Raze & Reap (22 page)

I nodded and spotted his first press. “Then I'll train with you.”

362 smirked and began lifting his weights as though they weighed nothing. “Stick with me, kid, and together we'll get out of this hell alive.”

“Why me?” I asked.

362 stopped and looked up at me. “Because I can see you didn't do what you were brought in here for. It's all over your face, in your eyes. You're innocent, like me, but you're strong, can fight, can survive …
like me
. Most kids here will die within the first few weeks, if not, by the end of their first year. But us, we'll survive.”

“You want to get out for revenge on the one that put you here,” I said knowingly, because I felt exactly the same way.

“I do. And I'm going to have that day, as will you. Train with me, spar with me, and we'll both get our revenge.”

362 got back to his weights, and we trained together for years, until we became the champions he envisaged.

We survived to get our revenge.

*   *   *

But now my revenge was blocked by my friend, my Gulag brother.

362 walked to the center of the cage, and my legs carried me forward too. My fists clenched, pointing the blades forward just in case he struck, but I could see in 362's dark eyes that he wasn't going to attack.

When we were face to face, his chest rose and fell rapidly, and he cursed under his breath. His face was pained, contorted.

“818,” he said quietly.

“362,” I said in return.

He lowered his head.

“This is your revenge? This is your path to the man who lied, who condemned you, who made you into one of us?”

I nodded. “And you?” I asked, beginning to hear the upheaval from the crowd, unease that we hadn't started fighting.

“They caught me two hours away from the Gulag. I ran, but they caught me again. They've made me fight for them. Travel around the country, making me fight to the death. Then last night, I was sent here. To end the fighter who just stepped in the ring with me. I was told to make you suffer. To make it slow.”

I froze. “Durov,” I snarled.

362 narrowed his eyes. “The one who sent you to the Gulag?”

I didn't reply. Hadn't remembered the details yet, but Durov was responsible somehow.

Guards began to surround the cage, rifles at the ready. 362 moved closer still. “If I win tonight, I am to be freed. I will
finally
get my revenge.”

Closing my eyes, I understood what he was saying. We both wanted revenge. And only one of us was stepping out of this cage alive.

I opened my eyes, and 362 held out his hand. His face, for a brief moment, showed regret, and during that moment, I let slip a hint of compassion for my … friend.

Taking his hand in mine, I nodded and said, “I am grateful for your friendship.”

362 smirked. He always smirked. “Promise me this. If you are victorious tonight, you will get your revenge … for the both of us.”

I squeezed his hand and said, “Only if you make the same promise.”

362 dipped his head in acknowledgement. Our hands separated; all feeling, all compassion, fell away and supercharged adrenaline took hold.

We stepped back. The guards relaxed. Only one rifle was raised again, to fire the shot signaling the restart of the fight.

I knew this fighter, how he moved, how he thought, his weak areas, his strengths. But he also knew me. For the first time ever, I felt a pang of fear. This man could beat me. As we began to circle each other, I knew by the look on 362's face he was thinking the same.

362 suddenly lurched forward and struck my arm with his sai, the blade slicing into my skin. But he didn't get away unscathed, for as he withdrew his sai, I pierced him with a glancing blow to his thigh. 362 stumbled back as it sliced nearly to the muscle.

I felt blood running down my arm. 362 suddenly charged at me, dragging us both to the ground. The crowd went insane, their fists banging on the metal links of the fence. 362 and I grappled on the floor, both struggling for dominance, both evenly matched.

But 362 was bigger and he managed to pin me down. His face tensed and his expression cooled as his sai came down toward my face. The crowd volume increased to fever pitch.

I tried to push back, but 362's strength was unrivaled and his size unmatched. Every one of my muscles strained. I could feel my veins throbbing in my neck and temple, but the sai came ever closer to my throat. This would be a kill. 362 would pierce my throat and I'd be dead.

My head tipped back as I pushed harder still against 362's downward moving arms. I caught sight of Viktor on the side of the cage, screaming for me to live, to get my revenge.

But beyond Viktor, and at the entrance to the hallway, was my Kisa … and Durov stood behind her, pinning her against his chest, forcing her to watch me fight as tears filled her eyes. Durov watched me with a sneer on his psychotic face. It was all I needed to completely fuel my defense.

Kisa tried to turn her head as I felt the tip of the sai press against my skin, but Durov grabbed her cheek in his hands and wrenched her unwilling attention back to me, his tight mouth barking something in her ear.

Her blue eyes filled with terror as she watched me. And like an over-taut cord pulled too tight, I snapped. Roaring out in frustration, I rolled my hips, knocked 362's sai from his hand, and flipped him on his back.

I saw nothing but red as I straddled his waist and speared a first bladed fist into his neck. Felt nothing but rage as my second bladed fist skewered his temple. Felt nothing but single-minded determination to slaughter Durov as I lifted both fists and, pointing them straight down, plunged them into 362's chest, the wheeze of his dying breaths assaulting my ears, wrenching me from my anger.

362 was bleeding like a river, my skin coated with his blood. His eyes shone at me. I noted approval in his stare as my hands fell to my sides, an ache constricting my chest.

“Revenge…” 362 uttered, choking on blood washing back down his throat. “Make him pay…” Then 362 was gone, his chest stilling. The crowd erupted. But all I could do was stare at 362 lying dead on the floor of the cage. I couldn't move my arms and legs, a sharp pain dead center of my chest.

The steel door opened and Viktor ran in. He crouched before me. “Raze. Son, we need to move.”

I looked up at Viktor, then down at 362 beneath me. “I knew him,” I said, my voice breaking.

Viktor nodded and laid his hand on my shoulder. “I know, son. I knew it the minute I saw his tattoo and your reaction as you stepped into the cage.”

“He was my … friend,” I managed to blurt out, the term unfamiliar and bittersweet on my lips.

Viktor gripped my bicep and helped me to my feet. “We have to go, son.”

Viktor and I walked straight out of the cage and down through the crowd. Hands slapped at my back in congratulations, I kept my eyes low and I started to move faster until I was in the hallway. Then I found myself sprinting into my holding room. Once inside, I went straight to the bathroom and puked into the toilet, my body breaking out in cold sweats.

Viktor was at the door, cursing under his breath. I didn't know what the fuck was happening to me.

I slumped to the ground, seeing smears of blood on the grimy floor tiles. Viktor wet two washrags and pressed one on my arm and the other on my throat.

I didn't flinch. “You need stitches, son. That sai got you good in places.”

“Then do it,” I said numbly.

I'd never ever felt this … this …
ache
before. This pain … this guilt? Was it guilt? I'd always blocked out the kills. Those men I'd faced were just animals for the slaughter, and I was the man that brought death. There was no over thinking. Just instinct and duty to the Gulag carrying me forward.

But this time … I felt everything: remorse, shame, devastation … I felt like death.
I
felt dead inside too.

“Where are you living, son?” Viktor asked as he pulled out a needle and thread from the metal cabinet above the basin. He began to patch up my arm. I didn't feel the needle piercing my skin. Didn't feel the thread pulling together my split flesh.

“At the gym.”

Viktor paused and shook his head. “Damn, son. Just … damn.”

After my cut was stitched, Viktor forced me to shower and took me back to the gym. When he'd gone, I closed my eyes as I lay on my thin mat. All I could see was blood, blood everywhere. And 362 staring up at me as life drained from his eyes.

I'd never felt remorse, regret, but right now, I was drowning in it.

 

16

KISA

“Why am I taking you to the gym again, Kisa?” Serge asked as I met him on the sidewalk shortly after Alik dropped me off at my papa's house. Papa was already out entertaining the Georgian mob that had brought Goliath tonight and Alik was en route to join them, so I knew I would have all night free.

It was always like this when the championship was on. The mob bosses had to get business in all avenues done. But tonight just seemed different, my stomach swirling with nerves like something bad was going to happen. I knew it was a combination of both Alik's strange mood and Raze's strange reaction after he won his fight tonight.

Alik had been furious that Raze had won. So furious that he hadn't even used my body post-match as was his usual M.O. He'd just dropped me off at home and coldly ordered me inside.

Alik was fearful. I'd never seen him fearful before. But him seeing Raze beating Goliath tonight with such incredible skill and strength had taken him to a state I'd never seen from him before: introverted, quiet, pensive.

It scared me more than his aggression. I didn't know what to make of a non-expressive Alik. Of a distant and non-possessive Alik.

But right now, I tried to push all thoughts of Alik from my head. I needed to see Raze. Alik had forced me to watch his fight, trying to assert his dominance over me. And, my God, Raze had nearly died. But something was wrong with him afterward. He didn't look pleased by his win. He couldn't get up, like he was shell-shocked, staring down at Goliath with a devastated expression. Viktor had to lift him from his knees to get him out of the cage, support him as he walked down the hallway. And worse, I couldn't go to him. Instead, I had to go with Alik.

I resented Alik for that. For once, I completely resented him.

I looked to Serge, Raze's cutting face prominent in my mind. “Please, Serge…” I begged, and he stood stoic in front of me before opening the back door of the Lincoln and gestured for me to go inside. I slipped into the backseat and Serge got behind the wheel.

He turned around. “Kisa? What's going on? You sneaking out like this is putting us both in danger. I'm not doing it unless you start giving me some answers.”

I dropped my eyes to the sidewalk outside and warred with what to do. I looked to Serge again and my eyes filled with tears.

“Kisa, are you in trouble?” he asked, but I shook my head. “Are you … have you been seeing someone else? Behind Mr. Durov's back? Are you meeting him at the gym?”

“It's not like that, Serge.” I sniffled and wiped the tears from my eyes. “It's more than just ‘seeing' someone.”

Serge's face paled. “Kisa! You
are
seeing someone else? Do you have a death wish? Mr. Durov will kill you both if he finds out. That man is unstable at the best of times, but about you? He's beyond insane.” His gaze fell but then focused back on me. “Who is it?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I can barely believe it myself.”

“Kisa, you're not making sense.”

My stomach rolled with the words I was about to say, the secret I was about to confess. Serge sat farther forward, and I whispered, “You
won't believe me
if I tell you.”

“Try me,” he said curtly.

“It's … it's … Luka…”

Serge stared and stared at me like I was a moron. “Luka?” he asked. “Luka Tolstoi?”

“Yes,” I replied in a barely audible voice and clutched the purse on my lap. It was filled with photos and mementos from our childhood. Tonight I was going to try and make him remember. Tonight I wanted him to remember me … us …
everything
.

I just wanted my Luka back … at least I wanted as much of him back as was left. I'd have any part of Luka at all, I'd take any tiny scrap of him that remained.

“You're being unfaithful with Luka Tolstoi?” Serge said dryly, confusion lacing his Russian accented voice.

I nodded, and he stared at me like I'd gone insane. “Kisa, Mr. Tolstoi died years ago in an accident. His body burned to death. What's really going on? Who are you trying to protect?”

“Raze—”

“The new fighter?” Serge interrupted. “What the hell has he got to do with Luka?”

“He
is
Luka, Serge. Raze
is
Luka.”

“Kisa, I don't know what—”

“He got sent away to an underground prison after Rodion was killed, off the grid, and he was forced to become a fighter. A death match fighter, Serge. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it happened. He has no memory of who he is, where he's from, or who we all are to him. He was tortured and abused. He's like an animal, just fighting and surviving, no humanity, but the fleeting glimpses I get when he looks at me…” I swallowed hard and said, “When he's with me…”

“Kisa, this is all—”

“His eyes are the same as Luka's, brown with a smudge of blue in his left iris. His mannerisms are the same. He tilts his head and purses his lips, his
full
lips that are the exact same shape … And he has these dreams, vivid dreams. They're memories, Serge, not just dreams. I'm sure of it. Being back in Brooklyn, he's remembering more and more. It's Luka. He's come back to me.” I looked up into Serge's shocked eyes and said, “And he needs my help. I've got to make him remember. I need to know what happened all those years ago. We all do. There's just so much pain. So many unanswered questions that have been swept under the rug.”