The Last Coffee Shop

Chapter 21: Don't You Look Good in Red

Graynard frowned. "The fight just keeps going. Until you die, or the third round ends. More importantly, you have to expect your opponent to cheat. These people aren't trained fighters, but they're killers. Once you're in the cage, nothing matters. If you survive the first round, you have to yield immediately in the second. Then we might be able to get you out alive."

Mads frowned back at him. "Thanks for the advice. I'll take it into consideration."

The door opened, and one of Leroy's guards beckoned to them. "It's time."

Mads took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She adjusted her hand wraps and cracked her knuckles. "Let's do this."

"Good luck," muttered Graynard, under his breath, as they followed the guard out into a hall and down some stairs to the stands.

The doors must have opened while they were talking, for now there were dozens of people milling about, finding their way to seats in the metal stands. Mads tried to ignore the hum and buzz all around her. But it was hard not to notice how chatter hushed when she passed. She looked for the Commodore, and saw him talking to Spades near the lone table.

"You picked a fight with a Suit Leader," said Graynard, interrupting Mads' thoughts. "His friends and allies will both be observing the outcome of this fight. Placing bets."

Of course, Mads rolled her eyes, but she kept all sarcasm to herself as she put one foot in front of the other. She couldn't think about the crowd, about the risk, or even about what she was doing. She was a fool, Luc was right. But she didn't want him to be right, and she wanted to show them all that she wasn't cargo or extra baggage. She would think about it later - assuming she survived.

There was an eerie creak as the cage door opened in front of her. Mads stepped onto the scuffed, rust-stained blue mat and prayed that her opponent wouldn't be as big as the Commodore.

"Well, I really didn't believe it." Torrence of Clubs' oily voice drifted to her from outside the cage, and Mads finally looked up. "You really did come down here to die?"

He was lounging against the bars, his brown eyes tinged red by the low-hanging lights. He looked amused, and smug, and Mads wished she were fighting him instead. But at least the left side of his face was mottled and swollen, despite the makeup he'd used to try to conceal it.

"Your face looks great," she said, crossing her arms and trying to look careless. "If you had the guts to step in here yourself, I could fix the other side to match."

Clubs snarled and clenched the cage bars. "Brave words, for someone about to be beaten to death."

"Why?" asked Mads abruptly. "What did L . . . Phelan, do that made you hate him so much? I mean, other than being himself."

Clubs' scowl deepened. "Ask him. Oh wait—" he made a pretense of looking around. "He's not here. Couldn't stomach watching you be crushed, bone-by-bone?"

Mads shrugged. "I'm not his keeper."

"Or his 'business partner,' are you," said Clubs, his voice low. He leaned closer, so his face pressed against the bars. "We could work together, you know. I'd have my man go easy on you if you help me take Phelan down."

Mads just watched Club's swollen face, pretending that his suggestion hadn't startled her. "I'm sorry, but I need to focus. And you're irrelevant." She turned away, ignoring Torrence's cursing and sputtering behind her. He was far less frightening in this cold, dank arena, with all these people and the threat of imminent death.

Perspective always helps.

Mads stretched, tuning out the hum of people, Torrence of Clubs, the rusty red lights. For the first time since she had been abducted, she almost felt at peace. Sure, she was probably making the worst mistake of her life (she'd been piling up an alarming number of those lately), and maybe the last mistake she'd ever make. But she had always been a fighter. And this was a battle she'd chosen for herself. This was the type of fight she understood.