Champion Page 8

  I’ve seen Roth fight on the UA feeds, but this is different. Up close—in person—it’s…stunning. At least from an academic perspective. His power is staggering. The man could probably crack my skull with one blow. So clearly, the key is not to get hit.

  “Everybody out,” Roth growls. “And take him with you.” He waves one hand at the man now puking on the floor of a cell across the aisle.

  They scatter like rats, the last two carrying the man who’s soiled his own shirt.

  “Happy?” Roth growls, and suddenly the absurdity of my new existence feels blisteringly, brutally real.

  I used to watch this man on the feeds. I know all of his favorite moves, because I used to replay them over and over, shouting at his opponents to duck faster. Hit harder. Kick higher. But I also know that I can’t take him. I’m not strong enough. Not fast enough. And if I’m even going to have a chance to get there, I have to survive this moment. And all the moments like it that are sure to follow.

  He steps toward me again, and I realize I’ve zoned out. I’m not moving fast enough to keep him happy. “Wait, I’ll do it. Sorry.” I try to step out of his reach as I unhook my bra, but he grabs me before I can get the last hook undone and rips the material off, then tosses it over his shoulder.

  I shove my underwear down before he can tear that off, which only works because he’s staring at my breasts. Breathing hard.

  “I know we talked about you cooperating,” he says as he pulls his shirt over his head, baring freakishly swollen pecs and biceps the size of my head. “But feel free to put up a little bit of a fight.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  “But it’ll be fun.” He reaches around me to run one hand over my ass, and his erection strains toward me through his pants.

  I bite my lip and close my eyes, forcing my arms to stay at my sides. My hands to remain unclenched. I’m not resisting. I just want to get out of this alive. Intact.

  “Seriously. You’ve killed two men since you got here. I know you can fight. Let’s see some of what you’ve got.”

  Oh, fuck. He’s looking for a reason to hurt me. That’s how the psycho gets off. I really should have seen that coming, considering his rap sheet.

  When I don’t react soon enough, he grabs my left nipple and twists it brutally. Pain shoots through the sensitive tissue, and I gasp as it races through my nerve endings and settles into oddly random locations throughout my body.

  “Don’t,” I snap through clenched teeth, breathing through the residual pain. “I’m cooperating.”

  He grins down at me. “Don’t do what? This?” Roth reaches for my other nipple. My hand flies at his face as I throw my knee up toward his groin, and I know the moment I react that I’ve made the wrong decision.

  He can only think fast enough to block one blow, and he chooses his balls. As his arm knocks my knee aside, my hand connects with his cheek hard enough to rock his face to the side. It’s just a slap, but the sound echoes through the cell—or maybe just through my head—and Roth goes suddenly, terrifyingly still.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Then he smiles. “Now we’re talking.” He picks me up and throws me at the bed.

  I scream as I fly through the air. My head hits the concrete wall, and pain smashes into my skull, and the next thing I know, I’m face down on his bed. I think I blacked out for a second.

  He lifts my hips until I’m on my knees, my cheek still pressed into the padding, my ass exposed.

  “Wait,” I beg, but the word comes out mushy. “Please. I’m going to be sick.”

  “You puke on my bed, and I will hurt you.”

  I cheered for this man. We all cheered for this man, piled on my couch with cans of beer and bowls of popcorn, staring at the feed on the wall. Hungry to see him spill blood. We knew he was a murderer, but that fact felt distant and irrelevant, while we were safe in my apartment, separated by vast stretches of space from the bloodshed. Anyway, everyone in the fights is a murderer, and Cohen Roth is the best, and you always cheer for the best.

  We were so stupid.

  Roth’s huge hand cups my ass, squeezing brutally, then his fingers slide lower, prodding. I squeeze my eyes shut, denying tears an outlet.

  The hand disappears. Roth grunts, and something thunks against the concrete wall to my right. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

  “Sylvie. Get dressed.” Graham’s voice settles over me like a warm blanket on a cold day, and for a second, I’m so relieved that I stand up and reach for my shirt without thinking about the obvious consequence.

  “Wait, what—” I spin around, clutching my shirt to my chest, and see Cohen Roth holding one hand to the back of his skull, where blood oozes between his fingers. Graham stands in front of him, holding a smooth metal cylinder, his feet spread wide, clearly read to wield the weapon again, if necessary.

  “Put your clothes on,” he says, without taking his focus from Roth.

  The champion’s eyes narrow and he lets go of his head to form a fist. “You just fucked up, Anderson.”

  “Graham…” I say, and too late, I realize I shouldn’t distract him. But he shouldn’t be here. I’m here trying to keep both of us alive.

  “Sylvie, put your fucking clothes on!” he snaps.

  “If you put that shirt on, I will shred every scrap of clothing you own, and you’ll go naked in here until the day you die,” Roth growls. Then he rushes Graham.

  Graham swings his weapon again, but Roth catches his arm and slams his wrist against the sink built into the wall. Graham’s hand opens and the metal cylinder clatters to the floor. The brawl devolves into swinging fists and grunts of pain in a space much too small to accommodate a brawl between two of the biggest men I’ve ever met.

  A fist swings so close to my head that I can feel the displaced air ruffle my hair, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I scramble onto the bed to stay out of their way. Even if I were willing to risk leaving the cell, I can’t get to the door without passing through the eye of the testosterone hurricane raging right in front of me.

  Roth slams Graham into the wall. Graham shoves him off and throws a right hook before the champion has regained his balance, driving him to the other side of the small space, and I see my chance. I hop down from the bed—somehow Roth has three vinyl pads stacked on top of one another—and grab the weird metal cylinder. I examine it as I climb back onto the bed, and finally I realize it’s the top of a stool that’s been broken off its pole. It’s smooth and rounded, which gives it limited use as a weapon, except for blunt force trauma.

  That’ll have to work.

  Graham gets several good blows in on Roth’s ribs, and beneath his grunts, I hear the soft snap of breaking bone. Then Roth roars and dives back in, but his offense is crippled by his effort to defend his own torso.

  There’s no room in here to dodge blows or to circle each other. There’s no room in this cell to even breathe. If I don’t stop this, someone’s going to die.

  I’m terrified that it won’t be Roth.

  Graham’s head rocks back beneath a vicious uppercut and slams into the concrete wall, and that’s all I can handle. I take a flying leap from the bed, swinging the stool top as I fall, and I slam it into Roth’s head as hard as I can.

  He falls forward, then Graham shoves him again and I scramble out of the way, pressing myself into the small space between the sink and the toilet as the champ staggers backward, stunned, but not out.

  Graham pounces, driving Roth back even farther with blow after blow, concentrating on his torso. On his broken rib. As they pass me, I swing the stool again, at the side of Roth’s head.

  The champion falls to his knees.

  Graham snatches the hunk of smooth metal from me and swings it one more time.

  Cohen Roth goes down face first on the floor of his own cell.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe, half convinced this reality will collapse if I blink. “We took down the champion.”


  “He’s down, but not out.” Graham swipes one hand over his split lip, and it comes away smeared with blood. “And if he gets back up, he’ll kill us both.”

  I grab my shirt again and pull it over my head, and when I push my hair out of my face, I see Graham standing over the unconscious champion, holding the stool seat in both hands. Ready to bash Roth’s skull in with it.

  “No!” I whisper as I grab his right arm, thankful that D block is still deserted, on the champion’s own orders.

  “Sylvie, he will kill us.”

  “Not any time soon, he won’t. He has head trauma and at least one broken rib. And he’s fucking unconscious. I can’t kill someone who can’t fight back.” Someone who isn’t actively trying to kill me.

  “I can.”

  “No.” I step into my underwear and shove my bra into my backpack. “Just leave him. If he can’t defend himself, the rest of the caged rats will take care of him.”

  “Sylvie, listen to me.” Graham’s voice is as fierce now as his smile was kind last night. “There are men in here loyal to him. They might protect him, if they think they’ll be rewarded when he recovers. If we let Roth live, he and his friends will kill me, and they’ll take you. And once Roth’s done with you, he’ll give you to his friends to use until they kill you too, and that is not how you want to die. You came here to fight, right? The very least you deserve is a chance to die on your feet. To take your shot on the sand. If we don’t kill Roth, you’re going to die on the floor of the bullpen, naked and covered in other men’s filth.”

  I shudder at the mental image, trying to separate myself from it. To insulate myself from the truth, because despite the fact that I earned my passage to Rhodon, I can’t bring myself to kill a defenseless man. No matter how dangerous he was a second ago.

  “Sylvie!” Graham snaps, his eyes flashing fiercely in the dimly lit cell. “Wake up. You can’t afford to close your eyes to the reality of this place. If you want either of us to live, Cohen Roth has to die. Right now.”

  He’s right. What’s the point in preserving what’s left of my soul, if I won’t be alive to enjoy the moral high ground? As if such a concept even exists here. “Kill him.”

  Graham gives me a grim nod. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Then his muscles tense as he raises the hunk of metal one more time, preparing to crush an unconscious man’s skull, to save both our lives.

  An ugly grunt tears free from his throat as he swings the seat, bending at the waist, and—

  A cripplingly high-pitched sound slices through the air, piercing my brain like an icepick shoved through my ear. Obliterating all thought with a pain so sharp I can do nothing but sink to the ground with my eyes squeezed shut and my hands over my ears.

  Dimly, I’m aware of the metal stool top clattering to the floor, and when I force my eyes open, I see Graham huddled in the corner, his ears covered as well.

  The sound seems to go on and on, and beneath the agonizing tone, I hear men elsewhere in the bullpen groaning in pain.

  Finally, the sound stops. I blink and exhale, trying to live in that first blissful post-pain moment, when you’re so grateful to feel okay that nothing else matters. When I’m sure my brain isn’t leaking out of my ears, I crawl across the floor—around the body—toward Graham. “What the hell was that?” I ask and am startled to realize I can hardly hear myself. My ears haven’t yet recovered from the abuse.

  “I—”

  Static from an ancient intercom system cuts him off, and we both look up, searching for the source.

  “Inmates, you have two minutes to get into a cell before emergency lockdown commences.” The voice is so loud that I almost seem to be hearing it inside my head. “Anyone found outside of a locked cell after the tone sounds will be executed on the spot.”

  “Shit. Come on.” Graham pushes himself to his feet and pulls me up with him, stopping to shove my pants and shoes at me and grab my bag before he leads me out of the cell and down the D block corridor.

  Halfway to the atrium, we’re nearly bowled over by the sudden influx of inmates into D block, rushing to claim cells. No one even seems to notice that I’m only half-dressed, but we can’t get past the crowd. The aisle is totally jammed.

  Graham reverses course, pushing men into open cells to clear the aisle, pulling me after him until we get to the last two cells in D block. Cohen Roth’s unconscious form lies in the one on the right. The one on the left is already occupied.

  “One minute,” the intercom announces, and though my ears still feel like they’re stuffed with cotton, I hear the voice loud and clear.

  My heart pounding, I start to step back into Roth’s cell, but Graham blocks my path. “No. They’re coming for him.”

  “How do you know?” I don’t understand what’s happening. Warden Shaw said guards almost never set foot in the bullpen.

  “The timing. There’s no such thing as a coincidence.” Graham motions for me to step into the cell across the aisle, where another man is seated on the bed, staring warily at the corridor, where inmates are still rushing around frantically in search of an unoccupied cell.

  “Out, Kyle,” Graham orders, keeping himself between me and the stranger.

  “Come on, man.” Kyle is neither as big nor as strong as Graham, and he shows no inclination to fight, even though we’re clearly both injured. “If you kick me out, they’ll kill me.”

  “If you stay here, I’ll kill you,” Graham growls.

  Kyle jumps up with a groan and rushes past us into the hall, just as the lockdown tone rings out, lower pitched and much less painful than the previous sound.

  Graham slides our cell door shut, and I’m relieved to hear it latch. Kyle glances around frantically, but there are no empty cells left, so he throws himself into the pen to the right of Roth’s cell, just as its occupant tries to slide the door closed.

  “Out!” the occupant shouts.

  “Fuck that.” Kyle slides the door shut, locking them both inside, where he and the other inmate fall to blows immediately.

  I try to block out the sound of scuffles taking place all over the bullpen, as men forced into cramped quarters jockey for dominance. “What is this?” I sit on the bare foam mattress pad and scoot back until my spine hits the concrete wall. “What’s going on?”

  “Emergency lockdown. They only do it when they’re afraid there’s going to be a riot.”

  “Because it’s bad for business if we all kill one another?”

  “That’s my guess.” Graham sinks onto the mattress next to me, and I follow his gaze into the cell across the aisle. I have to look closely to see that Roth is still breathing. “They spent money to ship us out here, and we don’t contribute to their profit when we kill each other behind the scenes. They only interfere with life in the bullpen to preserve their business interests. It was the same in zone two.”

  “That’s where you escaped from?”

  Graham’s laugh is bitter. “If I’d escaped, I wouldn’t be here. But I got close. I think my friend and his girl actually made it out. Well, into zone three, anyway. I think that’s part of the open population.”

  “Well, I guess that’s something to be grateful for.”

  He takes my hand and turns to look at me. “Are you okay?”

  I smile as I wipe blood from his split lip with my thumb. “This place sucks. But you’re the one who’s bleeding.”

  “Not the only one.” He throws a pointed glance into Roth’s cell.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Graham?” I demand softly. But he only studies me as the scuffle across the aisle dies down without having done any real harm, that I can tell. The champ isn’t the only one unwilling to take much damage in the bullpen, for fear he won’t be able to fight in the arena.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” Graham finally admits, speaking so softly I can hardly hear him. “I heard you scream, and I couldn’t just stay out there and listen while he hurt you.”

  I can only stare at him. “Are you se
rious? You understand that this is death row, right? They put us here to hurt each other.”

  “Roth wouldn’t have hurt anyone else like he was going to hurt you. He wouldn’t have raped anyone else.”

  “I went with him willingly.” But the words leave a sour taste in my mouth.

  “No.” Graham’s voice is hard. His gaze holds mine with a fierce fervor. “You went because if you weren’t going to give, he was going to take. That’s not the same thing as consent, and I’m not going to pretend it is. And neither are you.”

  There’s something hard in his voice. Something fragile in his gaze, as if he’s still seeing me, but he’s also seeing something else. Someone else.

  “What happened?” I’m not supposed to ask what he was convicted of, but because of the background reels UA broadcasts, I’m sure everyone in zone one has seen everyone else’s rap sheet. And that’s not really what I’m asking him anyway, though I suspect the two are related. “Before,” I add when he looks puzzled. “What happened to you before you got here, Graham?”

  For a moment, he’s silent. “It was a home invasion. I went to my parent’s house for my brother’s birthday dinner, and…he and my dad were nearly dead. But they weren’t done with my mom yet. One of them held a gun to my head and tied me up, and I could hear her scream…”

  “Oh my god. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you!”

  “They tried.” Graham lifts his shirt and shows me a small round scar I hadn’t noticed last night—a bullet wound. “This morning, when I heard you scream…” He shrugs. “I couldn’t just let it happen.”

  “How are you even real?” I whisper, running one hand down the stubbly side of his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Sylvie.” His forehead crinkles. His voice is a pained whisper. “I’m not here by accident. I’m just a different kind of monster than Cohen Roth.”

  He killed them. I can see that in his eyes. I can hear it in what he’s not saying. The bastards who murdered his whole family left him for dead, and he hunted them down and killed them.