Losing It All Read online

  I wouldn’t, anyway. None of the fighters are angels, but they didn’t have any more choice about coming here than I did. They’re all just doing the same thing I am—trying to stay alive long enough to get through this.

  In three months, I’ve outlived twelve fighters, but I don’t pretend that my chances are better than theirs. Papa won’t set anyone free. All of us are going to die here, one way or another. Some of us will simply last longer.

  Unless Lissa manages to send help.

  Smiling again, I load up a tray with little paper cups full of pills, and exit the doc’s office with Victor at my heels. The fighters in the barn know the morning drill as well as I do: as soon as Elton begins singing, they better get their asses out of bed. So the first is waiting in the center of his stall until Victor gives him the okay to approach the bars.

  Of all the fighters, Crash keeps his stall the tidiest. He’s already made up his bunk, the blanket precisely folded and tucked. His grooming implements sit neatly on the edge of the concrete sink in the corner of the stall, and he’s already put the disposable razor to use. His square jaw is baby-smooth. He’s dressed, too. Some of them don’t bother putting on their pants while in their cells, but Crash always does. The guys don’t receive much clothing—just a pair of gray sweats—but Papa doesn’t require them to look pretty or keep their surroundings clean. He doesn’t care if they take a dump in the corner of the stall or piss into the aisle. He doesn’t care if they stand under the shower heads that rain into their stalls every night at nine p.m. or if they smell like an open sewer. They only have to do two things: stay strong and healthy, and fight when they’re told to.

  And when it comes to hygiene, some of these guys let themselves go. For a couple, it’s depression and despair. For others, it’s rage and rebellion. But either way, Papa doesn’t punish them for it. Some have thrown feces at Victor’s men—or at Lissa and me—and a few weeks back, one fighter got his hands around a guard’s neck and snapped it. Papa blamed the guard for being careless, and that was that.

  In the end, it all comes down to money. These guys earn Papa millions of dollars in the Cage. So the only time the tasers and the cattle prods come out is when the fighters don’t follow their regimen of nutrition, exercise, and sleep.

  Crash has never been tased, but it’s not because he’s afraid to break the rules. Instead, having a regimented schedule suits his personality. Heck, put him in a pair of fatigues and he could pass for one of the guards, because he’s got that same clean-cut appearance and military bearing, as if he just stepped out of boot camp.

  But I bet not one guard would want to go toe-to-toe with the big man. Not even Victor. Because Crash is a fairly quiet guy, somewhat serious, and self-contained…but I’ve seen what he’s done to his opponents in the Cage. He sizes them up and zeroes in on their weaknesses. Then he kills them with terrifyingly brutal efficiency.

  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.

  With Crash and Handlebar, there was no need to threaten their families. All the leverage Papa needed was right there between them.

  And the only positive thing about this whole situation is that—if the best that Crash can hope for is to die surrounded by the people he loves—at least I can give him a few hours a day with the person he loves the most.

/>   His deep voice has a ragged edge to it when he says, “You’re a good one, Cherry.”

  Not good enough. But I do what little I can. And since Victor’s attention is on the guard who’s about to enter Lissa’s stall, I mutter under my breath, “Maybe this time don’t encourage Handlebar to snap a guard’s neck, so they won’t separate you again.”

  His grin and swift glance at Victor say that, given a chance, he’d do the neck-snapping himself. “No third in our group?”

  There’s nine fighters left in the barn, and the groups are usually made up of three fighters. But one of them—Tusk—doesn’t play nice with others. So he exercises alone.

  “No third yet,” I say. “But that’ll change. They told Lissa that she’ll be heading out today or tomorrow to bring in a new guy.”

  Unless we’re rescued by then. Hopefully we’re rescued by then. And without Lissa to use as bait, maybe it’ll delay that plan.

  We’ll find out soon. The sound of her door buzzing open and Elton’s “Tiny Dancer” accompany me to the next stall. Victor’s close behind me, but his attention is on the guard entering Lissa’s cell.

  My attention is on the fighter waiting for us. Matt. Sheer emotion clogs my throat, as it does every time I see him locked behind those bars. Love and horror. Anger and fear. They all combine and form the blade that Papa holds against my heart.

  Looking into his emerald eyes is like looking into a mirror. If his hair wasn’t bleached to a pale blond, it’d be the same light auburn as mine. He’s tall—not as overall big or as heavy with muscle as Crash is, but still strong and quick, and that’s what has kept him alive these three months.

  He’s already dressed in his sweatpants, too. Not because he’s modest. He just doesn’t want his sister getting an eyeful of his junk.

  His gaze searches my face as he approaches the bars. I keep my eyes on his face, too, but for a different reason. Swastikas and other white supremacist symbols decorate his neck and arms. It sickens me to see those emblems inked into his skin. Everything they represent is the opposite of who he is and what he believes in.

  But they’re a costume, the same way my nurse’s uniform is. Four years ago, in an effort to help bring down a sex trafficking ring, Matt went undercover with a motorcycle club and began working his way up their ranks. Then something went wrong with one of the jobs he was in charge of—and before the FBI could pull him out, he got tossed into this stable as punishment.

  And me… I’m here thanks to some really bad luck. Maybe that luck’s about to change, though.

  Matt’s gaze narrows as I tell him cheerily, “Good morning, Hatchet.”

  I use the road name that he was given in the motorcycle club. He’s got a fake identity to go along with it, and a name that he used while undercover—Billy Miller—but I pretend not to know it. Only Papa and the doc are aware that he’s my brother. It’s safer that way. These guys fight to the death, and if one of them tried to use me to gain an advantage against Matt…it might work. So we don’t even risk it.

  “G’morning, Furiosa.”

  Considering what ‘Cherry’ is in reference to, Matt refuses to use the name Papa gave me. But he also doesn’t risk using my real name. Furiosa is as close as he comes to the nickname he called me when we were kids.

  As far as Papa knows, my name’s Christina Miller, because that’s what Matt said it was. No one bothered to check if there actually is a Billy Miller with a sister named Christina.

  I’d die before telling anyone my real name. Because if they looked me up online and saw I have a brother who’s in law enforcement, that would be the end of us. He’d be dead within the hour—and I would be, too.

  Instead we’re fighting to keep each other alive, and as safe as anyone in this barn can be.

  No doubt my safety is uppermost in his mind when he demands, “Why the hell was Bravo in your room last night?”

  He doesn’t keep his voice down. Immediately Victor swings his attention from Lissa’s cell to me. “Bravo went into your stall?” he asks sharply. “Why?”

  I tell him the truth, because the head start Lissa had is over whether I say anything or not. But if they try to get the story out of Bravo first, it might give her a little more time. “He wanted to know if Lissa was accidentally locked in with me last night.”

  “Was she?”

  “No.”

  Victor’s lean face hardens. His gaze shoots to Tango, who emerges from Lissa’s stall and announces, “She’s not in there.”

  I only have a second to catch Matt’s gaze and see a gleam of realization, because he knows all about Lissa’s hookups with Bravo and the escape plan. Then Victor grabs my elbow and marches away from Matt’s stall, hauling me along with him.

  The abrupt movement jostles the tray in my hands. Fighting for balance, I manage to keep the pills from spilling—then realize I’m not being steered toward my room. I assumed that I’d be tossed in there and Victor would put the entire compound on lockdown while they search for Lissa. Instead he heads down the aisle toward the barn’s entrance, and I struggle to keep up with his pace, my heels clicking rapidly on the concrete.

  Through clenched teeth, he tells me, “If something like this happens again, Cherry, you damn well better tell me straight away.”

  I’m not sure if “something like this” refers to Lissa going missing or Bravo entering my stall, but either way, I have no intention of following that order. Sometimes it seems as if the guards believe we’re on the same team. Maybe because I take such good care of the fighters, getting them ready for the Cage, which helps Papa succeed. But none of it is for Papa’s sake. The healthier my brother is, the stronger he is, the more likely he is to survive the Cage—and the more likely all the fighters I look after will survive. At least until we’re found or until we break out of here. And if the only way to escape is by killing every last guard, I’d help them do it.

  So I’m not on the guards’ side. I never will be. By threatening Matt’s life, Papa might be able to force obedience from me, but he can’t force loyalty.

  I’m not stupid, though, so that’s not what I tell Victor. Instead I say, “I assumed Bravo already reported it to you.”

  Because Bravo should have. And that reminder puts Victor’s anger where it belongs. His lips thin into a white line before he orders Tango to take another guard with him and to locate Bravo.

  We pass Handlebar’s stall. The bearded biker hasn’t yet moved to the center of his cell. Instead he’s still sitting on the edge of his bunk and slowly pulling on his sweats, his tattooed torso mottled by bruises from his last round in the Cage. His head jerks up as we go by, and I catch a glimpse of his frown—his eyebrows drawing low and shadowing his eyes, as if he’s thinking there can’t be any good reason that Victor is hurrying me past the fighters without stopping to give them their morning health check. But if Lissa’s free, it’s a very good reason. I flash him a reassuring smile before Victor drags me out of his sight, and then there’s nothing ahead but Tusk’s stall and the guards’ break room with its mini-kitchen. So I’ll probably be locked in there, performing Lissa’s usual task of heating up the fighters’ breakfasts while the guards search the compound.

  But I’m wrong again. Instead of dragging me into the break room, Victor pulls me into the converted stall across the aisle from it.

  The control booth. Lissa and I are never allowed in here...probably to prevent exactly what I’m doing now. My gaze skitters around the room, trying to take in everything—the security station’s layout, the bank of monitors, the door-release panel—before I slow down and really look, just as Matt said I should if this opportunity ever came.

  No weapons are lying around, unsecured. And I don’t see any gun lockers that can be broken into. Which means stealing a stun gun off a guard is the best bet if the fighters ever try to arm themselves.

  Instead of steel bars, a solid wall separates the control booth from the corridor that runs through the center of the barn, with a reinforced door as th
e entrance—probably so the attending guard can secure himself inside if the fighters break out. But that also means the guard in the control booth doesn’t have a view into the barn and the fighters’ stalls, except on the video monitors.

  Oh, and there are so many blind spots. A half dozen cameras are mounted on each side of the aisle, and the way the camera angles crisscrossed, I thought for certain that they could see inside the stalls. But they can’t. The aisle is covered from all angles. A fighter couldn’t leave his stall without being seen. Yet within the stalls, the corners and the entire floor are hidden from the cameras’ sights.

  That’s good to know. That’s so good to know. If the attending guard can’t see a fighter in his stall, it won’t raise an alarm—because the guards can’t see most of the fighters on the monitors, even now. Only the ones who are standing near the bars are visible.

  And those fighters could be freed with a single press of a button. The control panel appears so simple. It sits on the desk, the flat gray interface helpfully labeled in black Sharpie.

  My gaze settles on one. “#13”—that’s Matt’s. One push and his door would open. But there’s also a button with “All” written over it.

  I don’t know if I’d ever press that one. Not with Tusk right across the aisle. The giant fighter has survived eight rounds in the Cage—more than any other fighter in this or any other stable—and loves to remind me that in two more wins, my virginity will be his reward. But it’s clear that Tusk thinks he’s already earned that prize. If I free him, he’d take what he believes is his. So I’d hit every button except the one that opens his stall. It might be cruel to leave him locked up. But that cruelty could save my life—and maybe some of the other fighters’ lives. Tusk hasn’t saved his killing for inside the Cage. That’s why he exercises alone.