The Hammer Falls Page 31

  Colin Ross warmed up the guests with an amusing anecdote about three days on the Mediterranean on his yacht with six Lithuanian models.

  Opposite where Horace stood, a pair of elevator doors opened and two guards emerged with one of the fighters between them. The guards were not there to protect the fighter; they were there to keep him from running. The terror on the man’s face was plain, his spindly naked legs and torso sheened with fear-sweat. He wore boxing shorts, boots, and padded half-gloves that exposed his fingers. His skin was pale, his flesh flaccid, shoulders narrow and slumped, with a freckled nose too big for his face, his hair shaved clean. He looked more like an accountant than a fighter.

  Ross read from a card, “Our first bout of the evening will be in the featherweight division. In the red corner, weighing in at 57.1 kilos, an artificial intelligence designer from San Jose, California, Jacob Goldman!”

  To polite applause, Goldman was practically tossed bodily into the ring by the two guards. He gathered himself and stood upon trembling knees in boxing shorts pulled up almost to his breastbone.

  The elevator doors opened again, and another man emerged, this one with a well-muscled body and the quickness and grace of a trained fighter, maybe Muay Thai, judging by the way he moved. With no guards, he brought himself to ringside with the confidence of surety. He was prepared to be Goldman’s executioner. He climbed into the ring, beaming with confidence in his impending triumph, arms raised to the crowd, circling.

  “In the blue corner! Hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada, weighing in at 57.1 kilos, with a professional record of twelve wins—six by knockout—and one loss, Julian Mendoza!”

  Another swell of disgust in Horace’s breast at this caricature, this travesty of an honorable sport.

  Cowering in one corner, Goldman looked frantic, practically vibrating, on the verge of hysterical mania. Mendoza might have trouble catching this guy. Then again, maybe it was wise never to underestimate one’s opponent, especially when cornered.

  What was in it for Mendoza to kill a man? A murderous compulsion? Just the money? Proving himself capable of cold-blooded murder for the attention of corporate executives and a shortcut to stardom? If he could kill a shlub like Goldman, he certainly wouldn’t flinch from killing an opponent in the pit.

  With a sudden scream of terror and rage, Goldman threw himself at Mendoza, slamming him into Ross, and all three fell down in a flailing heap. Ross scrambled to extricate himself, eyes bulging as he flung himself between the ropes and crashed into some ringside chairs, knocking them flying, clattering. Guards rushed to help him to his feet.

  Darryl Stone hurriedly rang the bell to start Round One.

  Meanwhile, Goldman had descended into a frenzy of shrieking and then Mendoza was screaming too. Blood spattered. Something wet and pulpy landed on the mat. Blood streamed from Mendoza’s eye socket, slicked Goldman’s fingers. Utter animal madness filled Goldman’s eyes as he fell upon Mendoza like a rabid chihuahua.

  The crowd roared and clapped.

  Mendoza blindly tried to ward him away, but Goldman grabbed him around the neck and bit his face. Mendoza’s screams rose into a shriek. Goldman’s teeth snapped and tore and ripped away, and then he spat Mendoza’s nose onto the mat. Gagging and choking on the spewing blood, Mendoza fell, and Goldman followed him down. Somehow the skinny man got behind him, fumbled with his legs until they were wrapped around Mendoza’s waist, locked his arms around his neck, and squeezed for all he was worth.

  The dozens of eyes around Horace gleamed, transfixed at the bloodshed, as the onlookers sipped their drinks and nibbled rare beef tenderloin canapes and caviar-topped quail eggs.

  Mendoza flailed weakly, clawing at the arm squeezing the consciousness from him. His face was a ravaged mask of blood and torn flesh, his eye socket a red ruin. His struggles weakened. Goldman continued squeezing for all he was worth, screaming through clenched teeth, spittle flying, eyes wild and bulging-white.

  Mendoza’s arms finally went slack. Gasping, Goldman held on for another half a minute, as if he had to convince his arms to relinquish their hold. Finally he rolled Mendoza’s body off him and scrambled to his feet, wheezing like a bellows. For a moment, he stood over the motionless body, drenched in blood, looking out over the audience, his face a mask of shock and revulsion and burgeoning elation. Then he put his boot on Mendoza’s Adam’s apple and stomped.

  The muffled crack of cartilage brought the dome to utter silence for several heartbeats.

  And then Mogilevich stood and began to clap, slowly, loudly, a grim mask barely covering the disappointment on his lips.

  The crowd picked up the applause and carried it louder, cheering this poor geek who had managed victory against all odds. If a slow bloody execution for Goldman had been Mogilevich’s intention, what happened ultimately to those who beat the odds? Was the mafiya czar good to his word?

  A trembling smile of relief twitched at the corner of Goldman’s mouth, and then he vomited.

  Men came and helped Goldman from the ring, dragged Mendoza away on a gurney, and another group came and mopped up the deluge of blood and piss and vomit on the canvas.

  Fistfuls of cash changed hands, winners celebrating and losers cursing. Waiters circulated among the crowd, refilling glasses and replacing plates.

  Colin Ross re-entered the ring, having collected most of his aplomb. “Well,” he said, dabbing a napkin at a cut on his forehead, “I guess this isn’t your typical night at ringside.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  As the cleanup continued, Tina sashayed back to her place at the table, her face freshly beaming. The senator’s two bodyguards, standing near Horace, turned their heads behind their sunglasses, fixed upon her, their expressions implacable.

  “Well, that was quick!” Tina said to her table companions regarding the cleanup in the ring. “What’d I miss?”

  “Some of the most extreme savagery I have ever seen,” the senator said. “And proof that even the meekest of men can rise to do extraordinary things if they pull themselves up by their bootstraps.”

  “Wow, sorry I missed it!” she said, winking at him.

  Meanwhile, the next bout commenced, an increase in weight class, and it proved to be much more conventional as two trained fighters clashed with all the ferocity they could muster. After what had happened in the first fight, they entered the ring intensely wary of each other. There would be no more such surprise victories tonight. Through a succession of increasingly bloody rounds, they gradually pummeled each other’s faces into hamburger, drenched in sweat and blood.

  Meanwhile, in between rounds, Roxanne introduced “Ambrosia” to Mogilevich. Horace shadowed them in the background, attempting to use the proximity to assess the gangster’s security detail: three guards, bulky suits with bulges in the wrong places bespoke armor and weapons concealed underneath, hands gloved in black material resembling the gauntlets that had come with Horace’s armor, but which he had chosen not to wear. He felt his own hands were weapon enough, and the gauntlets might have attracted extra unwanted attention.

  Bunny’s voice came into his ear, “His guards are wearing battle armor similar to yours, with full biometric telemetry feeding to somewhere. Trying to find out where. Trying to find out if there’s a central AI or biologicals watching all this. Their armor also has some independent subsystems I can’t crack. Also sifting for the serial numbers so I can get a make on it. Might be custom.”

  “Let us drink, Yvgeny!” Roxanne was saying. She raised a tumbler of amber liquid. An exquisite, silver-chased decanter of cognac sat on the table nearby. “A toast! To another year of success!”

  Mogilevich’s simmering eyes drank her in, savoring the perfect suppleness of her flesh as he raised his glass and drank the cognac as well. When they stood together, there was no mistaking the genetic relationship. Would his reaction be any different if he knew she was his flesh and blood? There was no question that this was a man who drew power to him, a magnet for men who craved such
power. Roxanne had clearly inherited it from him.

  Meanwhile another round of fighting rang in and rang out again, with neither fighter holding a clear advantage.

  The waiter returned with a serving tray bearing prismatic crystal shot glasses and a bottle almost as elaborate as that of the cognac. Shots were poured, distributed, and tossed back.

  Tina said, “Gosh, you’re a swell host,” then moved closer, intending to kiss Mogilevich on the cheek. Before she could touch him, one of the bodyguards interposed his arm, like the bough of a stout tree, and halted her in midstep.

  “Oops!” she laughed, with a sparkling smile.

  Roxanne made a wager with Mogilevich—of a staggering sum—on the current bout, then both women returned to their table with the senator.

  Four more rounds passed, five, six. The men in the ring fought themselves into exhausted, battered piles, but they kept at it, coming out after every bell with fists and feet flying, at least for a few seconds until exhaustion overtook them again. The man with the deepest well of strength would live.

  The senator kept attempting to ply the women with drink, which they accepted dutifully, but did not drink more than a dab to their lips.

  And then, in the twelfth round, with the fighters’ eyes swollen shut, the mat littered with teeth and spattered with blood, their hands pulverized into insensate lumps, one of the fighters managed to slip a hard spear-hand past an oncoming blow and bury his fingertips in his adversary’s throat. The fighter flung himself into the split-second of advantage, swept his arms around the other’s head, and cranked for all he was worth. A muffled crunch, and it was over.

  The victor let the corpse fall to the mat and then collapsed to his knees.

  When Ross returned to the ring, he said, “Let’s hear it for Seamus Rodriguez! Holy Christ, that made me tired! Must be the altitude.”

  Fresh applause accompanied the victorious fighter back into the depths of the house.

  Roxanne returned to Mogilevich, looking properly dismayed at having lost her bet. They passed readers over their wrists to transfer the invisible fortunes between invisible accounts, and celebrated with another round of shots.

  Clearly not wishing to be outdone, other guests came to pay their respects to Mogilevich with toasts and wagers, gifts and tributes. Velvet boxes of pure-gold cuff links, solid-diamond watches, polished hardwood boxes of the world’s most expensive cigars, vintages, and distillations accumulated on the table.

  An anxiousness arose in Horace’s body, a tension he found difficult to suppress. There were eight more men to die, and still he had not found his opening. He squeezed the tension into his clasped hands, flexing the chitinous plates of his fingers and knuckles until they ached.

  Ross’ voice rose again, “And now for our third bout of the evening! This one in the welterweight class. In the red corner, weighing in at 65.4 kilos, with a South American Federation record of sixteen victories—ten by submission—and four losses, a fourth-degree black belt in Brazilian jujitsu, Armando Carvalho-Silva!”

  From the elevator emerged a young, swarthy man, a wiry knot of muscle and sinew, who jogged to the ring and went through the rituals of confidence and crowd-respect, bowing repeatedly, bowing to Mogilevich, crossing himself, kissing the golden crucifix around his neck.

  Across the room, the elevator opened up again, and a man walked painfully toward the ring as if every step brought a wince of agony. His craggy face was shadowed by bruises and contusions.

  “And now, fighting from the blue corner, weighing in at 65.9 kilos, a first-degree black belt in taekwondo, a brown belt in Brazilian jujitsu, the 2055 Arkansas Golden Gloves Boxing Champion, Jack McTierney!”

  The name struck Horace like a sledgehammer to the sternum. Jack stepped into the spotlight of the ring, his face grim, his movements slow and ginger. Cuts, bruises, and circular burns covered his naked torso. His graying brown hair, usually slicked back into a forty-weight pompadour and accompanied by a jaunty grin, was now frizzed in disarray around a swollen, haggard face.

  Jack’s name almost jumped out of Horace’s mouth.

  He didn’t know how many seconds of recognition must have shown on his face before he realized he was about to blow his cover, so he shut it down. Trying to conceal his reaction with a coughing fit, he turned away and struggled to compose himself.

  At the sight of Jack’s already damaged condition, the audience began laughing and muttering among themselves. Jack paid them little attention, just squared himself to face the young, muscular Brazilian who was going to be coming at him in less than a minute. The resolve and determination formed a clear foundation to the pain and weariness on his face.

  Jack turned to Mogilevich and spat a wad of bloody spittle, then faced his opponent again.

  The audience booed.

  Horace’s body started to vibrate with burgeoning rage. The only way to save Jack would be to act now. Right now. Jack had enough martial training to hold his own against his opponent, at least until youth and conditioning wore him down. Horace and Jack had known each other for so long, Horace was no longer certain he remembered how they met. If he didn’t act right now, do something, the number of living people he could call “friend” would dwindle even further. It was one thing to throw yourself into the teeth of death, another to watch your friends thrown in for no fault beyond their unfortunate circumstance of association.

  And he couldn’t even open his mouth without danger of blowing his cover. He could not cheer his friend to victory. He could not react in any way. If he attacked here, right now, he would fail—the security around Mogilevich was too tight—and Jack would still be dead, and so would Bunny, Roxanne, and Tina.

  With a ringing clang, the bout began. The Brazilian came forward, and Jack assumed a calm, ready stance. With a flurry of kicks, Carvalho-Silva came on, kicks that Jack blocked and batted down, but they were just feints to allow the Brazilian, undoubtedly an experienced grappler proficient in the bone-breaking art of on-the-ground fighting, to dive in close for a grab at Jack’s legs. Jack fought back with a firm center of gravity and hammer-blows to his opponent’s ears.

  A quick twist, a flung leg, and they both fell to the mat, a straining knot of muscle. Jack’s breath already sounded ragged and strained. Arms and legs slithered for advantage, wrenching, bulging. Jack was no slouch in the fitness department—he looked pretty goddamn salty for a middle-aged man—but he was already thoroughly tenderized. Horace had last spoken with him three days before. How long had Mogilevich’s goons been working him over?

  But then, echoing the savagery of the first bout, Jack clamped his teeth onto his opponent’s ear. A howl of pain erupted from the Brazilian. Jack snarled and tore like a dog at a hunk of meat. The ear ripped free. Jack spat it out, and then landed several sharp blows against the ragged hole, spattering blood over his fist and face.

  Then it was Jack’s turn to cry out in pain as the Brazilian managed a joint lock, the kind of lock that, enacted at full force, turned a wrist into a shredded lump of gristle, tendon, and splintered metacarpal. The crunch echoed through the dome, and Horace’s heart dropped into his bowels.

  NOT YET! appeared in red block letters in his vision, and he found Roxanne’s gaze fixed squarely upon him. SAVE YOUR RAGE. OUR TIME WILL COME. I SWEAR IT.

  When he blinked the words away, he was blinking away wetness too. He met her gaze and let the steady depths of her eyes cool the fury that threatened to hurl him into immediate, disastrous folly.

  The fighters kicked away from each other and scrambled to their feet. Blood dripped from the compound fracture of Jack’s dangling left wrist. The Brazilian cupped a bloody hand over the gaping wound on the side of his head.

  Never taking his eyes from his opponent, Jack knelt, picked up the ear with a nasty grin, and flung it at his opponent’s chest.

  With a roar, the Brazilian launched himself forward again, but this time ran into a solid front snap-kick straight to the solar plexus, which not only stopped h
im but doubled him over with a tremendous outrush of breath. Staggering back, his eyes blazed with pain and fresh ferocity, tempered with a new respect for his gray-haired adversary and a flicker of calculation.

  The bell rang to end the round, and the fighters backed away from each other into their corners, where real trainers applied styptic ointments to the bleeding wounds. The Brazilian’s ear was put on ice. Around Jack’s ruined wrist, the trainer wrapped great wads of tape as thick as a cast. The tape would keep the wrist from flopping, but the hand was now useless, a liability. Both of the men were breathing now in ragged gasps, like exhausted dogs.

  Round Two brought them together again, warily at first, then the Brazilian came in again for the grapple. They clinched, struggled, fell to the mat.

  Every fiber of Horace’s muscles yearned to charge the ring and drag Jack out of there, and Roxanne seemed to sense this.

  IT IS TIME TO SHARE THE PLAN WITH YOU.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  After reading Roxanne’s plan in his HUD, a calmness and sense of purpose seeped through the vibration in his torso, grounding him.

  Now, for Jack’s sake, all he could do was hope for a miracle.

  The two fighters in the ring circled each other, trading blows and kicks. With cruel precision and purpose, the Brazilian aimed many of his shots at Jack’s splintered wrist. One of the first things fighters of every stripe learned was to exploit any weakness. A cut above the eye, an injured knee, any point where pain could be amplified. Constant, grinding pain sapped the strength and the will, and the first fighter to run out of those always lost.

  Jack did his best to protect the wrist, but he still needed that arm to block and grapple. He did his own hammering at the Brazilian’s wound, but his body had already been so brutalized before the bout that he could put little strength or quickness into the blows. Pain hampered him at every turn.