Broken Angel Page 9

  The cruel taunts had been buried in the solid sea of ink, just as they were buried in his mind. Only one phrase remained, sprawled across the center of his back.

  GABRIEL JOSEPH MORGAN

  He didn’t look up when the door opened. Alternating waves of anger and degradation consumed him, and he couldn’t trust himself not to act on his feelings. Instead, he gripped the handles beneath him until his hands burned with the effort.

  “Hello, angel.” Jenner’s haunting voice drifted through the room.

  He wouldn’t answer. His heart slammed his ribs, threatened to burst from his chest.

  Jenner approached him and stopped inches from his side. “Look at me.”

  He swallowed hard and raised his head, met Jenner’s simmering gaze.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” Jenner skimmed a finger along the outlines of the black monstrosity. “You may have noticed that it is not quite finished.”

  He nodded, still unwilling to speak.

  “This is a momentous occasion.” Jenner practically purred. A grin surfaced on his sallow face. “Today, you will be reborn.”

  “What?”

  “Gabriel Joseph Morgan entered this room, but he will never leave it. He dies here, now, on this bench.” Jenner paused, presumably to let his words sink in. “When you leave, you will be Angel.”

  “Like hell I will,” he blurted.

  “Oh, but you will, Angel. You have no choice. Of course, if you want to make things difficult for yourself, and your lovely sister...”

  His anger faded. His shoulders sagged, and he hung his head. “All right,” he whispered. “You win.”

  Jenner smirked. “Of course I do.”

  He lowered himself back down, and the lieutenant gathered his needles. The gloves snapped into place. The wheeled stool glided up beside him, and he forced himself to watch Jenner obliterate his name. Erase him, letter by letter.

  Eventually, the last ‘N’ disappeared. An arching line formed that licked beneath the right wing to complete the pattern. He focused on the mirror beneath him and shuddered at the sight of the stranger staring back.

  Angel.

  * * * *

  That night when he was returned to his room after his treatment with Doc, Slade entered and closed the door behind them. Exhausted, in physical and emotional agony, his mood did not endear him to deal with his captor.

  Slade said nothing at first, looked around as if seeing the room for the first time, and settled for seating himself in the sole chair.

  He squatted on the floor, balanced on the balls of his feet with his arms rested on his thighs, and fixed his gaze on Slade with all the disgust he could summon.

  “I understand Jenner has finished your tattoo.”

  He nodded. His eyes didn’t leave Slade’s.

  “Don’t be so upset, boy. All my fighters are marked in some way, and all by Jenner.”

  Not all of them had their secret sins plastered across their backs.

  “Show me.”

  He rose slowly and turned away. Pulling his shirt over his head to expose his back proved excruciating, but he managed. Behind him, Slade drew a sharp breath.

  “Jenner’s really outdone himself this time,” Slade muttered. Footsteps crossed the floor. Slade stood in front of him, searching his face. He bore the scrutiny unblinking, until Slade reached out and eased the shirt from his arms.

  “Why don’t you leave this off for now? It will only irritate you further.”

  “Sure.” Like he cared.

  The man held his hand out, a placatory gesture. “I stayed to tell you a few things. First, Sol and Apollo believe you’re ready to fight. I’ve entered you in a match that will take place one month from today, at my arena. Second, there are two rules in our fights, and they’re simple ones. Weapons are not allowed and you can’t kill your opponent. Other than that, anything goes.”

  Slade paused. “And finally, your schedule is to change starting today, so you’re on the same timeline as the rest of us. You won’t sleep tonight.”

  He glared at him. “How am I supposed to manage that?”

  “I don’t care how you do it. Twiddle your thumbs, shadowbox, bash your head against the wall if you want to, but stay awake. I’ll come back at dawn to check on you, and then—only then—you can sleep. Any more questions?”

  “Can I see Lillith?”

  “No. But you can talk to her.” He produced the omnipresent phone and dialed. “Get Lillith,” he said seconds later. He paused again, spoke sharply. “Lillith, someone would like a word with you.”

  He took the proffered phone. “Lillith?” he half-whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “Gabriel! Is that you?”

  Her voice soothed his shattered psyche, and he clung to the sound like a man drowning.

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes and folded his free arm across his stomach. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. What are they doing to you, Gabriel?”

  “Nothing. I’m okay.”

  “Oh, Gabe. I’m so sorry.” Her voice hitched.

  “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, I did. I shouldn’t have run—”

  “No.” He cut her off, and turned away so Slade couldn’t see his face. “No, Lilly, you didn’t. Don’t cry. I’m okay. Really.”

  She sniffled once. “Where are you?”

  “In the attic.” He uttered a harsh laugh, stopped himself.

  “The attic? I didn’t think there was one.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have a room.” Her voice grew quiet.

  “Okay. If they do anything to hurt you...”

  “No, Gabe. They haven’t hurt me, not at all.”

  Slade motioned for him to cut the conversation. “Lilly, I have to go. I...I love you, sis.”

  Lillith drew a shuddering breath. Whatever she said next was lost to him when Slade jerked the phone from his hand and hung it up.

  “Satisfied?”

  He snorted and crossed his arms.

  “I’m leaving. I have a business to run. You know what will happen if you defy me, so don’t go to sleep. Angel.”

  His jaw clenched, and he forced himself to stay in place. Slade left the room. The deadbolt lock slid into place with ringing finality.

  Alone, he pounded his frustrations out on the bag that hung from the ceiling, until his knuckles split and the blood ran down his hands. When he could no longer lift his arms, he fell to his knees and loosed an anguished scream.

  Chapter 10

  By the fourth night on his new schedule, Gabriel’s body had adjusted to rising with the moon. His attic prison had no windows, so day and night made no difference to him.

  With the end of his sessions with Jenner came an end to his formal training. He still spent five or six hours in the basement every night, conditioning himself to stay fit and focused. He had nothing better to do. One of the ever-present twin bodyguards would lurk, if not in the room with him, then just around the corner or outside the door.

  On the fifth night, he entered the training room after an hour with Doc and found a stranger. A swarthy, muscular man, around his age, stood at the far end of the room engaged in a bout with a bag. Bare-chested, shoeless, he wore only tight-fitting black pants, hand wraps, and a gray sweat-soaked headband over which slick black hair spiked like burnt blades of grass. His face reflected intense concentration, and he pummeled the heavy vinyl with blows that reverberated through the room.

  The guy was completely focused, a state he had yet to achieve himself. The workout ended abruptly. The fighter stopped and lowered his arms, panting, and faced him with a wide grin that showcased a missing front tooth.

  “Hey. You must be the new guy,” he called, advancing. He reached him and extended a wrapped hand. “I’m Lonzo. And you are?”

  “Ga—” He stopped, disgusted, and took the man’s hand. Through clenched teeth he said, “Angel.”

  Lonzo laughed. “So you a
re, and you look the part, my friend. Especially that grinning mug of yours. Very angelic.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He cooled off a little, and blinked. Lonzo’s eyes were clear amber, rather than the usual Hispanic brown.

  Lonzo must have read the observance in his face. “You like the eyes? It’s great in bouts. Facing a yellow-eyed Latino can be disconcerting. Whatcha think, mijo? You seem pretty alarmed.” The grin resurfaced, and he couldn’t resist returning it.

  “Alarmed, yes. Intimidated, no.”

  Lonzo shrugged and laughed again. “Sure. So, you came to train?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t let me stand in your way.” Lonzo stepped aside and swept an arm toward the bag he’d just vacated.

  He flexed his hands, the fresh white gauze wrapping them. Doc would kill him if he tore his knuckles up again, but he felt he owed this Lonzo guy something for barging in on him.

  He stepped into position and struck one of the fighting stances Sol had shown him. This is Apollo, Jenner, Father. This is Marcus-Fucking-Slade. The last visualization spurred him into action. His fists were a blur, battering the unforgiving material. Blossoms of bright crimson burst on the gauze, but he barely noticed. The room dissolved, and the bag became Slade. Cringing before him. Shuddering with every blow.

  “Hey...hey! Angel!”

  The hated handle jerked him back to reality, and to the discovery that he’d found a way to focus, to channel his rage into something productive. Though his hands throbbed and his shoulders and arms burned with exertion, he felt good. Better than he had since the day he’d been inducted into hell.

  “I think you won, man.”

  He turned. Lonzo stared at him with mingled humor and awe. A muted rushing sound like distant rapids whispered behind him. He’d torn the bag open. Sand poured from the vertical split in the black material and formed an anthill on the concrete floor.

  Lonzo cocked his head to one side. “Come spar with me.”

  Nodding, he followed the fighter to the ring. They clambered in on opposite sides, and stood facing each other. Lonzo said, “We don’t have a bell, so I’ll just say when. Uno, dos, vamenos!”

  Lonzo flashed forward, lobbed a fist toward him. He ducked, tried for a leg sweep, but the backlash of Lonzo’s swing caught him on the side of the head. He missed the other man’s feet by an inch and rebounded to dance back out of reach.

  Lonzo advanced on him. This time he was ready, and when his opponent swung, he caught his arm and jerked him forward. He bent a knee and lashed out with his other leg in one fluid motion.

  Surprise infused Lonzo’s face. He fell and landed on the mat with a solid thump. He held a hand up to call a halt, grimaced, and stood.

  “Ouch. Of course, if this was a real match it’d be far from over, you know. I just wanted to try your style on for size. C’mon, let’s grab a seat.”

  Lonzo vaulted to the floor and headed for one of the benches, where a towel lay carelessly draped over wooden slats. He picked it up, slung it around his neck, and mopped the sweat from his face, waiting to be joined.

  When they were both seated, Lonzo said, “So what’s your real name?”

  “Angel.” Damn you, Jenner.

  “Okay, if you insist. Where you from, Angel?”

  “Around.” He’d already been warned not to spread the story of his captivity to the other residents of the House. It might upset them, he’d inferred with ironic bitterness. They couldn’t have anyone upset. Oh, no.

  “A man of few words. I respect that.” Lonzo leaned back against the wall. His hands tugged lightly on the ends of the towel. “It’s okay. I can do enough talking for the both of us. I’m from Brooklyn, so I should be in Mendez’s House. But I can’t stand the bastard, so I came here.”

  “Mendez? You mean Diego Mendez?”

  Lonzo sent him a strange look. “Uh, yeah. That one. Head of Prometheus? Big-time drug lord and general thug...any of this ringin’ a bell?”

  His fists clenched. Diego was part of the organization. Christ. He’d assumed the thugs who’d been with him, Nails and Kaiser, were fighters. Attempting nonchalance, he said, “So we fight people from this guy’s place, then?”

  “What?” Disbelief bordering on shock colored Lonzo’s voice. “Don’t you know anything about this outfit? How the hell did you get in here, mijo?”

  He shrugged and remained silent.

  Lonzo shook his head. “All right, look. There are five Houses—one for each borough. We’re Ulysses. You did know that, right?”

  “Sure.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. He thought he’d heard Doc mention it before.

  “Okay. Then there’s Prometheus in Brooklyn—Mendez. Staten Island is Pandora, run by the Haradas. They’re old, rich and Japanese. Got a real mansion on a private island, deal in upscale escorts and traditional-style stuff. Their fighters are tough.” Lonzo paused and looked at him. “You follow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Dionysus is in Queens, and the head...uh, man there is Dell, Dell Ramone. He makes a good-looking woman. And then there’s Wolff.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Wolff?”

  “Captain Wolff. He’s a cop. All his boys are. They don’t run girls, obviously. House Orion doesn’t enter many matches either. They’re just around to make sure things stay quiet.”

  “And they’re from the Bronx?”

  Lonzo grinned. “You got it.”

  This was big business. Huge business. A corporation of crime with branches in every borough, protected by the cops.

  At last he said, “What about the star?”

  “That was Wolff’s idea. Five houses, five colors. There are pins and signs and graffiti all over the city, and people either know what it means or they don’t. Since the symbol is innocent enough, no one that doesn’t know bothers to poke into it. Oh—and by the way, we’re the black point.”

  From Lonzo, he learned that an outside interest handled the betting—odds determination, placing and payout. The “accountant” and the hosting House received percentages of each night’s take, and fighters could earn anywhere from a thousand dollars to half a million for each match, depending on whether or not they won.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out the attraction to voluntary competition.

  Slade paid his fighters a base commission of a grand per match, win or lose, plus a percentage of any winnings. He doubted he would receive the same recompense.

  Chapter 11

  The night of his first fight, Gabriel woke from a rare dreamless sleep to, “Hello, angel.”

  Familiar words delivered in a voice he’d hoped never to hear again.

  Heart racing, he bolted from the floor, and expected to encounter restraints, but found none. His vision adjusted to wakefulness. The slight figure stood a few feet away, dressed in his usual robe-and-smirk combination. What the hell had he done to bring Jenner here?

  “Relax. I only wanted to wish you luck tonight,” Jenner said. He stepped forward, stopped and seemed to remember something. “Oh, yes. And to tell you not to worry about your lovely sister. I will take good care of her while you are gone.”

  “You son of a bitch.” An icy weight formed in the pit of his stomach and sent tendrils of cold through him. “You lay one finger on her and I’ll...”

  “You will what?” Jenner’s right hand flew up.

  He flinched.

  With a predatory grin, Jenner reached back and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

  He held his ground as the other man advanced on him, though his stomach churned and rolled. Jenner stopped inches from him.

  “I heard you scream the other night.” The voice dropped to a whisper. “I have decided I enjoy the sound, and some time soon I wish to hear it again.”

  “You won’t.” Defiance tightened his voice.

  Jenner smiled benevolently. “We shall see, angel.”

  “Yes. We will.” Calm descended, and he returned the smile with a cold, calculating one of his own. The barest f
licker of an emotion Jenner had never exhibited before tightened the man’s features: surprise.

  Jenner recovered quickly and withdrew, with his habitual leer intact. Had that brief shock had even been there, or had he merely imagined it?

  “Well. You have certainly progressed faster than I believed possible.” He had been surprised, just not in the way he’d expected.

  The arrogant satisfaction stamped on Jenner’s face nearly proved his undoing. His arms jerked spasmodically in his longing to wrap his hands around the worm’s throat. “I never expected to have you reformed before your first fight. However, you are ready.”

  More than you know. Jenner walked out, and he savored his contempt. Nursed it. Fed on it.

  He would turn their world upside down and leave it in shambles.

  * * * *

  An hour after his confrontation with Jenner, Gabriel arrived at Beatz. An innocuous name for a nightclub indistinguishable from any other on the streets of New York. Garbed in flashing, sputtering neon, the club huddled between a topless bar and a building that might once have been warehouse space, but now loomed abandoned and boarded shut. A line had formed before the doors of the club.

  Stuck between Sol and Apollo, handcuffed, with a jacket thrown over his arms to hide his prisoner status, he embraced the five blocks between the Marquis-Grant and Beatz. He savored every frigid March breath of New York air as though it would be his last. Despite the horrific idea of attempting to pound another man into incapacity, a thread of hesitant anticipation pulsed through his taut nerves.

  He’d been given new clothes for the fight. Gone were the loose-fitting garments that marked the first months of his captivity. Now he wore the uniform of Ulysses: black boots laced up to mid-calf over form-fitting black pants, black tank top, and a long-sleeved linen shirt, open at the front, also black.

  He had received new rules as well, to be followed in addition to the two laws of the organization. Slade insisted on entertainment along with triumph, ordered him to draw out the match as long as possible. And as testament to his forced name, he would fight shirtless so everyone could see his tattoo.

  They reached the entrance and pushed through a throng of people waiting for admittance without sparing a glance at the protestors they cut in front of. At the door, a bouncer nearly as large as the twins nodded them through. Apollo steered him by the elbow into a darkened din of music and noise, grinding bodies and sweat.