Chapter 13
RAFE
“Boss wants you cleaned up before the fight,” Military Dude announced as he gestured for me to follow him out of my new cell. The space was identical to the one I’d escaped from.
Claustrophobic.
Inducing of insanity.
Windowless.
Another day, another prison cell. Seemed to be the story of my life.
After showering, Shelton’s guy gave me a clean set of clothing then yanked the hood over my head again. The time I’d been dreading was here, and my stomach twisted itself into knots during the drive to wherever this anathema of a fight would take place.
Military Dude pulled me from the vehicle, and raindrops pelted the hood covering my face. By the time we entered a building, the rain had soaked through the borrowed jeans and tank I wore, and my combat boots were caked in mud.
He pulled the hood off, and a din of chaos echoed through my ears.
Smoke drifted in the air. The sharp scent of alcohol lingered.
Underneath it all, death infiltrated the space.
The building was a concrete square, free of windows or furnishings, and a massive cage sat front and center.
There were only two ways in and out, manned by men who’d give me a fair fight if we tangled.
This was no barn, and there would be no escape into the night, flames casting the dark sky in an orange glow. Tonight, someone would leave in a body bag, and I couldn’t let it be me.
As Shelton’s guy pushed me toward the entrance, parting the way through a sea of people crowding from all sides, I spotted a drain in the floor.
Concrete, just like the rest of the place, only this spot sported evidence of its brutal use.
Blood, so much blood, washed away for the next match, though never forgotten in its dark, rusty glory.
That spilt blood told a story of mayhem and sacrifice. Maybe there were some who willingly fought to the death. Last winter, I’d been willing to take out Zach in Shelton’s cage, and I would have if Alex hadn’t let him go.
But my gut told me most were coerced into fighting, and that made facing my opponent more than I could stomach.
Shelton stood in the middle of the cage, decked to the nines in his usual expensive suit, microphone hovering two inches from his wide mouth as he egged the crowd into a deafening roar.
Some of them chanted “Kill, kill, kill!”
They wanted blood, same as the man standing three feet in front of me, smiling like he was hosting a fucking game show where the prize was a vacation to the Bahamas instead of a violent blood bath.
The operation took underground fighting to another level, because we were here to become modern day gladiators, introduced in the cage of death with our wrists shackled.
But could I really kill again?
I’d taken lives in the past. Lives of men so evil the justice system’s death penalty would have been a gross injustice. Men who’d done unconscionable things to Alex. Men who would have done unconscionable things to any number of women if I’d allowed them to live.
“Welcome!” Shelton’s voice boomed through the warehouse, kicking off the official start of this horror show, and the chatter fell silent.
It was fucking eerie, like the call of birds going quiet at the first hint of disaster.
“Tonight is a special night, ladies and gentlemen. You’re about to witness a fight so raw and real, you won’t believe what you’re seeing.
” His fingers clamped onto my shoulder. “First in the cage and ready for the fight of his life is Rafe ‘The Choker’ Mason!”
The applause was deafening, sickening, because they knew what was coming. They’d paid to see someone die tonight, their minds so demented and vile they’d made wagers on the outcome. Too much energy flowed through my veins, and I jumped from foot to foot, warming up, getting myself pumped.
I couldn’t afford to lose this.
And yet I hadn’t reconciled the facts in my mind. I couldn’t lose…but winning meant someone’s death. Someone’s unjustifiable death. Someone who probably faced the same fucked-up situation as me.
Forced into this fight, a loved one used as a pawn.
Winning might mean I’d have the blood of two people on my hands. I could end up killing an entire family if I took into account whatever retribution my opponent would face.
Except he wouldn’t face it because he’d be dead, and I’d have to find a way to live with that for the rest of my life. After Shelton got through with me, I’d have a lot of fucking deaths on my conscience.
This was only the beginning.
My opponent stepped into the cage, his wrists in cuffs like mine. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and combat boots, and his brown hair fell over a wide forehead, nearly obscuring eyes as striking blue as the sky. He had a few inches on me, though a much leaner frame.
But that didn’t necessarily put him at a disadvantage.
It was all in how you used what you had.
I’d remained in shape over the summer with a rigid routine of swimming, pushups, and using whatever I could get my hands on for free weights.
I’d even lifted Alex as a means to an end.
We’d often fought off boredom and never-ending solitude by working out.
But working out wasn’t competing, and this couldn’t be considered competing.
This was pure fucking survival.
The guy I was meant to kill tilted his head, and our eyes met from across the cage.
His expression brimmed with determination as the men surrounding him removed his shackles.
He bunched his hands, and the angles of his face hardened.
A certain hunger lit his eyes, turning that sky blue into a smoldering fire pit.
It was the same type of hunger that made me salivate for the fight, for the freedom that came from pounding into flesh…
from stealing someone’s desperate breath.
For the man standing several feet away from me, I didn’t want it to be his last, but Shelton had me cornered.
Military Dude released my hands, and the rules were drawn in the sand—the fact that only one rule existed.
The cage wouldn’t open until one of us stopped breathing.
After the final introduction, the men exited the cage with Shelton, leaving my opponent and me alone.
The door slammed shut, padlock engaged. Three dings signaled the start of madness as we circled each other, eyes locked and attention narrowed to the space between us.
Tension coiled off our bodies in waves so tangible, I could practically taste them on my tongue.
I catalogued the flex of his muscles, the flare of his nostrils, the weight of his muddied boots on the concrete. The crowd ceased to exist. Shelton fucking ceased to exist.
For a few moments, I could almost pretend this was a normal fight, that we’d both walk out of here alive, that Jax or Alex waited for me just outside those bars, ready to offer congratulations before I collected a large purse that made the violence worth it.
My opponent lunged for me, fist blasting into my jawbone, and my back hit the concrete. He followed up the first strike with several more jabs to the face. The guy was agile. Fucking quick and light on his feet.
Fuck, I’d underestimated him.
I seized his arm and grappled him into a submission hold, stretching his tendons until his face reddened from exertion. Metallic coated my tongue. Turning my head, I spit a mouthful of blood onto the concrete.
Just another splotch on Shelton’s stage of pain.
But I hadn’t locked the guy in, and with each grunt-filled centimeter, he broke free. We jumped to our feet at the same time, fists raised. The circling resumed, both of us waiting for the right opportunity as the crowd clamored for it to happen now.
But that was the problem. Under these circumstances, how could there be a right time to go after someone with the intent to kill?
Springing forward, I landed three strikes to his temple, followed by a knee to the solar plexus.
We participated in this dance to the point of frustration, trading jabs and kicks.
Back and forth, just testing each other.
Like two alpha lions playing with their food before going in for the kill.
Because there was no right moment. No epiphany blindsiding me with sudden wisdom that would help me get the fucking job done. Back when I killed Perrone, I’d done it in a rage, and his death had come fast.
Faster than the bastard had deserved.
When I hunted Brock down to serve my idea of vengeance, I’d taken more time in making him pay, but his death had still come quick. The only way I’d be able to kill the guy sizing me up now was to make the decision and go for it.
Things would get violent.
The crowd would witness death, all right.
And that’s when he delivered a swift uppercut.
Pain spiraled through my jaw as diamond-like sparks flooded my vision.
Back on the concrete again, I tried blocking his fists, but they came faster than I could ward them off.
The crowd roared. Some of them might have booed.
My opponent hopped to his feet, and I rolled to my side, spitting out another mouthful of blood.
I registered the impending strike to the kidney a second too late.
Holy fuck, I was off my game. This fucking fight had psyched me out from the beginning, and if I didn’t get my head twisted on straight again, I’d lose.
Not just lose. I’d pay with my life. Even worse, my son would pay with his life. And Alex…
She’d be stuck with Zach forever—a fate worse than death.
Gathering renewed strength, I jumped to my feet and stormed him. Rage and adrenaline rushed through me as I landed punch after punch before sending him to the ground. We struggled on the concrete for several intense minutes, both instinctively recognizing the importance of this moment.
The finality of it.
Sweat and blood dripped from my skin, and with a grunt, I maneuvered him into a chokehold, locking him in without the hope for escape.
He thrashed the seconds away, a victim of futility. “Don’t,” he squeaked, his throat working hard under my vise-of-an-arm to get the plea out. His fingers dug into my flesh, nails breaking skin. “They’ll kill my girlfriend.”
“If I don’t,” I said, tightening my hold, “my son is dead.”
Will’s life had trumped Alex’s safety, and he sure as hell trumped this guy’s girlfriend.
Maybe she was an innocent like Will—inculpable in whatever situation my opponent had gotten himself into.
But she was an adult, and Will was just a kid.
Out of everyone in my life, he was the most innocent, and he didn’t deserve to be used in Shelton’s sick game.
Justification made, I increased the pressure on the guy’s throat, and as each second passed, his writhing died down. His desperation weakened, uncoordinated fists glancing off my temple. Five more seconds and those defensive blows stopped altogether.
And I couldn’t let go. Long after the buzzer sounded, and Shelton unlocked and entered the cage, I remained in a state of purgatory.
Neither free nor caged. Neither innocent nor guilty.
I held on as long as possible because the instant I let go, and the guy in my arms refused to wake, it would become real.
Inescapable.
And I wasn’t ready to face the monster in the mirror.