Four
FOUR
Byron
IT WAS PROBABLY LESS than stellar that my first thought after seeing Emiel go limp on the mat was, ‘ Huh, guess that’ll at least make it easier to drag his stubborn ass out of here .’
The referee continued his enthusiastic countdown with a shout of, “Eight! Nine! Ten !” As the crowd erupted into pandemonium, the blood-smeared female alpha punched a fist in the air, bouncing around the cage in enthusiastic triumph.
“Christ,” Zalen muttered, the sound nearly swallowed by the cheers and jeers of the mob around us. He raised his voice to be heard better. “We need to find out where they’re taking him. He could be seriously hurt after that shot to the skull.”
People were already swarming inside the cage, even as the announcer declared the downfall of the previously unbeaten champion and the victory of the underdog, Sweet Vee.
“Hardest part of his body,” I muttered, hopefully too low for Zalen to catch it.
It took three people to haul Emiel’s unresponsive carcass out of the cage, one on each arm and another holding his legs. The cage door was on the opposite side from our vantage point at the front of the crowd, but Zalen was already moving—pissing off yet more armed gangbangers as he went.
I followed in his wake like always, hyperaware of the vulnerability of my back. This was why I hated violence. It always spread like a cancer. An alpha had pummeled Emiel into the mat, no doubt causing a lot of people to lose a lot of money. Now those people would be pissed off as well, looking for an outlet for their anger.
The shoving hands around us grew rougher, curses following in our wake as we pushed toward the far end of the old press floor. I swallowed the growl that wanted to rise, hating that even my own instincts seemed ready to jump on board the violence train. Gritting my teeth, I put my head down and slipped through the space Zalen was carving through the crowd.
By the time we got free of the crush—thankfully without collecting any bullet or stab wounds along the way—we’d lost sight of Emiel’s unconscious form.
“This way,” Zalen said, ducking through a door that apparently led into the main part of the Spivey Building.
It had once been a lobby. Now it was a trash heap, illuminated by the harsh glare of bare lightbulbs strung here and there from the half-collapsed ceiling frame. Rotting mattresses and discarded hypodermics spoke of its use by East St. Louis’ robust population of homeless druggies.
That could’ve been you , whispered the little inner voice that was generally both more insightful and less of an asshole than the rest of me. I set it aside with the ease of long practice.
The usual population of squatters must have been kicked out when the fights moved in, because the place was currently populated by a bunch of tough-looking, scarred alphas in robes and boxing trunks—many of them deep in conversation with equally scarred and tough-looking trainers. As Zalen and I entered, every gaze turned toward us, settling over us with a palpable weight of distrust.
Zalen drew a breath, and I was ninety-nine percent sure he was about to launch into the same optimistic spiel he’d unleashed on the bouncers at the door—we were here for Emiel, we were his packmates, blah, blah, blah.
Before he could speak, an enraged roar came from the far corner of the poorly lit space. I’d recognized that roar in the ring earlier; it was unmistakable now. A kid in track pants and a huge, shapeless hoodie went staggering backwards from the shadowed corner, cursing a blue streak as he nearly went down on his ass.
Zalen sprinted toward the commotion, and with a heartfelt curse of my own, I followed him. The two other guys who’d dragged Emiel out of the cage backed away from the corner, their hands raised palm out.
“Throw that asshole outta here!” yelled one of the fighters. “He’s finally lost his shit!”
Several jeers of agreement sounded from elsewhere in the abandoned lobby. “Fucker’s on meth or somethin’!” came another shout.
Then, from a different part of the room, “Get him a couple of omegas to calm him down!”
Zalen reached the kids who’d dragged Emiel here. I was only a few steps behind.
“It’s okay. We’re his pack,” Zalen said. “We’re here to take him home.”
And... yeah. I could hardly wait to see how that was gonna go. I hadn’t been kidding earlier today about the butterfly net.
“’Bout fuckin’ time,” said the one who’d nearly gone sprawling. He dusted himself off with an air of disgust. “Brotha’s been here since Friday, man. He’s fighting in the cage once, twice every night. Haven’t seen him eat so much as a fuckin’ Cheeto the whole time.”
One of the others cautiously came up to join them. “SSG’s been throwing their hardest fighters at him all weekend. Guess he beat the shit outta a couple of their boys a few weeks back.”
Terrific.
Zalen probably would have reminded me that Emiel had been protecting Luca and Mia at the time. Whereas I was more focused on the fact that Luca and Mia wouldn’t have been in harm’s way to begin with if the asshole hadn’t decided to chase his demons into this hellhole.
A low, warning growl came from the shadows.
“You wanna be careful, man,” said the first kid. “He’s off his meds or some shit.”
Too bad we couldn’t have brought along some handy elephant tranquilizers.
“We’ll take care of him,” Zalen told him, as though it was going to be that simple. “Maybe give us some space, though?”
The three kids looked at each other and shrugged. “It’s your funeral, boss,” said the one Emiel had shoved away.
I waited until they’d disappeared out of earshot and turned to Zalen. “What makes you think he isn’t going to rip your head off your shoulders if you try to get close to him?”
“What are we going to do? Leave him here?” Zalen shot back.
I wanted to point out exactly how much that wasn’t an answer to my question. But Zalen had already stepped into the shadows.
“Emiel, it’s time to go home,” he said. “Come on. Up you get. Byron’s here, too.”
Whether it was the mention of my name or Zalen reaching a hand down to him, I wasn’t sure—but my adrenaline spiked an instant later when the hunched form surged upright, grabbing Zalen and slamming him into the nearest crumbling concrete support post.
I twitched forward, my fists clenching at my side—even as the cowardice that had become my middle name ever since my entire gang got mowed down in an alley reared its familiar, ugly head. Seriously, what the hell was I going to do? Attack a guy who fought in no-holds-barred cage fights for fun?
My heart thudded in my throat, and god only knew what my scent was doing. But Zalen only held his hands up by his shoulders, non-threatening, as Emiel pinned him to the post with two bruised and bloody fists wrapped in the front of his hoodie.
“Oh, good. Guess that means you can walk, then.” Zalen sounded like he was discussing the weather, and I had no fucking clue how he managed shit like that when I was over here about to have a panic attack.
“Leave. Me. Alone ,” Emiel said, the words mostly a snarl.
“No can do,” Zalen told him. “First, Mia wants to talk to you so she can tell you in person that everything’s okay. And second, Princess is almost out of cat food.”
Silence fell for the space of a heartbeat. Then Emiel made a wrenching, pained noise and shoved away from Zalen. His back hit the peeling paint of the wall. He slid down it, burying his face in his hands.
I stood frozen—the low, animal noise of pain coming from the crumpled form twisting something in my stomach like a knife. As much as I wished I didn’t, I knew all too well what rock bottom looked like. I’d been there, and it looked an awful lot like this .
“Byron.” I jolted out of my paralysis just in time to catch the keys that arced toward me. “Get the car and park it as close as you can to the side entrance. I don’t want to take him back through the newspaper building.”
I hesitated, not wanting to leave him alone in here with a bunch of unfamiliar and dangerous alphas, especially with Emiel still losing his shit. Except, of course, for the detestable, fucked up part of me that absolutely, one hundred percent did want to get out of this place as fast as humanly possible.
“ Go ,” Zalen said.
I curled my fingers around the keychain and went.
Zalen’s SUV was still where we’d left it, and it still had all four wheels attached. I adjusted the mirrors and started the engine, my nerves jangling as I drove around the block, looking for access to the small side door on the old twelve-story building. Somehow, during that time Zalen had gotten our battered packmate on his feet and steered him outside.
The fight had gone out of Emiel, and he didn’t protest or resist as Zalen bundled him into the back seat and climbed in after him.
“Drive,” Zalen said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You read my mind,” I muttered, trying to ignore the alpha-shaped time bomb sitting behind me. I put the SUV in gear and pulled onto Missouri Avenue, heading toward the highway.
When I glanced in the rearview mirror, it was to see headlights pulling out after us.
I must’ve had my eyes off the road for too long, because Zalen craned around to look out the back window. Neither of us spoke for an uncomfortable beat, the silence broken only by the purr of the engine and Emiel’s ragged breathing.
“It could be nothing,” Zalen said after a long moment.
“And it could be something,” I shot back, bile churning in my stomach.
Another pause.
“Yeah.” Zalen took a deep breath. “Okay. Head for Collinsville. Don’t lead them toward Ladue, or the Hope Project. We’ll drive to the police station there and see if they peel off.”
“Right,” I grated. “Just a perfectly normal evening of chauffeuring a battered alpha to a police station twenty miles away while being shadowed by gangbangers. Why the hell not?”
I put my foot down and drove, wishing I’d never answered the damned knock on my bedroom door this morning.