Chapter 8
Sinclair
The crowd gasps as Baron launches himself across the short space that constitutes the fighting ring of the street-fight organized by the Bratva.
Also dubbed Fight Club, for obvious reasons, though the spectators are anything but salaried men.
Dressed in faded jeans, leather jackets, leather pants, hoodies and tattoos, the assembled throng resembles the kind of people you don’t want to rub shoulders with in the light of day.
Inside this warehouse in London's East End, with the cold light filtering down from the windows high up in the walls, somehow, they fit right in.
Baron’s opponent shakes him off with a twist of his torso. Baron hits the floor with a thud that seems to shake the entire space.
I wince, dig my fingers into the steel squares of the temporary steel panels that fence off the fighting space from the crowd. Yeah, that’s the kind of outfit this is. Temporary enough that if the cops broke in, we could be off and running with no signs left behind.
Shit, what is wrong with us? When had we descended to this level?
Us. The kids who went to one of the best private schools in the country, who had been upended by the incident enough to seek out thrills wherever we could get them.
It’s the only way we can stay connected to this life, apparently.
The only way to fight the devils that crowd in on us if there’s nothing on the outside to distract us.
"Go, Dima."
"Dima."
"Dima."
The crowd chants its support for the Bratva’s guy as Baron squares off with him.
The two circle each other. Dima is shorter than Baron, but solidly built.
His shoulders are about twice the size of Baron’s nineteen-year-old frame.
Shit, what did I do? Why hadn’t I agreed for Arpad Asshole to volunteer for us.
Baron doesn’t stand a chance. Not when Dima flexes his gigantic shoulders, cracks his neck, then roars and springs off the ground like a bloody jack in a fuckin’ box.
He smashes into Baron and the two go down.
I can’t see Baron, damn it. Is he okay? Is he hurt?
What the fuck? I head for the entrance to the makeshift ring, but the guys are ahead of me.
Edward shoves at the man guarding the gate.
The stranger throws his fist. Edward ducks, rushes in, and Arpad follows.
Saint sinks his fist into the stranger’s side.
He grunts, comes at Saint, who swerves, trips him.
The guy hits the ground face down and lies still.
Saint ducks inside the arena, to where Arpad has grasped Dima’s shoulders and shoved him off of Baron.
Edward and Saint reach for Baron, haul him up and to his feet.
They half drag, half carry Baron out of the arena.
The gate slams shut, and just like that, the audience’s attention is back in the ring, where Arpad is hammering Dima with hit after hit—to the head, the chest, the stomach, to the side, the chest, the neck…
He doesn’t stop. His fists are a blur of motion as he gets back in the game.
"That guy can fight." Nikolai prowls up to stand next to me.
"I should be angry that the fight was disturbed, but hell, this makes for an even better spectacle.
The brotherhood to the rescue, the injured being carried off, a new winner in the making.
" He jerks his chin to where Dima staggers back before he manages to get in a hit.
Arpad ducks, his muscles tense, his shoulders flex, he rears back, then smashes his head into the other guy’s face.
There’s silence. Dima stays standing, a second, then another.
"Ten."
"Nine."
"Eight."
"Seven."
The crowd chants. Yeah, the counting's supposed to start after a fighter falls, normally. Normally. But this isn't a fight played by the usual rules. Here the crowd senses weakness and moves in for the kill.
Dima sways, raises his fist. Arpad blocks him, lands another to his shoulder.
"Six."
"Five."
"Four."
Dima throws a hit, misses. Arpad pulls back his fist, waits… Then touches his finger to Dima’s forehead.
"Three."
"Two."
Dima slumps to the floor.
The crowd explodes. Arpad seems to sway, then gathers himself. He raises his fist, turns and meets my gaze. I jerk my chin at him.
"Seems like you guys won." Nikolai scratches his chin.
"Seems like you owe us some information." I turn to him.
Nikolai nods. "Those behind your kidnapping..." His gaze holds mine. "You want to find out who they are?"
I firm my lips, stare him down.
"Adam Rhodes," He tilts his head,
"Who the hell is Adam Rhodes?" I growl.
"The man who executed the kidnapping of you and your friends." He widens his stance, "The asshole who ruined your lives."
"Where is he?" I take a step forward. "Where can I find the bastard."
He arches an eyebrow, "That's for you to find out."
"If this is some kind of ruse," I swipe out my hand and grab his collar, "I'll kill you, you get me?"
Nikolai’s guards step forward, but he waves them off.
"I'd like to see you try." He tips up his chin.
I raise my fist and he laughs. "Surely, even you are not stupid enough to take on the wrath of the Bratva?"
I hesitate.
Nikolai stares down to where I still have my hands on his collar. I release him and he straightens his shirt.
"Find Adam Rhodes, and you'll find the mastermind behind your abduction. Now, excuse me. I need to go greet my new champ."
He walks around and into the ring. I watch as he holds out his hand.
Arpad glances up at me. I jerk my chin, and Arpad turns his attention to Nikolai. The two shake hands, then Niko releases Arpad, only to grab his left hand and raise it.
The crowd goes wild again. I step back, pivot, and make my way through the crowd. Saint joins me.
"How’s Baron?" I ask.
"He’s more pissed off than anything. Weston’s taking care of his wounds the best he can. While Edward... Well, you know Ed… He and Baron are constantly at logger heads. If I didn’t know better, I’d say…"
"What?" I frown.
Saint hesitates, then shakes his head. "Nothing." He glances around. "Where’s Arpad?"
I nod to where he's talking with Nikolai.
Damian draws abreast, "I owe you guys."
Saint snorts, "You owe more to Baron and Arpad. They saved your arse." He looks at me. "You got the info?"
I nod, "He mentioned a name: Adam Rhodes."
Saint scowl, "Who the hell is that?"
"Beats me. But according to him, if we find the bastard, we'll find those behind our kidnapping."
"Baron, you fucker. Where the hell do you think you’re going?" Edward’s voice reaches me above the noise of the crowd.
I turn to find Baron brushing past. He half hobbles, yet manages to stay upright. Reaching the door, he pauses, then turns. He seems to take in the scene, glances at each of us in turn. Then he pivots and slips out of the door.
I glance sideways to find Edward staring at the doorway. His features are stricken.
"You look like you lost your best friend," I joke.
Edward’s lips tighten, "That man is going to get himself killed someday."
"Aren’t we all?" I head for the door, push it open and walk out into the cool night air.
Saint and Weston walk past me, engaged in conversation.
I hear a sound from behind a dumpster pushed up against the wall. My footsteps slow down. What was that?
Damian and Edward catch up with me. "What’s up, Sinner?"
Nothing." I shake my head.
"You sure?" Edward scowls at me.
"Yeah," I turn to him. "You guys go on."
Edward nods. He and Damian move on.
I hear another sound… What is that? Was that a whine? I move closer to the dumpster as the sound reaches me again. Yep, definitely a whine. I walk around the dumpster, crouch, bend my head and peer into the space behind it. Bright eyes blink back at me. The puppy whines again.
"Hey, buddy," I hold out my hand, let the little bugger sniff at my fingers. When I move back, the dog follows. It wriggles out from behind the dumpster, pants, then glances up at me.
"Whatcha doing there, buddy? Are you lost?"
The pup plants its butt on the ground, and cocks its head at me.
"Who’s your owner, boy?" I take in its tiny body, the ribs that show through its skin. It’s not bleeding, but clearly, it hasn’t eaten for a while. "How about I get you some food?"
The pup stiffens. A low warning growl emerges from its threat.
"What?" I scowl. "What’s wrong?"
The puppy barks at the same time that I hear footsteps behind me. I turn, when something hits me on the head. Pain blinds me, then everything goes dark.