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Night settles on my shoulders like a blanket as I stride from my car to the alley. The cold air and the adrenaline shooting through my veins has cleared my head enough to shake off the exhaustion—for now. I’ll pay for it later, but it’s not as if I could sleep even if I wanted, and the main thing is to convince Clyde I can fight in the cages underground.
A shadow flits behind a dumpster. Mage, or Apples. Not sure which one. I’ve warned them to stay away, but they live by their own rules, mostly. Fucking kids. They’re awesome. Wish they’d let me help them more.
I slow down, rub the back of my neck. My skin itches, my muscles ache. The inside of my head is a black eddy. The anniversary coming up tomorrow weighs on me like a boulder.
Fucked-up timing. All I wanna do is hole up in a bar somewhere and get filthy drunk, pass out and wake up days later with no recollection of what happened or what date it is. Zane has dragged my drunk ass back home plenty of times over the years. It’s become a goddamn birthday tradition.
Hell, no such luck, not this time. No chance to hide.
Sucking in a long breath, this time making sure my switchblade is tucked in my back pocket, easily accessible if needed, I square my shoulders and enter the alley.
A group of guys is standing in the shadow of a metal fire escape, arms folded over their chests, beanie caps pulled low over their faces. Ralph, my contact, is nowhere in sight. No surprise there, although he said he’d come by.
Chicken-shit.
Well, here we are. The opening bars of “Straight Edge” by Minor Threat ring inside my skull, and the drumming rises to a crescendo.
I head up to the silent group of men. They stare at me with suspicion, brows low over their eyes, jaws set. Despite the cold, some of them are dressed in short-sleeved vests, showing off their gang tats—striking in white and grey hues, like silver, the name of their gang.
We don’t have that many gangs here in Madison, but things are getting worse, fact that prompted the Downtown Safety Initiative. Drugs, weapons, stolen car and motorbike trafficking, illegal fights and pimping. Silver Gang is relatively new, started up a couple years ago—and specializes in illegal fighting and weapons.
Joy. At least I’m meeting with the right people for this job.
“You Rafaele Vestri?” a lean, tall guy with a shaved head and tattoos swirling over his skull asks, lifting his chin at me.
“Yeah, that’s me. Here to talk to Clyde.” When they remain silent, I add, “Ralph said he talked to him, said Clyde could help me out. Is Clyde here?”
Dammit, shut up. Just nerves. I’m sweating in spite of the cold. Their non-too-friendly expressions raise my hackles.
Suck it up. They don’t have to like me, and it’s not like I’m fond of them, either.
“Clyde ain’t here,” one of them says. “Said to take care of you, though, dickhead.”
Okay, this doesn’t sound good. “Wait as sec. He said he can get me into the underground fight—”
Something hits me in the back of my knees, and I go down, dropping like a stone. I hit the ground with a jarring thump, hands and elbows smashing to the asphalt, sending fire up my arms.
Dammit. I twist and draw my knees under me, but a boot kicks my ribs and pain explodes down my side.
“And you think you’re ready for the fight club?” Another kick. “Pussy.”
“Fuck you.” I roll away, only to be grabbed in a steel grip and hauled to my feet, set up as target for the rest of the group.
The guy who grabbed me shakes me. “Have at him.”
A mistake. Not only did he help me up—thanks, asshole—but I now have my back covered by him. Stupid asshole.
I relax, let myself go limp in the guy’s hold, so that he’s forced to hunch over me a bit, and wait. The drumming in my ears intensifies, until I can’t hear anything else. The pain in my side fades in the rush of adrenaline. I can see the four of them approach with perfect clarity. Time slows down, stretching, as my training takes over.
I’ve been preparing for this ever since my family was murdered. I shouldn’t have been taken my surprise, granted, but now…
Come to me, bitches. I’m ready.
They hesitate for a moment, and I wonder what expression they see on my face to make them pause. Then they slam into me, punching and kicking.
Hanging in my captor’s hold, I can use both legs to defend myself. I twist sideways, delivering a roundhouse kick that smashes into one guy’s face, then the next’s.
The other two freeze for one long second, and I take the chance to swing back and slam my boot heel into the shin of the man holding me.
