It’s an underground fight club.
Shit.
About two hundred people are packed tightly, like a human sea, around a large fight cage in the center. Mostly older faces, from town.
There are security guys with AKs on the mezzanine catwalk, along the perimeter of the building, as well as around the cage.
The crowd in the aisle parts like water before Jesus as we walk, following Crone ahead of us, the guards shoving people away with the gun butts.
Crone is so close that it’s almost unreal that we are all together again. Just like in Deene. Except this is some screwed up version of it with roaring thugs, armed guards escorting us, and hard rock blasting through a two-story high hangar.
The place is like an amphitheater—no seats, just the stands with multiple levels and railings so the observers can see the stage in the center, lit up brightly, leaving the audience in the shadows.
We come up to the cage and pause as Archer talks to a bearded security guy by the ring.
There are more people here than live in the entire resort. Older, dirtier. It smells like men. Sounds like pinned-up anger.
A loud roar comes from the cage.
A giant guy, limbs as thick as tree trunks, muscles rippling, is almost twice the size of his opponent—an Asian-looking shorter guy with a regular build. But Hulk is barely standing. Veins stand out on his neck when he roars as he charges at the shorter guy. The short one ducks under his punch, smashes the heel of his hand into his nose, then swings in the air like Bruce Lee and does a face kick, sending the giant into the corner and landing gracefully in a karate position.
The crowd boos and cheers at the same time.
I don’t like this.
Crone will make me fight. He’ll choose the most fucked up opponent for me, too.
I look away and study the crowd. It’s just like any other illicit entertainment—the powerful sit at the front—a row of designer clothes, cigars, fancy dresses, and smiles. The few girls that I see in the front row are definitely from the Westside—bright mini dresses and high heels, hair done, as they sit, wrapped around guys’ arms. The rest of the crowd stands behind them, in the darkness, elbowing and yelling, pumped with adrenalin.
Callie holds on to my arm, caressing it like she can stroke the worries away. I pull my arm out of her hands and wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
I don’t look at her. I don’t talk. My body is as rigid as stone.
I know what Crone is trying to do.
Maybe it’s a chance.
If I lose it, we both lose.
I study the crowd when my eyes fall on Katura and Marlow in the shadows.
I freeze in surprise but also bitterness—that girl is way too quick to form alliances. And how would she know we would be here? Unless Marlow told her. Unless Marlow knew. And that makes me angry—he was supposed to help Callie get to me. If this was a set up and he warned Crone—eventually I’ll get to Marlow too.
A huge roar erupts, and when I shift my gaze to the cage, the giant is on the floor, the karate guy standing over him, feet on each side of him.
But the giant doesn’t move.
This is the key to any fight—one precise blow, and the strongest opponent can be knocked out in seconds.
Empty cups fly toward the cage from the darkness and bounce against the chain-link fence.
The two guards drag the bulky body out of the ring and through the opening in the fence where we stand.
Crone finally turns to look at me.
Staring at me, he slowly pulls the hem of his shirt up and over his body. He’s ripped. He’s been working out. He kicks off his shoes next, his gaze not leaving mine.
“It’s you and I, Droga.” He gives me a backward nod from ten feet away. “Remember? Just like before.”