His colleague clears his throat. The man takes my money and gestures us in.
It’s just the two of us going in although four men are waiting nearby. Bringing soldiers would only draw attention. And if St. James is right—and he’d better be fucking right—Viktor’s soldiers will look away when I take him out.
The sound is amplified inside. It bounces off the large, cavernous space. The place was an old paper factory and although some equipment remains, it’s mostly been gutted. The windows are all but gone and there’s a chill in the air. Although I don’t feel cold. I’m too amped up.
A makeshift bar stands along the edge of the crowd with kegs of beer at the ready. The space is dimly lit but brighter as we pass the bar and make our way to where most of the crowd has gathered. I’d guess there to be over two hundred people, mostly men, but a handful of women too.
A dog barks and there’s a joint cheer from a group deeper in the circle. We push our way through, passing the place where caged dogs anxiously await their turn. I admit I’m not a dog lover per se, but this is just fucking wrong.
Matthaeus and I split up looking for Viktor Petrov. As I get closer to the pit I stand back and watch two men drag a Pitbull by its hind legs. It’s a sickening sight. The dog is mangled. He’s been mauled to death. And as I move around the crowd, I see the dog that did it. A big, mean looking thing.
Made mean by men, I remind myself.
I make out Viktor’s soldiers pretty easily. They don’t look like the others in here. Too well-dressed even in casual clothes. Most of these others look like they crawled out from some hole just to attend tonight’s event.
Matthaeus is across the room. He gives a slight nudge of his head and I follow the direction to find Viktor Petrov crouching by the cage of a dog, talking to another man, the dog’s owner, I’d guess. The dog is caged and leashed but when he lunges at Viktor, Viktor still stumbles backward, falling on his ass, spilling his drink before he gets to his feet, laughing.
He’s clearly drunk. And stupid.
One of his men comes to his aid but Viktor shoves him away, turns back to the dog’s owner and nods.
I pull my baseball cap down to hide the patch, grateful for the shadows, the lack of lighting. If he caught sight of me, would he recognize me? The eyepatch may make him look twice but would he know me?
A PA system comes on, screeching before someone taps and asks if this thing is on then laughs. The next fight is announced and Matthaeus walks toward the pit as the crowd divides to let the man Viktor was talking to lead his animal through. The dog is on a tight leash, and he snaps and growls at anyone who gets too close. I wonder how many men lose fingers or whole hands at these events. The stupid ones are drunk enough.
Viktor follows behind him holding a wad of cash up in the air, fist pumping it like he’s already won.
I move into the crowd, losing sight of him momentarily as the other dog, the one that mauled the last losing dog, is brought back into the ring. Bets are placed and the man over the loudspeaker eggs them on, talking about the new fighter, about his victories. About how the current champion was just warming up for this, the biggest fight of the night.
Someone knocks into me as I weave through the crowd and beer splashes out of his plastic cup. He turns to me, expression pissed like he’s about to start a fight himself. I straighten to my full height. He’s almost as tall as me.
“You got some on me,” I say after a glance at the few drops on my sleeve.
His gaze shifts between my eye, the scar on my cheek and the patch. There’s something to be said for wearing an eyepatch. On someone like me, it can be scary.
“Sorry, man,” he says and backs away.
I turn, Matthaeus at my side now. The fight is about to begin.
Viktor is laughing, drinking sloppily out of his plastic cup. Only one of his soldiers is nearby. The others are standing outside of the crowd. I get the feeling they like this about as much as I do.
The dogfight begins and the crowd swells forward to watch. Viktor laughs. I notice how high-pitched the sound is. Like that of a crazy man. I’m close enough to see his hands now. They’re dirty. Black under his fingernails. The wad of cash crumpled like it’s passed through a thousand hands tonight alone.
I think about Mara.
Innocent Mara.