Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
No doubt he’s already sized up every guard, too. Probably calculated how he would kill each one of them. And I would love to let him out of his stall and see what he’d do to Victor—or to any of the guards. But except for the guard who got his neck snapped, they’re too careful for that.
Too careful…unless they think with their dicks, like Bravo did. And now Lissa is free.
Soon we all might be.
With my heart light as a feather, I step up to the bars and chirp, “Good morning, Crash. How are you feeling today?”
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” he snaps back.
My heart dives back down to earth. Crash isn’t a nice guy, but he’s usually kind to Lissa and me, and never takes out his anger and frustration on us. Which means he isn’t feeling himself this morning.
Smile vanishing, I ask him quietly, “Is your head hurting?”
“Yeah. Like there’s a fucking bomb about to explode inside my skull.”
Because there is—an inoperable, malignant tumor the size of a walnut. “Just a headache? Any dizziness?”
“No.” Accustomed to the routine, he stands still as I shine a penlight into his eyes. The left pupil contracts. The right doesn’t.
Shit. That is not good. “Any numb spots in your extremities or changes in your vision? Unusual sensitivity to light?”
“No.”
He’s probably lying. The way his pupil’s blown, he likely has problems seeing out of that eye. But in his place, I’d lie, too—because Papa doesn’t have any use for a man who isn’t in peak condition.
So I go along with it and say, “I assume your motor control is still fine, because you didn’t shred your face while shaving this morning.”
“That’s right.” There’s a slight softening in his tone. Because he knows I’m not fooled—and that by going along with his lie, I’m putting my ass on the line, too. “Everything’s just fine.”
“Just a headache, then. I’ll note it on your chart. And I can give you a few aspirin now, but when the doc comes, I’ll ask him for something stronger. I don’t know if he will allow it, though.”
Because any sort of doping is forbidden in the Cage. It’s almost incomprehensible to me that an illegal fight organized by a bunch of criminals is regulated more tightly than the Olympics. But, once again, it all comes down to the money. And since they are criminals, they don’t trust each other not to cheat. So each fighter undergoes rigorous drug testing.
“Aspirin will do,” he says, but his gaze is on Victor—who just got onto his radio and ordered another guard to check Lissa’s stall.
Crash glances back at me and cocks an eyebrow. Asking what I know.
I’d love to tell him. I’d love to say that, right at this moment, she’s probably near a highway and waiting for the right kind of vehicle to drive by—and that law enforcement might be here as early as noon.
But even if Lissa sends someone to rescue us, there’s no real escape for Crash. The best he can hope for is dying free, surrounded by the people he cares for…and around here, hope is a precious, fragile thing. Giving him that hope now might be cruel—especially if nothing comes of it.
I can’t promise that help is coming. I only promise what I can give.
“Doc wants me to consolidate the workout groups again.” Because they exercise in groups of three, but if one of the fighters dies in the Cage, that group loses a member—and this stable had several losses lately. “So starting today, it’ll be you and Handlebar at ten and four.”
His breath catches. He stares at me for a long second—as if this is something he’s afraid to believe in or hope for. As if he’s afraid that in the next second, it might be taken away.
A few hours per day with Handlebar. Like many of the fighters who end up in the stable, they’re members of an outlaw motorcycle club—but although most of the guys are from different clubs, Crash and Handlebar are from the same one. And all I know about motorcycle clubs is what Matt has told me. Mostly that they’re tight-knit groups whose members call each other brothers.
Crash and Handlebar seem on another level entirely, as if they’re not just ride partners or brothers. Maybe it’s romantic—though double-teaming Lissa is how they ended up in here, so if there’s a sexual component to their relationship, they’re not only into each other.
But there’s definitely love between them. And that love is what Papa used against them.
None of these guys voluntarily get into the Cage and fight to the death. Most of the time, their families are threatened. The choice is simple: Fight, or they’ll kill your mother. Fight, or they’ll rape your wife. Fight, or they’ll torture your kid. Papa holds a knife against their hearts and forces them to decide—and most of them choose to fight.