Dead By Nightfall (31 page)
Authors: Beverly Barton
Mercy God in heaven, help me.
Nic did not want to kill anyone, except maybe York and Linden, but certainly not this willowy blonde with frightened blue eyes.
“Showtime,” one of the guards said.
“Let’s go.” Another gave Nic a rough nudge.
Jonas grabbed her elbow as they were led across the brick floor and into the theater. To avoid looking at the rowdy crowd, Nic shifted her gaze from her partner to the spotlighted ring and then up to the plaster ceiling above them. A chill settled over her when she saw that more than two dozen iron hooks hung from the rafters.
What was this place? Or what had it once been?
Leaning close to her ear, Jonas said. “Survive at all costs. It’s going to be kill or be killed.”
The assembly of barbaric thrill seekers cheered as she and Jonas and the other couple were taken to opposite sides of the ring and led up separate sets of stairs. As the announcer introduced them, Nic noted that their costumes somewhat fit their ring names. Khan wore dark trousers, a wide leather belt, a triangle-shaped helmet trimmed in fur and was bare-chested. White Witch was decked out in white bikini briefs, a white pointed hat, and a white knee-length cape that tied at the neck and left the woman’s breasts bare. Mountain Man, aka Jonas, wore ragged cut-off jeans, secured with rope instead of a belt, and a red bandanna tied around his neck. His head was bare and his long hair looked as if it had been combed with an eggbeater.
The first fifteen-minute round was unarmed combat. Fists and feet. Within a few minutes, Nic realized how ill-equipped her opponent was for this type of fight. She fought like a girl—scratching, biting, and pulling hair. Although those tactics could be effective if properly applied, it took Nic all of five minutes to put White Witch flat on her back and subdue her in a chokehold. The onlookers yelled for Nic to kill her adversary. Shouts of “Strangle the bitch” reverberated in the stylish decorated underground hall. Apparently Jonas and his opponent were more equally matched and at the end of the first segment, both men had bloody mouths and were battered bodies.
During their brief break, when they were given water to drink, Jonas grasped Nic’s wrist. “You’ll be fighting Khan next. Use whatever skills you have to kick his ass.”
I’ll be fighting Khan? Crap. Holy crap.
Nic didn’t have time to think about White Witch, although she knew that Jonas would have no trouble handling her. She was too damn busy trying to keep Khan from landing a body blow. If she wasn’t pregnant, a fist to her gut would hurt like hell and knock her to the floor, but if Khan landed a blow to her stomach, it could injure her baby. She managed to use some fancy footwork to avoid being hit—at least for several all-important minutes. She moved forward and then back, took a side step, and then circled. But she could avoid her enemy’s blows for only so long. She was playing defense, but soon she’d have to go into offense mode.
Khan threw a straight punch. Nic threw a hook to his forearm and followed with several punches to his midsection. Having taken him off guard, she quickly followed up with a jab to his groin. While he doubled over in pain, she moved in close enough to stomp his toes. He hollered several obscenities, sucked in enough air to drain a ten-by-ten room, and then came at her with rage in his eyes.
Apparently Khan knew some karate moves, but she could tell he was far from being a pro. But then so was she. She knew the basics, enough to defend herself, but not having used her martial arts skills in a good while, she was a bit rusty. When she got back home, she needed to do something about that. Why she hadn’t continued to practice, she didn’t know. Too busy? Maybe, but she had always found time to keep her marksmanship skills sharp. Unfortunately, that skill wouldn’t help her any tonight. She didn’t have a gun handy.
If she could continue successfully evading Khan’s punches for a few more minutes ... If she could manage to glide in and out of his range ... If she could—
And then the inevitable happened. Khan landed a blow—to her jaw. She reeled back, staggered like a drunk, and then went down, down, down to the floor.
When she came to, Jonas was splashing water in her face. She didn’t immediately realize where she was and what had happened, but as she became more fully alert, she sighed with relief when she saw that they were on the sidelines during break time.
“It’ll be you and White Witch again,” Jonas told her. “I went as easy on her as I could, but she’s pretty bruised up. If the crowd wants her dead, there is no way you can save her. Remember that. Save yourself.”
The third round went fairly quickly, at least for her. She let her challenger get in a few scratches and a couple of punches that landed on her arm, and then she simply grabbed White Witch’s long blond hair, pulled her head downward, and kneed her in the face. Dirty fighting, but effective. By the time the fifteen-minute bout ended, Jonas had gotten the upper hand and knocked out Khan.
The final bout could end only one way—two people would die. Either she and Jonas killed their opponents or beat them so badly the crowd demanded their deaths or vice versa.
Can I do this? Can I actually kill another human being in cold blood?
You have no choice. If you don’t kill her ...
As if reading her thoughts, Jonas said, “Take a good look at the White Witch. She’s dead already. The crowd really doesn’t want to see any more of her until the moment you kill her.”
Nic swallowed. Would she have to plunge a dagger into the other woman’s jugular the way the first team members had done to each of the defeated?
The final round began, Jonas and Khan fighting to the death. Nic had taken out White Witch in less than five minutes and now waited on the far side of the ring. She occasionally glanced toward White Witch, who lay huddled in a collapsed ball, her head bowed, her small, high breasts covered in blood.
Nic continued watching until the final moment when Jonas sent Khan reeling, down onto the floor, stunned, perhaps bordering on unconscious.
The spectators yelled, “Kill him!” over and over again, until the chorus of their combined voices obliterated every other sound, even the thundering beat of Nic’s heart pulsing in her ears.
One of the guards walked into the center of the ring and handed Jonas what looked like a short sword, the blade no more than sixteen inches long.
Oh my God!
Jonas stared at the sword for a couple of seconds before taking it.
Nic held her breath.
Jonas stood over Khan’s still body. The man was still breathing. She could see the rise and fall of his chest.
Jonas clutched the sword’s grip in his hand, the blade pointed downward, and without hesitation, he lunged the blade into Khan’s chest. Using every ounce of his strength, he pushed the sword into his enemy more than halfway up to the hilt.
The crowd went wild.
Suddenly, Jonas pulled the sword out of Khan’s chest, leaving the dead man lying in a pool of his own blood. He stormed across the ring, grabbed Nic’s arm, and dragged her to the opposite side where White Witch sat hugging herself and rocking back and forth. Before she realized his intent, Jonas thrust the sword into her hand, held his hand over hers, and forced her to thrust the blade into the pitiful woman’s chest.
White Witch raised her head, her eyes wide with shock, her mouth gaping open as she took her last breath.
Jonas pried Nic’s fingers from the sword and caught her with one arm as she fell against him.
The cheering crowd, many giving them a standing ovation for their performance, faded away, their shouts a rumbling echo in Nic’s ears as Jonas lifted her bloody hand in his and lifted their arms in a show of triumph.
Chapter 31
The phone rang shortly before nine that morning. Griff answered without hesitation. To his surprise, the voice on the other end of the line belonged to his wife.
“Griff, it’s me.”
Momentarily overcome by an odd mixture of shock, happiness, and relief, he couldn’t speak.
“Are you there? Did you hear me? It’s Nic.”
“I’m here. God, sweetheart, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“I know. Yours, too. But listen, please. York is giving me only a few minutes. It’s a reward for my success in The Ring tonight.”
“What the hell is The Ring?”
“A fight to the death in front of an audience. It’s sort of a cross between the spectacle put on by the World Wrestling Federation and the gory Roman gladiator events.”
“God damn, Nic.”
“I’m okay. I survived, with help from my partner.” She paused for a moment. “Griff, York is ready to give you instructions for what he wants you and Sanders to do there on Amara.”
“Yeah, sure.” He lowered his voice and asked softly, “Do you have any idea where you are?”
“Yes. How is Yvette?”
Yvette? Why had Nic mentioned—? London. Yvette had lived in London for years. Was that what Nic was trying to tell him?
“Yvette’s fine, honey.”
“I love you, Griff.”
“I love you, too.”
York’s muted chuckles enraged Griff. “How sweet,” York said. “Ain’t nothing like true love, is there?”
“Not that you’d know a damn thing about love,” Griff said.
York burst into full-fledged laughter. “What’s that old saying about if you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with? Nic’s partner is taking really good care of her in the loving department. What about you? How’s the sex with Yvette these days?”
“It won’t work. I don’t believe you and I’ll bet Nic doesn’t either,” Griff said. “You might as well give it up.”
“Believe what you will.” York snorted, signifying his aggravation over not being able to rile Griff. “Are you and Sanders ready to participate in an extraordinarily special game that, once completed, will keep Nicole alive and take you one step closer to being with her again?”
“We’re ready. We’ve been ready for the past two weeks, ever since we arrived on Amara.”
“You sound frustrated.”
“Just pissed that you’ve wasted two weeks of my time,” Griff countered.
“Even knowing your wife’s fate is in my hands, you can’t help being an arrogant son of a bitch, can you, Griffin?”
“I’d say it takes one to know one, Malcolm.”
York chuckled, the sound toxic to Griff’s senses.
“Are you finally beginning to see things as they are and not as you believed them to be? Have you finally realized that I am Malcolm York?”
“If you need for me to believe that you’re the real York, then I’ll believe it.”
“Very wise of you.”
“I want my wife. I want Nic.”
“Patience, patience.”
“I’ve about run out of patience.”
“One more challenge for you and one more for Nic,” York said. “And if you both do well and please me, then you’ll get the reconciliation you want.”
“Name my final challenge.”
“You’re eager to do what I want. I like that.”
“Stop screwing with me and just tell me what it is that I have to do.”
“I want you and Sanders and Yvette to suffer as I have suffered, to know what it is like to lose what you hold most dear.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Griff said. “You must have suffered a whole hell of a lot when I chopped off your head.”
Silence.
Damn! Had he pushed York too far?
In a cold, harsh, barely controlled voice, York said, “At sunset today, I want you, Sanders, and Ms. Hughes to be on the beach at the far side of Amara, the eastern side. Come alone, just the three of you. If you bring along anyone else ... if my people see any of your bodyguards ... well, let’s just say that the consequences will be deadly.”
“Okay. Got it. Sanders, Barbara Jean, and me on the eastern beach at sunset. What else?”
“That’s all. Just be there. And tell Sanders to be prepared to make a sacrifice in the name of love.”
“What the hell do you—?”
York hung up on him.
Nic and Jonas had been whisked away after their performance in The Ring and taken aboveground to the first level of what appeared to be some sort of business. Linden and two guards had escorted them hurriedly into an elevator and up to a second-story office, sleek and modern with glass and chrome furniture and a bank of expansive windows. The big-city nighttime skyline had spread out before them, sparkling with lights, alive with the hustle and bustle of life. Despite aching all over, her jaw unbearably painful, and peculiar twinges pinching her stomach, Nic had drunk in the sight, desperately wanting to know where she was.
Linden had shoved her down into a chair. “York is on his way up to congratulate you.”
While they had waited for the master of tonight’s bloody debacle to arrive, Nic had studied the scene from the windows. Oddly enough, the area had seemed familiar, as if she’d been there before, perhaps only a few years ago.
All smiles and sickeningly happy, York had entered the room. Apparently he had greatly enjoyed the murders he had orchestrated that night. When she had been allowed to talk to Griff—as a reward for her stellar performance—she had focused on the view from the window. And then when Griff had asked her if she had any idea where she was, she had suddenly known, or at least she’d been reasonably sure.
We’re in Clerkenwell.
She had wanted to shout, “Remember when you took me to that fabulous club in Clerkenwell a couple of years ago when we were in London?”
We’re in Clerkenwell.
She had wanted to shout, “Remember when you took me to that fabulous club in Clerkenwell a couple of years ago when we were in London?”
Now, nearly an hour later, she and Jonas were locked in together, God only knew where, with enough guards to protect Fort Knox keeping tabs on them. Nic had begun having second thoughts, doubting if she was really in London.
Oh, Griff, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong clue.
Oh, Griff, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong clue.
She had expected to be returned to the dismal old building where she’d spent the past two weeks, but instead, she and Jonas had been taken to a private home. Whose home, she had no idea. It wasn’t a fancy place, just cozy and comfortable. Apparently York intended to continue moving her from place to place, from country to country, possibly from continent to continent. Even if they were in London, there was no way Griff could find her. It could take months, even years to locate someone in a city the size of London. But what did it matter? York wouldn’t keep her here much longer.
The two windows in the room had wooden shutters nailed tightly closed, allowing no light to enter. There was a double bed placed sideways in the corner. A table covered with a floor-length cloth and flanked by two straight-back chairs had been set between the two sealed windows, and a mirrored dresser hugged the far wall. A single-bulb lamp on the bedside table appeared to be the only light source in the room. And the one door led out into the guarded hallway. There was no closet and no connecting bathroom. That meant if either of them needed to relieve themselves, they would have to ask permission from the guards.
“Why don’t you lie down and get some rest?” Jonas said.
Nic shook her head. “I don’t think I can rest. Not after everything that happened tonight.”
Jonas approached her, his gaze sympathetic. “We did what we had to do. We’re both still alive.”
“And Khan and White Witch are dead. We killed them.”
“I killed them,” he said.
She took several hesitant steps toward Jonas, and then stopped when she was close enough to reach out and touch him. “I suppose I should thank you for making the decision for me. I can tell myself that I wouldn’t have killed her, but I know better. It might have taken me a little longer to do it, but ...”
“It’s all right.” Jonas tucked his open fist under her chin and lifted her head so that she would look at him. “You’ve got quite a bruise there on your jaw. You’re going to feel like hell for several days. But we’ll probably get some time off before we’re put on exhibition again.”
“I wish I could get out of this damn costume. It’s dirty and torn and smeared with blood and I’m cold, damn it.”
Jonas reached around behind her and yanked the spread off the bed. With gentle concern, he folded the spread and wrapped it around her shoulders as if it were a winter cape.
“If you won’t lie down, then sit down. You look like you’re about to topple over.”
Nic bunched the edges of the spread near her throat, walked across the room, and sat in one of the chairs. She felt sick to her stomach. Her head hurt, her entire body ached, her jaw was sore, and the twinges in her side had increased in degree and frequency. It wasn’t the baby. It couldn’t be. She hadn’t taken any blows to the stomach. But her body had moved and stretched in ways it hadn’t been forced to do in years. And she was no twentysomething kid any longer.
“At least you got to talk to your husband tonight,” Jonas said as he sat in the other chair.
Nic glanced at him and smiled. “York wants Griff to think you and I are lovers. And he wants me to believe that Griff is having an affair with his friend Yvette.”
“Your husband knows better, just as you do.”
Nic stared at Jonas. “You look pretty silly sitting there in nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans and a red bandanna around your neck. Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m chilly, but I’ll be okay.”
A cramping ache gripped Nic’s belly.
It’s nothing to worry about. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I just survived an hour of hand-to-hand combat. All I need is some rest. A good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.
Jonas must have noticed her wince. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really.” She tried to smile. “I hurt all over, but that’s to be expected, right? I did just get beaten up a few hours ago.”
“Yeah, you did. Look, we’re both battered and bruised, totally worn out, and we’re cold. The sensible thing is for you to go to bed, cover up, and try to rest, maybe even get some sleep if you can.”
“You want me to take the bed and leave you nothing but the floor. I know you’re trying to be a gentleman, but really, Jonas, there’s no way I’m going to bed unless you do, too.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You know you can trust me not to ... well, you can trust me to continue being a gentleman, even if we sleep together.” He grunted. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.”
Nic stood up. “I trust you, Jonas. I trust you with my life.”
As she walked toward the bed, Jonas called out to her. “Nic, wait up.”
She glanced back over her shoulder and the expression on his face frightened her. “What’s wrong?”
He rushed to her, grasped the spread from around her shoulders, and groaned. “God, Nic, you’re bleeding. There’s blood on the spread and it’s all over the back of that damn dress.”
“No, no ... I can’t be bleeding. I can’t be ...” She dropped to her knees, wrapped her arms around her body, and cried, “Oh, please, God ... not my baby.”
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