Broken Angel Page 13

  He wasn’t fast enough to dodge a fist to the gut, but he recovered quickly and struck back. His blow clipped his opponent square in the temple. Duke shook his head like a duck shedding water and grinned.

  Duke’s arm shot forward. He stepped aside, planted his feet apart for balance—and too late, caught on to the feint just before a booted foot collided with his balls.

  Glaring white haze. Sound faded out, in—old movie reel, skips and smudges. Down, down...no. Can’t go down. Get up. Look out...

  Fresh agony rocketed through his crumpled nose and jerked him back to semi-lucidity. Fury propelled him from his knees and into Duke. His aimless jabs missed their target more often than not. The anger-induced energy wore off, and his groin screamed a reminder of its recent bludgeoning. He winced, stumbled back.

  Duke laughed.

  “Oh, my. Poor pretty boy.” A wide grin revealed broken eyeteeth, shattered at an angle that made Duke appear to sport fangs. “Told you this was our turf. We own the streets. Can’t you fucking read?”

  Concentrate, damn it. Duke stood unguarded. He threw a punch and connected with his opponent’s jaw. Duke’s head turned with the blow.

  His arm followed its arc. Before he stopped moving, an elbow slammed his shoulder and sent him to the mat.

  He landed on his side, his back to his opponent, and rolled away the instant he touched the floor. Duke’s foot stomped the mat a hairline from his hand. He started to push himself up. Duke dropped to one knee beside him, grabbed a fistful of hair and twice bashed his face against the mat without letting go, wrenched his neck back and sneered.

  “If I was you, I’d stay down, little fish. You aren’t ready to swim with the sharks.”

  Duke thrust his head down and stood.

  He twitched, put a palm on the mat. A boot slammed his side and flipped him onto his back. Duke loomed over him. “You deaf, too? Stay the fuck down, or you ain’t walkin’ out of this ring.”

  Discontent exploded from the crowd in shouts and hisses. From Duke’s arrogant demands or boredom, he couldn’t tell. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t oblige the man. He had to get up.

  The rope border stood a few feet away. He rolled once, grabbed the lowest one, and pulled himself upright. Blood drizzled like sweat down his temple from a gash above his eye. One knee jerked and threatened to fold beneath him. He shifted his weight, prepared to move.

  Duke shook his head. “Stupid little fish.”

  He launched into his opponent, intent on bringing him down. Duke caught him around the torso as they fell. The Prometheus fighter hit the mat with a brief grunt, bucked up, and twisting, threw him aside. Both men stood, but he lagged by precious seconds.

  Duke strode toward him, drawing back a right fist. He crouched slightly and searched for an opening, ready to dodge the blow. The fist that flew at him seemed almost swollen. A dull glint of metal nestled between the third and fourth fingers.

  The bastard had a weight.

  The shock of the hit slammed through him down to his feet. Something in his jaw cracked, a sickening sound his ears amplified from the inside. He fell to the mat, scrambled aside, stood, only to have the weighted fist slam his ribs. Once, again. The pain sent scalding bile up his windpipe.

  Duke prepped for a left swing, and he threw up a forearm—but Duke opened his hand at the last second. Fingers encircled his wrist, wrenched his arm aside. Duke launched his right and struck the base of his neck.

  A gasping breath caught in his throat and would go no further. Duke dropped his wrist. One hand slid in his pocket, quick as a snake, and came out empty. He gripped his upper arms and pressed them to his sides, stepped forward, and drove a knee into his still-throbbing groin.

  He couldn’t even scream.

  His muscles locked rigid, holding him in place even when Duke let go and stepped back. A dazzle-swirl of sparks erupted at the corners of his vision. He shook his head. The dancing lights refused to clear. Sweat coated his skin and drenched his hair, plastering it to his skull. The pain in his battered face was incidental compared with the ripping ache that emanated from his injured groin and coiled like hot lead in his belly.

  There were two Dukes. He blinked, swung, and missed both of them.

  Two blurred hands extended and became one. Fingers squeezed his windpipe. He hammered at the rock-hard arm connected to his throat. His ineffectual blows weakened. Sight and sound bled from the world, leaving blackness in its wake.

  Chapter 16

  Clicks and pops chattered in the dark. Tiny threads of Gabriel’s consciousness pulled together and formed a knot of panic. Jenner! His body jerked automatically, and a hoarse, anguished cry exploded from him. His eyes flew open, hot with pain.

  Doc’s room. Dimly lit, empty save for him. No Jenner.

  He remained absolutely still. Everything hurt. Breathing. Blinking. Attempts at thought seared his brain. His heavy eyes closed, but his mind refused to shut down again. Another burst of rapid clicks sounded, like distant gunfire. With agonizing lethargy, he turned his head toward the sound, forced one eye open. The IV pole stood to his left, switched on but connected to nothing. The line hung straight down. No needles were taped in place on his arms. A wrinkled, empty bag curled on one hook. A mechanical whirr spun from the box, and spat more clicks as the machine attempted to draw fluid from the emptiness.

  At last, the pain eased enough to allow more lucid thought. With it came renewed fear.

  He’d lost.

  The last thing he remembered was Duke’s hand clamped on his throat. He had no idea how he’d arrived here, or what would happen now—other than the certainty that Slade would be furious. He would hurt Lillith. If he hadn’t already.

  The curtain across from him rustled and twitched. He tensed, expecting Slade, or maybe Jenner. Doc stumbled through instead. He froze, wavered on his feet, and sent a mildly astonished look in the direction of his bed.

  “’Lo, Gayreel. Howd you get here?” A vacant grin drifted across his lips. “’Sup? You wanna drink?” He held up a hand with a clumsy flourish. His fingers clutched the neck of a near-empty bottle: black-label Jack Daniels. The dregs of the liquid inside sloshed around with his unsteady motion.

  “Doc?” His voice emerged a whisper-croak. Clenching his jaw against impending agony, he propped himself up on his elbows. A moan slithered from his throat and collided with his teeth.

  “Here. I’ll pour ya shot.” Doc thrust the bottle toward the bed. The sudden movement unbalanced him. He folded and thumped to the floor. Seconds of silence passed before a high-pitched giggle arose from the unseen doctor. “Don’ya know this’s a party?” Doc shouted from the floor. “Iss fight night! Buncha fuckin’ murderin’ drug dealers all killin’ each other, an’ I get ta fix ’em up! ’Cuz I’m the doctor!” Crazed laughter burst from him and degenerated rapidly into guttural, wrenching sobs.

  His alarm increased, temporarily cresting his pain. He sat up with a wince and strained to see beyond his feet. He couldn’t.

  Doc had fallen silent again.

  Anguish poured through his wracked body as he manipulated his legs over the side of the bed and clenched handfuls of sheet. Air hissed through his teeth, in and out. He tasted blood with every breath. “Doc,” he gasped. “You alive?”

  A hand gripped the footboard with a thud that shook the bed. Fresh pain jarred a whimper from him. Doc hauled himself to his feet and, one hand pressed to his eyes, extended the bottle toward the bed. It shook violently in his grip. “Take this a sec.” The raw whisper had lost some of its slur. “Please. Now.”

  He made an awkward grab and caught the bottom of the bottle. Doc let go and took off for the bathroom at a stumbling run. The door slammed. Violent retching followed and lasted for almost a minute. A flush broke the ensuing silence. Eventually, Doc rustled around in the room, and the shower turned on.

  An inch or so of liquid remained in the bottle. Maybe it would numb his screaming nerves, just a little. Enough to get him on his feet. If Slade hadn
’t done anything to Lillith yet, he had to try and stop it. He could promise to earn more than ten million. Or take whatever Slade intended for her. Even if it was rape. Anything.

  Would Slade force him to watch? He couldn’t bear it.

  With effort, he brought the bottle to his lips. The first taste stung several cuts inside his mouth. He forced it down and drank the rest without stopping. The burn coated his throat and bloomed in his stomach. He waited a minute, two minutes, while the shower droned in the next room. Three minutes. The liquor had little effect. Even Doc’s so-called good shit couldn’t douse the fire in his muscles, or ease the agonizing weight in the bottom of his gut.

  He dropped the bottle, gripped the edge of the bed and stood. His legs promptly collapsed beneath him. Dizziness blurred the room and made everything gray. The curtained doorway seemed so far, and Lillith even farther. He drew a shuddering breath and dragged himself across the floor, inch by painful inch. How would he get down the stairs?

  It didn’t matter. He’d figure it out when he reached them.

  As his fingers brushed the hem of the curtain, the bathroom door opened and Doc vaulted out. He ran and dropped beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

  He flinched. Tried for the curtain again.

  “Stop, damn it!” Doc slid the material from his lax fingers. “You’re going to kill yourself. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Lillith,” he murmured into the carpet. “I lost. He’ll hurt her...stopping him.”

  “Jesus. Jesus Christ.” Doc ran a hand through his damp hair. “Kid, you couldn’t stop a snail right now. Come on. Bed.”

  “No. Lillith. Hurt me instead.”

  “No one is going to hurt you any more. Not today.” Bright fury laced Doc’s voice. He stooped and lifted his arm around his shoulders, and his gasp terminated in an anguished sob. “Come on,” Doc urged. “We’ll do this fast. Can you bear any weight?”

  “Please take me downstairs...”

  “Gabriel, listen to me. If you move around much more, you’re going to black out, and you’re not going to come around for a long time. Maybe never. Do you understand that? You’re no help to Lillith this way.”

  A low moan escaped him. He managed a nod. Somehow, he and Doc reached the bed. He fell across the surface, and his legs hung down the side. No muscle would respond to further attempts at movement.

  Doc shifted him carefully onto the mattress. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle Marcus.”

  He barely heard him. The void loomed, and swallowed him whole.

  * * * *

  Doc sat at the desk in his office, a second bottle of Jack unopened in front of him. He hadn’t intended to drink them both tonight, but then, he hadn’t expected any of the fighters to arrive so early, or so thoroughly broken.

  In Gabriel’s case, broken was putting it mildly.

  How long had the kid been here? Someone must have brought him in—no way he brought himself—when he’d gone to the liquor store. Which meant he’d sat here feeling sorry for himself, getting completely shitfaced, and Gabriel had been in the next room the whole time, damn near dead.

  Some doctor he was.

  A knock sounded at the door. He stowed the bottle in a drawer and opened up to Lucien, who was at least still on his feet.

  “Hey, Doc.” Lucien flashed a tired smile and limped into the room. A few bruises stood out darkly against his paler-than-usual complexion, made ghostlike by his dyed black hair. “Got any of the good stuff left, or did you give it all to Angel?”

  “Sit down and shut up.” He pointed to the bed. Slade didn’t want the details about the so-called deal he’d struck with Gabriel to get around, but that didn’t make it easier to keep from snapping at Lucien. The fighter’s ignorance allowed him to joke about Gabriel’s condition.

  He enjoyed no such luxury.

  “Damn. You’re touchy tonight.” Lucien crossed the floor and sat. “Sorry, man. I don’t mean to make light. They fed him to a Prometheus bruiser, did he tell you? Duke wiped the floor with his ass. Is he all right?”

  “He’s unconscious.”

  “Oh. Probably the best thing for him to be right now, huh?”

  “Yeah. Right.” He avoided direct eye contact with Lucien, unwilling to let the fighter see his rage. He opened a cabinet. “How bad are you?”

  “Leg hurts a bitch. Got a killer headache, too.”

  Boo fucking hoo. He slammed the cabinet closed. Giving the fighters prescription drugs for a goddamned sore leg only encouraged more of this stupidity. He stalked to the desk, pulled the drawer open and grabbed the Jack. “Here. Catch.” He tossed it to Lucien with a wry grin. “Dr. Stephen’s remedy for a killer headache. Knock yourself out.”

  “Sweet! This’ll do.” Lucien stood and brushed his shirt smooth. “Thanks, Doc. Didn’t know you kept this kind of good stuff around.”

  “I don’t. It’s just your lucky day.”

  “Hell yeah. You want a shot?”

  “No. Just take it.” He moved around the desk. “Ice that leg down every few hours, and let me know if it gets worse.”

  “Sure.” Lucien limped to the door. “Hey, Doc. Angel, he’s gonna be all right, isn’t he? I mean, Duke really worked him over. Dirty shit. Kicked him in the junk twice.”

  A shudder went through him. He hadn’t known about that. “He’ll make it,” he said softly. The horrific vision of Gabriel dragging his shattered body across the floor renewed his shame, and his fury. The kid would come back from the grave for his sister, and Marcus Slade knew it.

  “Good,” Lucien replied. “That’s good. Angel’s hell in the ring, you know. He damn near took Duke out anyway. He just doesn’t stop.”

  “No shit.” He stared at the curtain. He’d heard nothing from inside, but he expected that. Gabriel would remain out for a long time.

  Behind him, he heard Lucien open the door and pause. “Hey, boss. How’s it going?”

  “Lucien. Is Seth in?”

  Slade. His hands clenched and his fingers dug into his palms. The callous son of a bitch never stopped in after a fight. He didn’t give a shit how busted his fighters ended up. He’d come for Gabriel.

  “Yeah, he’s here. I was just on my way out.”

  “All right. Stop by and see Apollo before you go.”

  “You got it.”

  The door closed. He didn’t turn around. Wasn’t sure he could stop himself from decking the bastard. That would be a mistake. He knew Slade still packed the same punch that won him the organization’s annual tournament two years in a row.

  “Where is he, Seth?” Slade’s tone dripped with frost.

  He whirled to face him. “He’s down at the Jack Spot having a beer. Where the fuck do you think he is? Passed out, damn it. And he’s staying there.”

  “Wake him up. He has an appointment.”

  “No.” His gut performed a long, slow roll. Slade planned to turn the kid over to Jenner. “Marcus, you can’t—”

  “I can, and I will. The boy lost. He’s been warned of the consequences. And you are interfering. Again.”

  “Yes, I am. Are you paying me to take care of these clowns or not?” He fought to keep the fear from his voice. If Slade sensed it, he’d go through with this insanity out of spite.

  “I’m not paying you to make management decisions for me. He will not go unpunished.”

  “He’s been punished enough for tonight.” He folded his arms to stop the trembling in his hands. “He knows he screwed up, and that he’s in for it, and his sister is too. He can’t stand, so he tried to crawl to you so he could beg for mercy.”

  “Did he?” Slade’s smile sent his stomach flipping again. “Well, it’s a start.”

  “I’m telling you now, Marcus. If you bring him to Jenner in his condition, there’s a good chance he’ll die. Just leave him alone for a few days. Let me fix him. He’ll torture himself enough trying to figure out what you’re going to do, and when.”

  “A good point. I hadn’t thought of tha
t.”

  “So you’ll leave him here?”

  Slade frowned. “I didn’t say that. Let me see him, and then I’ll decide.”

  “I told you, he’s out. He won’t be able to talk to you.”

  “I said see him, not talk to him. I want to know how bad it is.”

  “You’re not a doctor, Marcus. There are internal injuries you can’t see. And I still haven’t checked his...groin. Lucien said he got kicked.”

  “I know.” Slade’s features twisted in disgust. “A stupid, amateur mistake. He’s going to learn not to let that happen again. Take me to him now, or I’ll have Jenner come up here for a visit.”

  “You...” Wouldn’t, he nearly added. But he would. What Slade wanted, Slade received. Shoulders slumped, he drew the curtain aside. “Come on. He’s in here.”

  Against his better judgment, he let Slade enter first and slipped in after him. Gabriel lay where he had positioned him, on his back to avoid further damage. Gashes and scrapes scored his bruised ribs, likely the marks of heavy rings. His face looked like someone had tried to use it to saw logs. The boot-shaped bruise on his side wasn’t visible, though he’d seen it when he turned him over.

  Slade shook his head. “You’re a sorry sight,” he muttered.

  “Satisfied?”

  Slade favored him with a frozen stare. “Two days. Don’t waste your breath asking for an extension. I want him then, and no excuses. I’ll see myself out.”

  He nodded. Slade stalked from the room, and he didn’t exhale until he heard the office door close.

  * * * *

  Gabriel woke with Lillith’s name on his lips.

  Slivers of light to his left revealed he still lay in Doc’s room. The pain had eased, and a bone-deep ache replaced it. He flexed a hand. At least he could move something without losing consciousness.

  Panic drove him to sit up too fast. The vertigo sent him reeling. He slumped to the side, lost his balance, and tumbled from the bed in a tangle of sheets. A sharp pain in his arm and a corresponding clatter from the opposite side indicated he’d been hooked to the IV again. How long had he been gone this time?