Shadow Fray E-Book

Bradley Lloyd

• Herausgeber: DSP Publications
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 497

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Shadow Fray: Round One Family is worth fighting for—and family doesn't always mean blood. No one knows what calamity poisoned the earth and decimated the human population, but living close to the toxic ground means illness and death. Justin is determined to keep his twin sister and younger brother from that fate—no matter what he has to do. To earn enough to keep his family safe in a high-rise, Justin enlists in a deadly sport called Shadow Fray. He quickly finds himself in over his head, especially when he is scheduled to face the most dangerous player. Hale—who competes as Black Jim—knows he won't be on top forever, despite his skills. He fights for a better life for his daughter, but his time is running out as Shadow Fray becomes increasingly lethal. Something about the newest fighter intrigues him, but does he dare defy his masters to investigate? Justin and Hale will clash in the ring, while beyond it the powerful elite and the crumbling world seem determined to keep them apart. If they can find common ground, they might have a chance to fight for their futures.

Leseprobe

Shadow Fray

By Bradley Lloyd

Family is worth fighting for—and family doesn’t always mean blood.

No one knows what calamity poisoned the earth and decimated the human population, but living close to the toxic ground means illness and death. Justin is determined to keep his twin sister and younger brother from that fate—no matter what he has to do. To earn enough to keep his family safe in a high-rise, Justin enlists in a deadly sport called Shadow Fray. He quickly finds himself in over his head, especially when he is scheduled to face the most dangerous player.

Hale—who competes as Black Jim—knows he won’t be on top forever, despite his skills. He fights for a better life for his daughter, but his time is running out as Shadow Fray becomes increasingly lethal. Something about the newest fighter intrigues him, but does he dare defy his masters to investigate? Justin and Hale will clash in the ring, while beyond it the powerful elite and the crumbling world seem determined to keep them apart. If they can find common ground, they might have a chance to fight for their futures.

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

By Bradley Lloyd

Visit DSP Publications

Copyright

For Frank, Kristen, and Traci.

Acknowledgments

I WOULD like to thank and acknowledge all my early readers and supporters, including Catherine, Margaret, Rebecca, Dorothy, Katie, and many others. Mom and Dad, thank you for your support, and it’s okay if you skim the sexy parts. It’s also okay if you don’t.

Chapter 1

First Fray. Arena: Mutual Conglomerate Building.

THE CONTESTANT peered at the faded “4” over the rusty door. He pulled out the small slip of paper from his leather armguard and read it again. Mutual Conglomerate Building. Entrance 4. Visiting Team. 11:48 p.m. 9/08. Justin hoped it was 11:46. He’d rehearsed the route, but if he was nervous and off by a minute or two, he could be penalized. He hadn’t brought a watch or a phone. That had been his handler’s job, and his handler was dead.

But he wouldn’t think about that. Instead, Justin turned the paper over and read the note he’d copied there. They were his kid brother’s words, and Justin mouthed them softly, like a mantra. Justin does his best even when it’s hard, even when he’s tired and maybe hurting a little bit. He always shows courage. That’s why he’s the person I look up to the most.

Tonight was for Charlie. Charlie was his reason to fight—his reason to win.

Justin tore up the note. The lake breeze slipped past him, carrying the bits of paper away—a prayer on the wind. It was cold for September. A thin layer of petroleum jelly covered his face, but his bare skin prickled along his arms. He turned to glance over his shoulder. Darkness and fog. He listened. Out over Lake Michigan, a distant foghorn sounded. Then silence. No drones buzzing, and no one was around.

He grabbed the leather mask he had hidden beneath his T-shirt and quickly tied it over his eyes, tightening the lacing. He removed the shirt and cast it to the side of the doorway, glancing one more time at the dim 4 overhead. He stepped forward, giving the metal door a shove inward.

It opened. He shouldn’t be surprised. This was a Shadow Fray, and the doors to a Shadow Arena always opened, right on time. Justin stepped inside. No—not Justin. Someone anonymous. Someone who would win tonight. Someone who would finally earn a name.

The concrete corridor he entered was massive, supporting more than thirty floors and a cell phone tower. His mother once told him the building held the world record for the largest consecutive concrete pour. Cement trucks lined the streets for two days, stretching blocks back to their home. She hadn’t been alive to see it; in fact, it was before the Thinning. How had she described the scene from the distant past so vividly? If it was even true.

No matter. She was gone, and he was here for his sister and brother. My brother does his best even when it’s hard, even when he’s tired and maybe hurting a little bit. He always shows courage. Justin took a step toward the one florescent lightbulb illuminating the long hall. Then another. Then another.

Boarded and reinforced doors lined the corridor, a few with the metal framing from years ago when they used to hold glass. It was clear this basement area hadn’t been used in ages, yet he passed down the hall half expecting some random person to step out of a doorway.

His heart was pounding. Just nerves. He paused, bounced in place, and shook his arms out. He breathed deeply, slowly, and scanned above the doors, down the length of the hall, not spotting what he was looking for.

He walked to the first junction where the hall split left and right, then paused. To the left, three doors down, he saw it, almost in total darkness—the small green light above the doorway that signaled the show was on. He approached, saluting the camera.

Beneath the door, a dim sliver of light indicated the room ahead would at least be illuminated. He pushed the door open and stepped forward, already beginning to raise his arms.

“Hands above your head,” said a voice to his right inside the door. He was shoved forward by a palm between his shoulder blades and assumed this was his opponent’s handler.

Justin ignored the contact. In his periphery he saw his opponent, but his main focus was on the Arena itself, looking for any advantages. The walls around him were bare—just cement. The room was not overly large. The walls would be an issue, especially with someone stronger who could shove him around. Justin wouldn’t hold up well if he was being driven into the concrete.

Not much to this Arena, so he shifted his focus to his opponent. The guy was bare-chested except for the leather harness crossing his upper body in an X. He was big—big arms, big chest. He had skinnier legs—those would be a weak point. The center of his harness contained one pointed metal stud. Decorative, but also potentially very painful. Justin grit his teeth. It would have been Joe’s job as handler to prohibit the stud. Justin would just have to avoid it.

Time to compare. Strategize. His opponent was several inches over six feet, a hair taller than Justin. Reach seemed about the same, though. Justin would be the fitter Brawler overall, but the other man looked to have more upper body strength. The plan would be to stay low, in the center, and go for the legs. He had to work at wearing the guy down—though in this small space that might be difficult.

Lastly he examined his opponent’s face. The mask didn’t hide the ugly. Eyes lidded with extra fat. Crooked front tooth protruding. Looked like a troll. He seemed familiar, but Justin didn’t remember his name. Not memorable was good. For now Troll would do.

“Where’s your handler?” said the voice behind him. The man’s hands wandered down Justin’s body, patting him down.

“I’m in the market for a new one.”

“Fuck you!” Troll’s words echoed on the cement walls. Since Justin was trying to steal Troll’s handler, he understood the sentiment.

“What’s your name?” said the man, stepping out from the shadows.

Justin hadn’t earned a name—yet. “Whatever you want it to be.”

“Tonight your name better be….” The raspy voice paused, and Justin turned to look at the handler. “Ruthless.”

The man’s bulging eyes peered at Justin from the holes in a sackcloth mask straight out of a Batman movie. Shit. Scarecrow. Justin’s meager hopes sank, a weight in the pit of his stomach.

Any handler who wore that kind of mask to every Fray wanted a share of the spotlight. This fit with what Justin knew of the handler—he had more than one Brawler, but Justin couldn’t name any of them. Scarecrow’s image and reputation were as important as winning and money—and certainly more valuable than any Brawler he had.

Scarecrow didn’t check Justin’s armguards. That was on purpose, Justin was sure. Justin could be hiding a blade or something less conspicuous like powder, sand—anything to give him an advantage, but he wasn’t. That Scarecrow didn’t check indicated he liked to play dirty, and he wasn’t attached to his current Brawler. A blessing and a curse. If Troll was expendable, then Justin would be too, someday. Scarecrow wanted this fight to be brutal. So after tonight he was likely only taking on one of them.

With that the man stepped back through the doorway into the dimness of the hall. Troll looked like he was about to explode with fury. Justin had only seconds more to evaluate.

“Do you forfeit your right to inspection?” Scarecrow asked from behind him, loudly so the mics would pick it up.

“Yes,” Justin shouted, glancing around the room at the small green lights indicating the cameras. He tried to put some bass and confidence into his voice. More confidence than he—

“Ghaaa!” Troll bellowed and charged, looking like a barbarian from an old movie. Damn. No dancing around. Justin feinted right and dodged left to get out of his way. He could use another second, dammit.

He pivoted around, trying to stay low and keep his feet squarely under him while spotting Troll.

He never saw it coming. He only saw black and felt a fist like a brick on the left side of his face. Not a square hit, but not glancing either. The leather mask absorbed some, and he was low enough that Troll’s height took off a little more. Troll had anticipated the move, and that meant he wasn’t dumb.

Justin dipped his right arm back in the direction his head was going from the punch, using the momentum to dig low. He drove his right fist up into Troll’s gut, aiming below the leather harness. Two of his knuckles hitched on Troll’s bottom rib, and Justin screamed through with the uppercut as hard as he could. His knuckles slipped past the bone and into the softer tissue beneath Troll’s ribcage. Cracked, he hoped.

He backed off. The move gave him at least a few seconds while Troll caught his breath. This was happening too fast, and with Troll’s size, Justin needed speed to be his advantage. He needed to control the tempo.

And then he heard it—the blood dropping onto the cement floor with a thick splat, followed by another. He touched his face. Blood flowed freely down his chin from a gouge on his jaw beneath his mask line. He looked at Troll’s knuckles, taped up like any Brawler. But no—Justin saw a fleshy smear on the tape, and beneath it a texture to the tape that shouldn’t be there. Fucking sandpaper.

Troll had marked his face.

Troll let out a wheezing laugh as he stood, looking at his right fist. He brought his knuckles close, studying them. No way—

Troll grabbed a white spider web of Justin’s discarded skin in his teeth and chewed it. “Tastes good.”

Disgusting intimidation tactic. Justin couldn’t let it deter him, so he compartmentalized, putting it away in a tiny box in the back of his mind to deal with later. Much later.

Behind Troll in the doorway, Scarecrow gave a laugh and clapped.

Screw that. Justin plowed forward with a yell, tossing his head before jabbing with his right and following with his left. Not full strength, not yet. He needed to see what damage he might have caused and get a taste for his opponent. Troll looked surprised, throwing up his arms to block, stepping backward once, twice, three times. This time Justin leaned into it, seizing on his advantage, driving his left fist forward straight toward Troll’s face in a full-force power shot.

But Troll anticipated the strike. His fist glanced past Troll’s ear, Justin’s position now too far forward and open. Meanwhile, Troll countered with a right hook, direct and fast, like a turbine into Justin’s chest. Justin swore his heart skipped a beat as white sparks flashed at the edges of his vision. He lost his breath, unable to inhale.

Stay calm. Power through. The breath always comes back. In the meantime he simply had to behave like oxygen didn’t matter.

Troll lunged forward again with a right jab toward Justin’s face, but Justin brought up both arms to block. Protecting his face from those sandpapered fists needed to be his priority.

With no choice but to try to create some space, he took a step back as Troll came through with another right, which Justin intercepted with his armguards. Another step back, and now Troll was battering forward with his fists, breathing out with each punch, increasing in momentum and power like a steam locomotive approaching full throttle. Scrambling backward, Justin could no longer keep on his feet. He was going down.

Don’t fight it. Don’t freak out. He used momentum and gravity, dropping backward onto his butt. This stopped him almost immediately. He used his abs to keep his body from continuing backward and kicked out fiercely with his left foot, driving it into Troll’s shin. At the same time, he hooked his right foot behind Troll’s opposite leg, pulling it forward. His abs clenched painfully with the strain of keeping himself centered.

With one foot forward and one foot back, Troll stumbled in place, dropping awkwardly to a crouch with an agonized cry. Justin quickly hopped back up on his feet, raised his hands high, and drove both of them down toward Troll’s bowed head. He connected below the man’s skull, feeling the push back of vertebrae like stones set into sponge. Troll’s head snapped downward, bouncing off his knee. One more time, Justin hammer-fisted into the same spot, laying Troll flat on the cement. Now he had the advantage, and he leapt back, getting ready for the next move.

He took a second to breathe, happy to fill his lungs. The sensation of breathing and the effect of the oxygen was a heady kind of ecstasy. He easily could have lost this fight.

“What are you waiting for, Ruthless?” asked Scarecrow from the shadows behind him.

“Just takin’ a minute to smile for the cameras.” And he did, glancing around the room, making sure to look at each green flashing light in his field of vision. If this fight finished too quickly, Scarecrow would never pick him up. He needed Scarecrow to take him, even though the prospect of a handler like Scarecrow was far less than ideal. He was being tested. This had to be a good fight. It had to look good.

Troll was starting to rise as Justin rushed forward, grabbed him, and slammed his knee into Troll’s face. It had to hurt, but at the same time, it had the effect of lifting Troll back to a standing position. Troll staggered backward, blood pouring out of his nose and over his mask. Justin ran his hand over his own face, collecting the blood from his chin and flinging it onto the cement. It would look good on camera, but he couldn’t afford any more marks to his face. He was screwed with just the one.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” Troll yelled, flecks of blood spraying out with the words.

Justin was never much of a talker, and he had no comeback. He kept his mouth shut. He looked Troll in the eyes as if to say, “Your turn.”

He kept his arms high and purposefully left himself less guarded down below, where he could better afford to take some hits. He started circling, keeping himself ready. Troll took a few tentative swipes, and Justin let him graze his chest without taking any damage.

Justin spotted an opportunity and entered a rhythm. Troll was slowing down, and Justin turned from attacks just enough to never take a hit head-on—but it threw Troll off-balance, repeatedly. The guy was sloppy. Justin jabbed and hooked to Troll’s head every time the man stumbled, which actually had the effect of keeping Troll on his feet. It was obvious Troll was hurting, and Justin was playing, practically teasing, but to put on a good show he had to make the Fray last a little longer.

He had to change it up, though. To risk such an obvious pattern was boring and amateurish. When Troll stumbled again, he punched to knock Troll down and at the same time kicked Troll’s feet out from under him, bringing him to the ground. Justin danced backward, not quite ready to end it.

Troll got into a low crouch, half kneeling and appearing as though it might be difficult for him to stand up fully. He looked at Justin. Too bad for Troll, his mean look was stronger than his punch. Troll took in a long, struggling breath while slowly rising to his feet once more.

Time to end this. Justin closed the distance to attack. He was expecting the last-ditch yell that came from Troll, the bestial cry of the nearly defeated. He was not expecting the mass of blood and phlegm that hit him square in the eyes. Blinded but already committed, he tried to follow through with his punch but only grazed Troll. He expected a follow-up punch and tried to guard his face, but suddenly Troll’s hands were on his chest. Troll yelled again, picking Justin up and driving him back into the wall.

Justin’s head slammed into the cement, the impact so hard his ears popped.

Troll landed punch after punch along Justin’s rib cage while Justin flailed, his hands high. He felt the skin tearing off his sides as if he were going through a cheese grater. Unable to see clearly, he punched back, hitting Troll on the sides of his head, but not from the best angle. He kicked out, aiming for Troll’s groin, but barely made impact.

Fortunately it was enough. Already weak and unsteady, Troll lost his footing and dipped forward. His vision clearing, Justin advanced off the wall. Striving for balance, he put his right arm around Troll, driving forward with his more dominant left, striking again and again into Troll’s chest while in the clinch. Troll tried to back away, at the same time punching at Justin with his right. The burning scrape along his chin let Justin know he had lost more skin. He tucked his chin and kept pounding into Troll. They had each other in a strange embrace, both trying to gain leverage, both landing one-handed blows.

Gradually, Troll took the advantage, pushing Justin back against the wall yet again. With his hands up to block, Justin was taking a beating on his ribs. He had to stay away from the damned walls.

He let gravity work, dropping down below the next punch. He threw his arms around Troll’s waist, using the wall to push off with his feet and drive Troll backward. It wasn’t easy, and something pulled in his calf as he pushed what felt like three hundred pounds of dead weight. Good thing his opponent had weak legs.

Troll flopped backward, knocking his head against the cement, and Justin fell on top of him. Quickly he climbed up Troll’s prone body, staying low. Left, right, left, he drove his fists into Troll’s jaw, Troll’s head ricocheting off the pavement each time. This was the ground and pound. Justin felt Troll go limp but punched three more times before he stopped.

Stilling his clenched fists, he heard himself yelling—the bestial cry of the desperate turning into a howl of victory.

He stumbled backward. He had lost himself. He closed his eyes as his echoing scream died in the cement box.

Had he killed Troll? He saw his downed opponent move slightly on the ground, a few droplets of blood spraying into the air—a sputtering breath. Thank God.

Justin sank to his knees, landing too hard on the pavement. He was suddenly chilled, the gray stone leaching all the heat from his body.

From the doorway to his left, Justin heard a gradual clap. Scarecrow’s steps on the pavement sounded slow and deliberate as he walked out of the hall’s shadows and into the room.

“Impressive.”

“Thanks.” Justin still hadn’t taken his eyes off the barely moving Troll. “Who is he?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll do from now on.”

Justin finally looked at Scarecrow. From the gleam in the man’s eye, Justin could see the grin hidden beneath the mask. His blood ran cold. Troll moaned, giving Justin the excuse he needed to turn away.

Attempting deep breaths, Justin stifled a wince. Breathing hurt. His ribs were throbbing, but he wasn’t going to touch them to see if anything was broken. He couldn’t show Scarecrow any weakness, not to mention the cameras, which were required to stay on until the victor left the Arena.

Glancing up, Justin saw Scarecrow was still looking at him. How much time had passed? Two minutes? Five? Shit, he was out of it. He noticed again the blood landing on the cement. It had dripped all the way down his body, off his thighs, and onto the floor.

Troll groaned again, a sound like he was trying to wake himself up from a dream but couldn’t. Handlers didn’t usually leave their Brawlers on the floor. Although Troll didn’t have a handler anymore, did he?

Still acting on instinct, Justin got slowly to his feet and walked over to him. “Hey,” he said, tapping him on the cheek. Weakly, Troll lifted an arm. Justin grabbed it, trying to pull him up.

“Let me help you with that.” Scarecrow walked behind Troll, getting on his knees and lifting Troll from behind into a sitting position. Troll’s body was as loose as a pile of rags. He had no muscle coordination, no way to sit up on his own yet.

“You all right?” Justin asked. What a stupid question. Troll was definitely not all right.

Scarecrow reached for something at his back. Suddenly this whole situation struck him as not right. He heard the blade snap out before he saw it in the light. He held his breath.

“Steady now,” Scarecrow said, the words directed to Justin. Scarecrow held his gaze, the gleam in his eye matching the gleam on the blade. This was another test. Justin couldn’t show weakness, but was Scarecrow really going to—

“I’d say you’ve earned this,” Scarecrow said. He drove the blade in below Troll’s ear and thrust it across his throat. In slow, jerking motions, the blade finally severed the windpipe with a crunch and a snap, blood spraying out with a choking sound. The sound only lasted seconds, but the blood kept spurting, each small gush one more beat of Troll’s dying heart.

Scarecrow stood, letting Troll drop to the floor. Troll was no longer moving, not making any sounds. His half-lidded eyes were unseeing, while a pool of blood extended from his ruined neck. He never knew what happened. He hadn’t been conscious. Probably. But it hadn’t been quick.

“Get up. Let’s go.” Scarecrow’s voice was level and calm. Justin wanted to move his legs, but he was kneeling on the floor. He felt unclean, as though he were a captive worshipper at an unholy altar of human sacrifice, bound by chains to that very spot.

C’mon. Move.

He felt detached. He was getting up but couldn’t feel his legs. Was he going into shock? Unaware of any pain, he followed Scarecrow out into the hall.

Once out of sight of the last camera, Justin stopped. It was like he was no longer in control of his own body. Scarecrow paused after a few steps and turned around. “Leave the cameras,” he said. “It’s not worth it if we get stopped somewhere. Come on.”

He forced his feet to move. What was wrong with him? He needed to pretend he was still fighting. He needed some drive to get through this.

He thought of his family—his twin sister, Ginny, and their little brother, Charlie. Charlie, who had written that note. Justin grit his teeth. He had to play this game. He had to fight.

Scarecrow stopped in front of the exit. He turned to Justin, pulling off the sackcloth mask. He was old. He had salt-and-pepper hair, thin wisps sticking up around his head like smoke. He was sharp in the face, with skin hanging off pointed bones. “Take off your mask,” he said. “Let me see you.”

It was easy to obey. It didn’t require thought. Justin reached behind and loosened the lace, pulling his mask off.

“Look at me.” Scarecrow put his hand under Justin’s chin. The man was tall—and not gentle, though he kept his hand clear of any wounds. He surveyed Justin’s face with a faint smile. “Yeah, not bad. How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You’re a good-lookin’ kid. A lot better looking than that guy on the floor back there.”

Justin didn’t respond. “Here,” said Scarecrow, reaching behind and pulling a brown bandana out of his back pocket. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Thanks.” Justin took it and held it to the gouge in his jaw.

“Your DNA clean?”

“Of course.”

“Good. What’s your exit plan?”

“I don’t live far from here. I walked.” And then Justin winced. Shit. He passed it off as pain, but it was his stupid mental error. He’d just given away too much information. He couldn’t have another Joe situation. This handler was dangerous enough. Not safe. Not for Gin. Not for Charlie. Fucking think.

“You able to get home?”

“Of course,” Justin said emphatically. No way was this guy coming anywhere near his home. “I have a plan. I’m careful.”

“You better be. I got my own plan, kid. I’ll meet you in a couple days. I’m not local, so location will be the train station in Racine, early morning, 7:00 a.m. That’ll be Tuesday. No—better make it Wednesday. Safer with that face. Best lay low, let it heal some, considering we just committed murder an’ all, right?” Scarecrow smiled.

Justin had no words, wouldn’t even nod. Scarecrow didn’t look pleased, his smile fading. “C’mon, speak. Let me hear you say it, so I know you got it. This is your one chance. I ain’t trying to find you.”

“Wednesday morning, 7:00 a.m. Racine.”

Scarecrow patted Justin’s cheek. “Good boy.” Justin wanted to recoil but stood his ground. Finally, Scarecrow turned and pushed through the exit. “Take care of that face now,” Justin heard faintly.

The metal door slammed shut.

Chapter 2

“THIS CHANGES things,” Hale told his handler as they discussed the Fray from last night. He pointed to the scene paused on his brand-new tablet. Super-high resolution, latest model, exorbitantly expensive. But if the image on it was any indication, he may soon have to switch to recycled tech like everyone else. Or maybe not. Maybe this was the beginning of something even larger, more lucrative. Judging from the number of views and comments on the web, the entire country was watching. Shadow Fray was exploding. Police and government authorities were still swarming the Arena at the Mutual Conglomerate Building in Milwaukee, adding to the show, increasing the hype.

Brilliant, really. All signs indicated this was planned—a strategy from the bosses. Surprising, really, that it hadn’t happened before. But now….

“It’s your call,” Benz told him, standing in the middle of the spacious room. Benz would follow Hale’s lead no matter what, but right now, Hale needed his handler to give him advice.

Hale took a sip of coffee as he looked out over the Chicago skyline from his window on the twenty-eighth floor of the Chixago Building. He’d hate to give up this gorgeous view, but maybe it was time to live smarter, save the money—while it lasted. “You have a say in this too,” he said to Benz. “Honestly I don’t know what to do. Let’s talk it out. Be my brother, not my business partner.”

“Things are getting real dangerous.” Benz’s cautionary tone had Hale wondering if Benz thought they should quit.

“It’s always been dangerous.” Hale gestured out over the horizon, sloshing his coffee. “This whole damn world is dangerous.”

He shook stray droplets from his hand and leaned against the window to face Benz. Despite the early hour, Benz was in a black suit, having worked through the night. It was quite the contrast to Hale’s jeans and T-shirt, not to mention the bare feet and dark scruff. He felt underdressed in his own home. “You got a kid to think about,” Hale reminded him.

“Edna’s your kid too,” Benz insisted. The man’s imposing mass gave anything he said greater gravity. No wonder he never had to raise his voice.

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t know that.” It was hardly a mumble, but then Hale cleared his throat and spoke up. “Besides, she doesn’t need me like she needs you, and we both know it.” He gestured toward Benz and spilled his coffee again. “Shit.” The way he was behaving this morning, you’d think he was spiking the coffee again. He wasn’t.

“Sit down before you make a mess.” Benz was habitually calm and even-toned, but as Hale sat down, he wondered why Benz wasn’t sitting down himself. Was he nervous? “We can give it up, quit the Fray,” Benz continued. “I got a job; the club’s not bad. We couldn’t stay in this building, but there are other places we could go.”

“What are the options?” Hale asked.

“There’s a rise closer to the club.” Hale knew Benz well enough to detect a half-truth and raised an eyebrow. Benz put up both hands to placate him. “Okay, not a rise exactly, but it’s off the ground, starts at the fourth floor. A lot of the workers at the club are there. It’s not bad.”

“Just residences?”

“Not exactly.” Benz sighed and finally took a seat on the other side of Hale’s dining room table. “That’s where the less official workers run their business.”

“Uni business?”

“Uni business. Lady business. You name it—some real high-class people too—but don’t do that stuff in my backyard. It’s where I work.” Even this warning was said without raising his voice a single decibel.

“I got no use for anything classy.” He could give up this unit in the Chixago Building. Move. He looked away from Benz, trying to keep the frown off his face—but Benz wouldn’t fall for it. Best to admit the crux. “I’d miss Eddie, but this place?” He gestured around again, losing more coffee. “Jesus Christ.”

“You need a sippy cup?”

Hale slammed the near-empty mug on the table, the sound like a gavel. Screw this. He wouldn’t give up the Fray. Fighting was in his blood. It had saved his life. He wanted to know where his brother-in-law stood, so talking it out was good, even as Hale became more certain of the outcome.

At the very least, it was comforting to have a backup plan. No matter where Eddie and Jess ended up, as long as his daughter and sister-in-law had Benz, they’d be okay. Benz was a monster, nearly a foot taller than Hale, and his shoulders were as wide as a refrigerator. People didn’t fuck with him, especially not when he was in a suit, which was all the time. The man lived next door, and the only time Hale had seen him not in a suit was five years ago when Hale had accidentally passed out drunk on their bathroom floor. He honestly thought he was in his own bathroom until a naked Benz walked in to take a piss. At least he didn’t sleep in a suit.

“Has Eddie seen you naked?” Hale asked suddenly.

“What? What the hell, Hale?” Benz actually did get a little louder on that one.

Hale put his hands on his face. “Sorry. My mind isn’t here. It’s jumping all over the place.” Jumping to get away from the grim scene paused on his tablet, the scene that had his whole future in question. He’d taken a lot of punches to the gut, but that was a pain he could handle. This hole in his chest, this uncertainty about what he should do, was far worse.

“Maybe it’s time to retire, man. Quit while you’re ahead.” Benz’s tone was soothing. “Black Jim is just your persona. Let him go to rest. He’s a legend. Quit at the top, and the legend will live on, man.” Hale raised an eyebrow. This vibe from Benz didn’t go with his suit.

“Be real. Black Jim is only a legend until the next one rises. If I fold, they’ll have a new star by next Tuesday. Besides, I’m not sure I can separate myself from him. Whatever I was before, I am Black Jim now.”

“You’re getting old, Hale. This was never going to last forever.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“So watch who you’re calling old.” Hale was thirty-six.

“Aren’t you touchy? Must mean you know I’m right.” Benz leaned forward in his chair, bringing his tall frame down to look Hale in the eyes. “Shadow Fray is getting progressively more violent. You’re king of the mountain. Most wins ever. You think they aren’t already talking about who’s gonna be the one to bring Black Jim down? Who’s to say they aren’t going to start gunning for you, and bring some hardware to do it?”

“That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t know if I can keep protecting you, brother. This game is changing. It’s dirty. The day might come when—”

“I know, I know,” said Hale, waving him down to silence him. “Look. You’ve always had my back. You’re the best man, the best. If something goes down, I would never blame you.”

“We’ve made more than enough to get Edna started on a good life.”

“That’s a comfort,” Hale said quietly. He could die knowing he was finally doing right by her, but he wanted more. “Truth is, even in Chicago money buys safety. And no matter where you are, the more money you got, the higher you live off the ground.”

Benz nodded. Neither man spoke for several minutes. Hale looked at the tablet on the table, at the picture paused on his screen. It was a riveting tableau: the man in the scarecrow mask—Hale refused to call him Scarecrow—and the kid they called Dozer lying dead in a pool of blood. The other kid—the cunning Brawler with no name—kneeling. He had skills, whoever he was—a newbie Hale had only seen a few times. That kid sure was finding himself in some evil shit. By the hunched posture, Hale could see the kid knew he was in over his head. Hale felt bad for him.

He looked at his business partner, his brother-in-law, his oldest friend. It was settled, then, but Hale decided to say the words anyway. “We have to keep our little girl safe, Benz. We fight for what’s important. We stay in the Fray.”

JUSTIN WOKE to little arms around his neck. The rest of his body hurt, but not that touch. He felt soft breath on his cheek and a kiss that was barely a whisper. He opened his eyes and looked at his little brother. The dim morning light filtered through closed blinds to show a boy only ten years old, with clipped hair hidden under a baseball cap. Charlie’s eyes were so big, they reminded Justin of the big eyes behind the mask last night, but only for a second. Looking into his brother’s pale blue eyes, Justin could chase that thought away. He leaned over and kissed Charlie’s forehead, then pulled him in close. “Just watch the ribs, okay?” Charlie didn’t talk, but he did communicate. He knew this was what Justin needed right now.

Ginny was standing in the doorway watching, a smile on her face. She was dressed for work, yes, but she also spent a lot more time on her hair and face than she normally would. Justin’s twin didn’t try to be beautiful. Not many women in this city did unless they were after something.

Justin frowned. “You’re gonna fuck him, aren’t you?”

Ginny breathed in through her nose—something their mother used to do before she would scold them. She lost her smile for a second but then put it back on her face. It wasn’t the same smile, though.

“Justin, it’s not so bad. Ray’s not a bad guy, and I haven’t had my daddy fix in a while.” The way she smiled, Justin believed she didn’t mind so much, but she was a fantastic actress.

Justin kissed his brother again on the forehead. “I need you to go in the other room for a little bit so I can talk to your sister.” It wasn’t so much that he was trying to hide what was going on—Charlie was way too observant for that. He just wanted the kid to feel like he was protected, that he had people looking out for him. His brother lifted his head and frowned, and Justin knew exactly what that frown said: “Your lack of trust is like a knife in my heart.” Charlie got out of bed and left, closing the bedroom door none too softly.

“What time is it?” Justin asked, still sleepy. He couldn’t believe he’d actually slept last night, but he had, at least for a few hours. He didn’t even remember any nightmares.

“8:20. We have to figure out what we’re going to tell Ray.”

“You drugged me, didn’t you?”

“Justin, focus.”

“God dammit, Gin.” He wanted to be angry with her, but did he have the energy? After he left that cement box of an Arena last night, she had fallen into step beside him. He’d nearly slugged her, someone coming up to him in the shadows like that. She’d had the gun leveled at him—not to shoot him, of course, but to say she had the situation under control and she didn’t give a fuck what Justin said about it. He tried to tell her how stupid it was to leave Charlie home alone, how stupid it was to hang outside a building for an hour where she could show up on a drone feed. On the way home, they had stuck to cover, the trees and scrub along the lake, the shadows of the buildings, the parking garages. It hadn’t taken long—their rise was literally a dozen buildings away from the Arena. They hadn’t heard a single drone, and even if they had, the night imaging was imperfect at best, at least in Milwaukee. It wasn’t like in Chicago, where drone feeds were used to prosecute even the smallest of crimes with hefty fines.

“Justin.” Ginny snapped her fingers and frowned. She got down on the floor by his bedside and took hold of his hand. “What do we tell Ray?”

Justin was supposed to make a run down to Chicago today, but even in the safety of a truck, it was too easy for someone to spot his specific facial injury. It would be visible through the rig’s windows—not to mention the people he may have to interact with at the different stops.

“How many views does it have?” Justin asked.

“It’s pushing two hundred million.”

“Jesus. In eight hours?” There were fifty million people left in the country. Two hundred million views this quick was unheard of. Those were Black Jim numbers. That meant repeat views and a whole lot of international attention. “What did I do?”

She squeezed his hand. “One thing at a time. The first thing we deal with is Ray. It won’t be a problem, whatever we tell him, but we have to decide what’s best.”

Gin was right that Ray wasn’t a bad guy, and he was a fantastic boss. Even if he knew, he probably wouldn’t snitch. Ray was going to have to drive Justin’s shipment today—a truck full of condoms. Gin had gotten Justin the job several years ago. She’d been in the business of condom-making and distribution since she turned sixteen. And the side businesses that went along with it.

“Do we say you got jumped, need some time off? Do we say you’re sick? Charlie’s sick?” Sickness wasn’t something anyone took lightly, though everyone still got sick. Maybe if they blamed it on an STD, but in their business, that didn’t go over well either. And he could only use the excuse of being jumped so many times.

Justin heard the softest shuffling sound from outside the door. He frowned. “Bro Bro, you might as well come in.” The door slowly opened, and Charlie had his wide-eyed angel face on, with a smile at his lips. Jesus, what he wouldn’t do for that kid. Justin held his arm out, wincing at the tightness in his ribs, and Charlie came right to him, thrilled to be in their exclusive powwow. Justin guessed he wasn’t doing Charlie any favors by protecting him. The world was what it was. Better Charlie learn to deal with it.

“Char,” Justin said, leveling his gaze and speaking low. “I have an idea, but we need your help. With my face like this, I can’t be seen for a while. It’s too dangerous.” Charlie nodded, serious. “I think the best thing we can do is to use you as our excuse. Do you want to stay home with me for a few days? I mean, not go out, not at all?” Charlie smiled and nodded again. “I don’t want to say I’m sick. I don’t want to say you’re sick, not exactly. But I do want to say you’re having problems. That you’re going through a… spell.” Charlie frowned. It had been a couple years since his last spell. His whole life he’d never spoken except in his sleep, but he still communicated—save for a few stretches where he’d just sit vacantly. He wouldn’t drink. He wouldn’t eat. It would go on for days, and it was fucking scary. Justin hated bringing it up; it wasn’t something they talked about, as if ignoring the problem would make it go away. Gin frowned at him now, like she didn’t think this was such a good idea.

Justin spoke directly to her next. “This is the best idea. Ray knows Charlie. He’ll buy this. And if it turns out I need more time, then we can say I got jumped. That I did something stupid because we were getting desperate.” She nodded.

Justin wasn’t comfortable with this either, but he did have to sell it. “Bro Bro,” he said, looking again at Charlie. “We’re including you in this. We’re including you in all our plans from now on, okay?” Charlie got his smile back and nodded. “I need you to promise me something, though. If we need your help, like we do now, we need to be able to count on you. That means you need to be here for us. You can’t go back to how you used to be, not ever again. This is pretend. Is that understood?” That’s what his mother used to say when she was serious, although Charlie would have no recollection. Charlie nodded, and Justin saw the determination in his eyes. “Pinky swear.”

Charlie clasped his little finger with Justin’s.

“Whole family,” Gin said and did the same. Then all three of them fist-bumped together.

“So,” Gin said, putting on a patently false, cheerful voice. “Charlie is suicidal. Can’t be left alone.” She took off Charlie’s hat and ruffled his buzz cut before putting it back on. “Thanks, Char.” Her smile turned genuine, and Justin smiled in turn. He could always count on Gin. Even when he shouldn’t have to.

“Charlie Bro, go find some cartoons. I need a distraction. We’ll camp out on the couch.”

Charlie lit up like Christmas and practically bounded out of the room.

Gin put her hand to Justin’s cheek, the uninjured one. “You want me to send a girl over? You damn well earned it. Better than any painkiller.”

Part of him welcomed the mind-numbing distraction of it. He could tune out the world for a few minutes. “No,” he said. “Not this time. It’s not worth the risk.”

Gin nodded, though whoever she’d send would likely never talk. He grabbed her hand before she could get up, keeping it on his cheek. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll never leave Charlie alone again.” She certainly saw through his motive, knew it would effectively mean she could never follow him to another Shadow Fray again.

She nodded, kissed him on the forehead, and got up to go. He heard the TV in the other room, heard her saying good-bye to Charlie. Then he heard the front door shut.

Justin lay in bed for a few minutes with nothing but his pain.

Chapter 3

FACING A nearly empty gym in his building during his shift, Hale had been watching coverage of last night’s Fray all morning on a computer from his desk station. The numbers it was racking up were beyond impressive and would no doubt surpass his own. The crime scene continued to be big news. Everyone knew about Shadow Fray, but this level of exposure was unprecedented. There had never been a death anyone knew about, let alone a murder. That’s where the strategy came in. A death wouldn’t be news, but a murder? The bosses were smart.

Or were they? Their anonymity was threatened by the coverage—unless they controlled the media. News was really just a composition, an orchestra, with the bosses the conductors. Speculation abounded about the sport—where it came from, its likely ties to organized crime, and what the police were going to do.

Of course the police would do very little, especially up in Milwaukee where law enforcement was lax. In fact, so many Frays were held there it had come to be known as Bruise City, a throwback to a long dead moniker about beer. Shadow Frays were always held in a different Shadow Arena—never the same one twice—and took place all over the country, but the vast majority were north of Chicago, with Bruise City a convenient trek. No Frays were ever held in the White Windy City, last bastion of the Old World. That whole notion of the White Windy City was, of course, bullshit. Chicago had more money, and therefore less violent crime, but it was far from civilized and far from what it was like in the Old World before the Thinning.

Anyway, the news reports didn’t concern Hale. Mostly he had been watching the kid. He didn’t have a name, so the media began referring to him as “the Visitor,” and the name was probably going to stick.

From what Hale could see, the kid had earned a name.

Last night’s fight wasn’t the Visitor’s first Fray, and Hale was now intimately familiar with all three of his matches. The first was a loss, and it was pathetic. Clearly the kid was so shit-scared that he didn’t know how to handle himself. Decent skills but no clue about his environment, which in this case was an old abandoned factory. His opponent gave him the slip in the opening minutes only to drop on him from a catwalk. The Visitor fought well for a while, but then he got backed into machinery and cornered. The other guy used the surroundings to launch himself in the air and kick the kid in the face. The Visitor had finally been put in a choke hold when his opponent hung from a pipe and wrapped his legs around the kid’s neck until he passed out. It was over way too quickly. At least he’d scared the other guy into not prolonging the fight, but it wasn’t good for views.

After that the kid had been absent for almost a year, which wasn’t surprising considering the beating he’d taken. However, about six months ago, someone had given him another chance.

Hale tapped his screen to run the second fight and tapped again to pull up a grid view on all twenty cameras to play simultaneously. This time the Arena was a drained pool, probably in an old high school. The Visitor fought desperately but much smarter, and Hale found himself mesmerized. The opponent was never really in the game. The Visitor used the sloping gradient of the pool to his advantage, incline and gravity adding power to his moves or quickness to his steps.

The twenty grid was too small, so Hale tapped his screen again to pull up a row of four. He loved being able to see the same move from so many different angles, to see how the Visitor’s left bicep popped before a punch and at the same time watch how his back muscles corded through the blow.

The Visitor fought shirtless, and he was a thing of beauty.

He was big, but not overly so. Maybe six feet two. He was also broad—not as broad as Benz but broad like a swimmer. How had he achieved that? Good genes? Even Hale didn’t have access to a pool large enough to train in. Maybe the kid had money—though Uppers didn’t fight.

The rest of his body was clearly the result of a lot of hard work. He had a very distinguished V-shape on narrow but well-muscled hips. Hale paused the video as he got a good frontal view of the Visitor walking under a light, and was amazed that his abs actually cast little shadows. He had big thighs and bulging calves. God, those legs—this guy was strong.

Hale couldn’t help but wonder how he’d compare. Pushing six feet, he would be on the shorter end of their matchup, but that often worked to his advantage. While the kid was fast, Hale knew he was faster, making Hale the harder target and a force to be reckoned with. He had spent a lot of time over the years fine-tuning every last muscle; he was balanced and evenly developed. Hale would probably have the kid beat if they got into a full-body flexing contest—except for the biceps, quads, and calves—all the important good-looking muscles. He frowned. That was probably why he was lusting over those areas.

Hale watched as the Visitor’s numbers on the newest fight continued to go up. In fact, numbers were going up all over the system, Hale’s included. Everyone was going to get a payout. Internationally this was an example of the new violent America, the Old West reborn. He had a feeling the real show was just beginning.

The Visitor was a great showman too. He’d clearly drawn out the fight. What did he look like without the mask? The leather fastened around his head, but his coffee-colored hair was free and his mouth and jawline exposed. The kid kept his mouth relaxed but his jaw forward and determined. In this game, Hale supposed most men ended up battered and grotesque—himself excluded, of course. Hopefully, under that mask the Visitor’s unmarred face would look young yet roguish and innocent with a touch of danger. At least that’s the impression Hale got from the way the guy fought—he totally wasn’t fantasizing, not at all.

Hale flinched when his wife’s sister sat down. He hadn’t been paying attention.

“You can’t stop watching it, can you?” Jess asked and smiled, nodding toward his computer. Why would she smile at that?

“No,” Hale admitted, checking his emotions. They frequently butted heads, but that was to be expected, being that Hale was her husband’s best friend and she was the only mother Hale’s daughter had ever known. Considering that twisted mess, they did okay. Hale never argued with her, not outright, and they maintained a cordial coolness at all times. “Why’d you come down here, Jess?” She used the gym but never when Hale was working.

She sighed, glancing nervously over at the two men lifting weights. She spoke softly. “I guess I’m just checking up on you. Benz talked to me before he finally went to bed, and I wanted you to know I respect your decision to keep fighting.”

Hale nodded. There wasn’t much to say. They sat in silence for a time.

“What would you think if I moved out of here?” he asked at last.

“What?” Her tone was sharp. Often her first reaction to anything Hale had to say was to get offended. “What about your daughter?”

And now, Hale would have to talk her down. “I’d be doing it for her. I can slum it on the ground. This whole thing has made me realize this money isn’t going to last forever. I’m not going to last forever. Any little bit I can save, you know?”

Jess nodded. The look in her eyes made it seem like she hadn’t considered this scenario before. Impossible. Now he knew she was acting. They weren’t rolling in money. Their money was new money, and living in relative luxury and safety in the exclusive Chixago Building came with a price—a high one. The pittance he made working in the gym was nothing. People didn’t work in this building to make money. People with money worked to keep the building self-contained so they wouldn’t have to go outside. From their own solar panels, their own water purification system, to their own gardens, their rise was as self-sufficient as possible. Jess knew they were Uppers in this city only as long as the real paychecks kept coming.

“Where would you go?” she asked at last.

“I have no idea. Could you keep your ears open in the market? Maybe ask around and see if anyone has connections somewhere?” She worked in the grocery on this same floor whenever she could, whenever Benz or Hale was around to watch Eddie.

“Where is Eddie, by the way?” Hale asked abruptly, realizing he’d skipped lunch entirely and it was already afternoon. How long had he been lost in those videos? Eddie should be done with school by now, just one floor above them.

“She’s in the grocery. I left her with Sam for a minute. Said I wanted to stop in and drop off lunch for you.” With this she picked up a cloth bag he hadn’t seen on the floor and dropped it on his desk.

“Thanks.”

“You know you can come see her any time if you decide to leave. You can stay over sometimes.” They both knew that would be difficult. Building security kept tabs on everyone who came in and out and frowned on overnight guests. Owners didn’t want it to become a slum. Hale guessed he would have some leeway since he had lived here and knew people, but how long would that last?

“Hale,” Jess said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I want you to know….” She paused, struggling. “It’s hard for me to say thank you—mostly because I don’t owe you any fucking thanks.” At this, Hale nodded. He agreed. “But I see you split fifty-fifty with Benz, though you don’t have to. And I know you save for Edna. I know you love her.” Hale nodded again. “You’ve cleaned up your act. I can never forgive you for Janie. I’m not going to say thank you for behaving like a man. But with how things are going, I wanted you to know what I see.”

Wow. That’s more than he’d ever gotten from Jess. Looking at her now, he saw Janie. The sisters shared the same blonde hair and blue eyes. Even the shape of Jess’s face reminded him of Janie. He always consciously tried to shut that out, but maybe it was the little bit of sympathy she was showing him that triggered the association.

“But….” And now her features hardened up again. He should have seen this coming. “Things are getting dangerous. Deadly. After last night… if they found you, or if someone came after you, who’s to say Edna wouldn’t be a target?” In that moment, Hale knew this whole conversation had been a manipulation.

She looked him dead in the eyes, and all traces of Janie were gone. “I really do think it would be best if you left us. Best for Edna.”

Hale swallowed his anger and nodded. “I agree with you.” He wanted to think the small smile she gave him in response was one of compassion, but it could very well be relief.

She shifted in her seat. “I have to go get Edna.”

“Thanks again for the lunch,” Hale said, unable to keep an edge from his voice. She pursed her lips and got up to leave. “And Jess,” he added before she could go, “Benz told me about a place this morning. It might just be for people at his club, but ask him for me, okay?”

She relaxed her expression and nodded before turning and walking away.

He left the bag sitting on his desk. He wasn’t hungry. “Hey—Bobby, Trey!” he called to the two men currently lifting weights in the gym. “When you’re done, could one of you give me a little break at the desk and one of you spot me?”

He closed the browser on the computer. It wasn’t illegal to watch Shadow Fray, but it suddenly felt safer if no one saw him watching it. “Sure thing, Hale,” said Bobby.

Hale made a conscious effort not to work out in the gym more than anyone else. He mostly did cardio and kept the weight training private, but he wanted the pain that came from lifting. “I got a little steam I need to blow off, if you know what I mean.”

Bobby gave him a knowing nod. “Women,” he said. “Sometimes I think it’s better that there’s fewer of them in the world now.”

Trey laughed as he finished the rep and set the weight on the stand. “Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that every time you squeeze one off in your hand, right?”

Hale smiled, but the truth was it wasn’t very funny, and he didn’t feel like laughing.

JUSTIN UNWRAPPED himself from his sleeping little brother and turned off My Little Pony. He was constantly amazed by the number of shows from the Old World he hadn’t seen yet. Professionally done media wasn’t made as much anymore. Like technology, it had been frozen in time since the Thinning. Keeping power and communications had been a priority for a hundred years, but everything was reused and recycled—including television shows. When he was younger, he used to get worried that one day, the cartoons would all run out. That day never came, though.