their faces. Panic ran through my bones as I tried to remember their features. But it was no use. My memory wouldn't let me. Next, I thought of—, of him, my friend lying on the ground, his life taken by a dagger to the heart. But I couldn't picture his face. I couldn't even vaguely remember what he looked like. Hands gripping the sides of my head, I squeezed my eyes shut, memories steadily slipping from my mind.

The drugs. The drugs were making me forget. They were fucking with my mind. I was remembering less and less, day by day.

“No!” I screamed. Punching out, I smashed the edge of the mirror, a shard of glass shattering on concrete. I couldn't see them! I couldn't picture their faces!

Concentrating hard, I tried to picture her … my solnyshko … but she appeared blurred. All I could remember was a featureless face crying and colorless eyes staring at me in disappointment. The sight of it made my insides twist in fear … And then I saw him. The one who put me in here. The liar. He had no face, nothing to recall but his name now scrolling across my mind—Alik Durov. He was the reason I was here in this shithole. I clung to that name, even as everything else drained from my memory.

It was like doors slammed shut, their entryways forever sealed. My brain started shutting out my past, shutting out everyone from my past, shutting out emotion, shutting out any feeling of guilt for killing 591.

“Block it all out. Survive,”
I told myself.

362's order ran through my mind, muscles tensing as the boy in the mirror steadily filled with numbness. The boy in the mirror quickly became 818 from the Gulag: location unknown.

I blocked it all out. I took the beatings, the drugs, the torture … and everything else they threw at me.

I did everything I was ordered to do.

And I survived
.

*   *   *

Gulping in the sticky Brooklyn air, I jerked awake, body drenched with sweat as I slept behind a dumpster, still gripping tightly to the jar of cash clutched to my chest.

My dream ran through my mind, head pounding with the images. Unzipping my sweatshirt, I ran my fingers over my chest and traced the tattooed numbers.
818.
My eyes squeezed shut. I saw the kid still looking into the mirror.

A pain ripped through my skull as I tried to remember, the drugs now slowly wearing off.

ARGH!

Revenge
, I thought.
Forget the motherfucking dream and get your revenge
. Zipping up my sweatshirt, I glanced up at a dark but lightening sky.

It was morning.

Jumping to my feet, I stepped from behind the dumpster, cracking my stiff neck and focused on the dockside gym. A light was on inside, cars entering the underground parking garage to the side of the building.

Blood searing in my veins, I pulled my hood over my head, pounded over the asphalt and pushed open the doors. The weak dick from before was behind his desk. He shit himself again, pulling the same gun on me
again
. I stormed to the desk without even flinching.

The barrel of the gun pressed against my chest as I slammed the jar of cash on the wood. The dick's eyes shot down to the jar, then back up to me. Sliding off the stool his fat ass was perched on, he banged on a side door.

“Yiv!”

My eyes bored, my jaw tensed, and my palms still clutched the jar. The side door suddenly flew open. Yiv walked through, a pissed scowl aimed at the guy behind the desk.

“What?” Yiv spat, then saw me standing at the desk. His expression changed on a dime, and he hesitated for a minute before he asked, “You got the money?”

I pushed the jar out in front of me and gave him a single nod. Yiv stepped forward and, without counting the cash, pushed the jar at the other guy. “Take it to the boss' office.”

The guy disappeared, and Yiv lifted the counter. He flicked his chin, signaling me to come through. I followed behind Yiv, savoring the sound of the punching of bags being hit and the grunts of men in training. My skin prickled with the need to train—a driving need to get back to building my body into the honed weapon it had become, to maintain my focus and kill.

The steel of my bladed knuckledusters weighed that bit heavier in my pocket, reminding me of the task I had to perform, of the fights I had yet to win.

Yiv led me to a room filled with about a dozen men, but my eyes sought out only one … and there he was, dead center, his packed body training on the salmon ladder. His fists were wrapped around a metal bar and he used his upper body strength to climb up the rungs as effectively as anyone I'd seen.

I made sure my hood was pushed low over my head.

“You get a trainer, you get the use of the gym all day, and you turn up whenever the fuck we tell you to. You eat here, take whatever the hell we want to pump you with and you don't complain,” Yiv said, leading me to a back room.

He glanced back at me, seeing my attention on Durov, and smirked, pointing his way. “That's my fighter, Alik ‘The Butcher' Durov. He's the one everybody wants to beat. Five time champion. The guy is a fucking king in that cage. That mean bastard will never die.”

My nostrils flared with rage as Durov dropped to the floor. Taking out a dagger, he turned to a dead pig hanging upside down on a hook from the rafters. It only took a few perfectly precise strikes for Durov to slice the pig in half. He stood back, chest heaving, eyes lit with that addictive fire of violence, his blade dripping blood at his feet.

That bastard
will
die
, I thought.

As if sensing my fury, my hatred for the man I'd vowed to destroy, Durov's psychotic stare tried to meet mine, but my hood covered my eyes. His eyes narrowed as he stared me down.

A hand grabbing my shoulder made me react. I gripped the wrist with my right hand, spun around, and slammed the attacker against the wall, his arm almost breaking as I wrenched it up his back.

“Hey! It's Yiv!” a muffled voice said. It was the trainer, so I let go and stepped back. Yiv turned and ran his eyes up and down my body. Shaking his arm, he declared, “You're quick. Good. You'll need to be quick here in The Dungeon.”

I didn't give a response, and Yiv carried on down the hallway. Still feeling Durov's eyes on me, I glanced back and he was resting his arms on the ladder, watching me.

Watch me
, I thought.
See the man who is going to slaughter you.

Yiv led me to a back room where a drunken man was lounging in a seat, clutching a bottle of vodka in one hand. Yiv cursed and kicked the sleeping drunk's leg. “Get the fuck up!”

The drunk snorted and woke, his bleary eyes immediately landing on me. “What?” he asked in a heavy accented voice.

Yiv reached forward and yanked him to his feet, the half-empty bottle of vodka smashing on the floor. Yiv turned to me, the drunk's unfocused eyes meeting mine, and Yiv pointed to the trainer. “Viktor, you got a fighter.”

The trainer—Viktor—seemed to hear this. Brushing aside Yiv, Viktor stood right in front of me. My lip curled as the older man gripped my muscled arms, walking around me to check I was in good shape.

Viktor's eyes narrowed. “Your name?”

I stared blankly at the floor. “I have no name.”

Yiv backed away to the exit door and I could hear his fucking condescending laugh. “You have a week and half of training until the contest. You report here every morning and don't leave until we say you can. You signed up for this. We now own you. You belong to The Dungeon. You leave, we kill you. You talk of this place, we kill you.”

“Understood,” I replied.

Yiv laughed again and looked at Viktor, then at me. “He's never had a fighter make it past round one.”

Zipping open my sweatshirt, keeping my eyes down low, I saw Yiv's smile drop from my peripheral vision as he drank in my ripped, scarred, and tattooed body.

“He's never had a fighter like me before. I bring death.”

Yiv, for a brief moment, looked worried, then immediately walked out the door. Hearing Viktor snort behind me, I swerved, fisted his shirt, and rammed him against the wall. His face reddened as he tried to say something.

“What—”

“You listen to me and you listen good. I don't fucking need you. I'll win this alone. I'll kill Durov alone.”

Viktor's eyes suddenly lit up. “You want Durov?”

“It's the only reason I'm here,” I growled.

Viktor tried to smile but I dropped him to the floor. Reaching into my sweatshirt pockets, I pulled out my knuckledusters and pushed them on my fingers; I immediately calmed. These weapons were a part of me.

Viktor rolled to his feet, his eyes huge as he stared at my chest, the color draining from his cheeks. “Wh-what did you s-say your n-name was?” he stuttered. Shrugging off my sweatshirt, I kept my eyes down and spotted a shelf filled with supplies. Walking across the room, I picked up the jar named “Eye Black,” dipped my fingers into the grease and smeared the black under my eyes.

Stretching out my arms, feeling the familiar exercises loosening my limbs, I repeated, “I have no name.”

“No name? What has anyone ever called you?” Viktor asked from behind me.

818
, I thought, but I dared not say the number out loud. Catching my reflection in mirrors lined against the wall, I saw the tattoo forcibly etched on my back by the guards. Dropping to the floor, I started with a few reps of push-ups.

When Viktor's feet came into view, I paused briefly to say, “Raze. The only name I've ever been called is
Raze
. Because I'd
raze
any fucker that got in my way.”

 

9

KISA

“Have you paid off the Feds? Are the high rollers on board for all three nights?” I asked Talia through my cell as I got out of the backseat of the car and headed inside the training gym to my office.

“Yes and yes. Everything's arranged.” She bristled. Talia was efficient and equally as competent as me at arranging fight nights. “We're still a fighter down. How are we doing with that?”

I pinched my nose as I slumped behind my desk. “I'm on it today. Yiv mentioned a buy-in, some mysterious big psycho who came in showing an interest, so I'm going to try and follow up on that.”

Talia helped Ivan with the finances, the sponsors and the men that chased up any outstanding debts. She never attended the fights. After losing her brother years ago, she couldn't bear to be around violence and death.

“Good,” Talia said in relief. “Now that's all done with, how are you feeling after the other night? You seemed quiet last night at church, too quiet I thought.”

My stomach tightened at her words and I sighed, tracing the knots of wood on my desktop with my fingertip. “I'm fine, Talia. You know why I was quiet. You were too. That date … it's too hard.…” I paused, then added, “I feel like my heart breaks more and more each year. People say that time heals, but it's bull. Time just makes me miss him more, and that ache in my stomach that's been here for years just grows stronger.”

Talia's heavy sigh echoed on the phone. “I know. I hate that day every year. Mama never stops crying and Papa never helps; he hides away in his office. It's always such a fucking mess, and they all look to me to fix it somehow, like I can change what he did. Like I can bring him back from the dead.”

“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

Only silence from the other end of the phone came through.

“You okay, Tal?” I asked.

I could have sworn I heard a sniff, a slip of emotion from my normally ice-cold friend, but Talia's brightened voice soon came through the line. “Always okay, Kisa, always. You know me. I have thick Russian skin. So,” she said, shifting the conversation, as if those words had never been spoken between us. “Seen any more of your homeless defender? I know you went with Father Kruschev again last night.” Talia's voice was hushed, like she was hiding our discussion from anyone who might be listening.

I crooked my head around, making sure the door was closed to the busy gym. Then Talia picked up on my silence.

“What's happened?” she asked, a hint of excitement entering her voice. “I know that pause of silence by now, Kisa!”

Taking a deep breath, I blurted, “I saw him
,
again, last night.”

“Kisa!” Talia reprimanded. “You didn't! If Alik finds out … fuck, he'll go crazy!”

I squeezed my eyes in panic and blurted, “And I gave him ten grand…”

I was positive a tumbleweed rolled through the office during Talia's silence on the other side of our conversation.

“Talia?” I called, unsure if she'd hung up.

“Kisa … what the hell's going on?”

“He saved my life. And he told me he needed ten grand. It's nothing to us, Talia. You know that. So I gave him the cash.”