Fuck! Defeated, I go back to the chair, and the moment I sit, the door swings open. The same man walks in, a rude sneer on his face.

I pretend to be looking into the corner of the room.

“Well, love,” he says, moseying up to me. He tears the tape from my mouth, leaving my skin stinging.

“What?” I ask through gritted teeth. I don’t even look at him. I have nothing but contempt for him, and I’m not afraid to show it.

“Your lover boy is going to be fighting tonight. Again.”

I’m interested, but try to hide it. “What are you talking about?” I ask in as neutral a manner as I can.

“The Russian’s here, and they’re having a make-up fight.”

I train my eyes on the guard. “Oh?”

“And your boy’s been handicapped.”

“He’s not my boy…”

He puts his hands up. “Excuse me, missy, but you two looked very close.”

“That’s none of your business.” I pause before asking, “What are the stakes?” I don’t know the lingo, I don’t know if I’m using the right mob or gangster terminology, but I need to know.

“Stakes?”

“What happens if he wins?”

“If he wins, you and him go free.”

“And if he loses?”

“You and him don’t go at all.”

I swallow. “Bullshit,” I say.

He steps closer to me, and I can smell his cheap cologne. “Hey, love,” he says, voice low, conspiratorial. “I’m serious now. Your boy better win, or it’s the end of the line for you. You go to Mogilovich. You want to know what he’d do with a young girl like yourself?”

I grimace. “Get me out of here,” I tell him. “Get me out and I’ll make it worth your while. My Dad’s got money, we’re… we’re really rich back home. We can pay you. We can cover the lost debt.”

He grins. “Don’t think so, but I don’t blame you for trying.”

“So when’s the fight?”

“Now.” He gestures for me to get up.

“What was that sound I heard? Was it a gunshot?”

“Yes.”

“Who was shot?”

He looks at me, but doesn’t tell me. “Get up, let’s go.”

We leave the small office, and he marches me down a steel hallway until we reach a large opening. The lighting here is bright, strong, and I blink rapidly, struggling with my eyesight as it adjusts. I see glowing hexagons and floating blobs, but then it all comes into focus.

I see a steel cage sitting in the middle of what might have been some kind of assembly or bottling floor. Conveyer belts still lie bolted to the floor, lifeless and unmoving.

I can’t see Pierce anywhere. I look around, and then see his opponent. He looks like a pissed off grizzly bear. He’s hairy, huge, and looks mean as hell.

He looks like he can snap a tree trunk over his knee.

Chapter Thirty Five

Pierce is limping. The bandage around his foot, what must have been once white, is now completely red, and in his wake he’s leaving crimson footsteps.

“Fuck,” I whisper beneath my breath.

The cage they’re approaching looks like it’s been used for fights before, but not for a long time. There are dried blood stains on the floor, splatter marks. The steel cage is rusty. It’s insane that I’m wondering if Pierce has had his shots…

Pierce’s torso has got a shine to it. The lines of his muscles seem to cut deeper. He’s sweaty already, and I wonder if that’s because he’s in pain, because he’s nervous, or both.

I’m fairly certain they haven’t been letting him warm-up on a bike or treadmill.

Pierce steps into the cage, and they close it behind him. I see a deadbolt lock, but there’s no padlock. Fallon and the guard approach me, stand in front of me. I can see the black grip of a pistol sticking out of the back of the guard’s pants.

I can work with that. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to get the fuck out of here. I know it. These bastards aren’t going to keep me.

Pierce does his customary intro routine; he walks around the cage. I don’t know why he’s putting on a show. Nobody is watching. The burly Russian, standing in the center, simply eyes him with amusement.

I can see Pierce talking to himself. He thumps his chest twice. I know he’s trying to psyche himself up.

Then he looks around. But there is no crowd here, no stands. He looks around until he finds me.

We lock eyes. He closes his right fist, kisses where his thumb meets his forefinger. He extends his arm, straight out, and with knuckles facing upward, points his index and middle finger at me.

I’m taken back in time to when I first saw him fight.

The girls, once screaming, fell quiet.

The crowd, once booming, left deafening silence.

All eyes were on me.

I groaned to myself, and adjusted my cardigan.

I blink, dragged back into the present. I’m not wearing a cardigan, but I know he’s sending me a message, and so I make the same gesture. I fiddle with my invisible buttons, but this time with both hands.

That’s when I show him, briefly, just a flash. I separate my wrists, break the last thread of plastic binding them together.

And then it’s over.

Nobody noticed.

But Pierce noticed.

I see the smirk on his lips, the glint in his eye.

We’re going to get out of this yet.

I know it.

“Ready?” Fallon calls, and he motions at the two fighters in the cage.

There’s Pierce, body tight, lean, not an ounce of fat on him. His veins bulge. His eyes blaze.

Across from stands the Russian, big, burly, a gigantic redwood of a man with enough heft to break through a solid concrete wall.

“Are you?” Pierce asks, looking at Fallon, but I know that he’s talking to me. His eyes flick to me for an instant, and I nod at him.

“Jesus Christ, mate,” Fallon says, laughing. “You’re bloody unbelievable.”

Pierce levels his eyes at his opponent. “Ready, Anton?”

The Russian gives Pierce a single, deep nod, and that’s when I see it on the top of his head, a huge scar running right down the center.

“What happened to his head?” I ask Fallon.

“He split it open in a fight. His skull.”

“Holy shit.”

“He finished the fight, too. Won.”