I squeeze his arm. “Be safe, Gun.”

  He gives me a quick smile. “You too, Short Stuff.” He takes a thick canvas blanket Rordan had given us and tosses is over the fence. Once inside, he strips off his all weapons except one and buries them in the snow. Then he pushes the canvas blanket back over the fence to us.

  “See you soon,” Gun says with a wink. Then, he strolls off into the night and disappears from sight, twirling his one remaining handgun in his fingers.

  Billy and I crouch in the snow, waiting.

  “I keep wondering if Crazy Carson is my dad,” Billy murmurs, not looking at me when he speaks.

  “According to your mom, she had quite a few boyfriends,” I say, not sure how to tackle the possibility that Billy’s biological father might be a crazed psychopath. That’s more than anyone should have to deal with. “Your father could have been any of them.”

  “She’s never told me about my dad,” Billy replies. “Not even Zed would tell me anything when I asked. Why would she have kept it a secret from me if it wasn’t Crazy Carson?”

  I consider my answer. At last I say, “Does it matter if he’s your father?”

  Billy wrinkles his face, thinking about this. “I just want to know.”

  “But does it change what we have to do? If he is your dad, he’s had nothing to do with you. He might not even know you exist. It could be that he’d just as soon kill you. And whether he’s your biological father or not, that doesn’t change the fact that he has our parents and our friends captive. We have to free them.”

  “You’re right.” Billy wraps his arms around his knees.

  I can see how disturbed he is by this thought. I don’t blame him. If I found out I was the partial creation of someone like Crazy Carson, I’d be disturbed. But I can’t let Billy know that. I have to help keep him strong for the fight that lies ahead.

  Five minutes later, we hear a gunshot, followed by shouting and more gunshots. I see a tangle of silhouetted forms struggling in the distance.

  That’s our signal.

  We surge forward. Billy tosses the canvas over the barbed wire while I scale the fence. As I drop to the ground on the other side, Billy scrambles up and over. We haul the blanket down and wad it up behind one of the containers.

  A few minutes later, we hear cursing. “You’ll never get away with this!” Gun shouts. “Do you know who I am?”

  I peek past the container, watching two men haul Gun across the open ground. He could easily take two smaller men, but they have his hands zip tied behind his back. I wish I could have seen the takedown he staged. No doubt it was ludicrous.

  He continues to shout insults as he is dragged into the largest building in the compound. I pull out the mini tablet given to me by Rordan and activate the tracker we’d planted in Gun. All we have to do is follow the signal.

  “Come on,” I whisper to Billy. “Let’s get some clothes.”

  Side by side, we slip through the night in search of another pair of patrols.

  17

  Blur

  Taro is deposited in a cinderblock staging room just outside the arena. A barred door leads into the dirt-packed fighting pit.

  He resists the urge to pace, not wanting to appear nervous to anyone who might be watching. The sad part of all this is that he isn’t nervous. He’s done this so many times. It’s as much a part of him as breathing. Not that he doesn’t get the adrenaline surge when facing off, he just doesn’t get nervous anymore. Tonight, it’s anger and frustration riding him.

  Outside are the sounds of the gathered crowd. He wonders about the people who live here. Surely they can’t all enjoy the bloodbath? Then again, those who survived to become New Oleum citizens are the stronger, blood thirstier of those “drafted” for the fights. It could very well be that most of the people here do enjoy the bloodbath. The chilling part is that he recalls seeing children out there in the crowd. How many had been born here and how many had survived the arena?

  “My people!” Carson’s voice rings out, quieting the crowd.

  Taro steps close to the bars, lifting his eyes to the balcony where Carson stands. Agnus is beside him in her matching outfit. She sacrificed everything to save Dr. Hom, who stands at the back of the balcony under the watchful eye of two guards.

  “Tonight, I have a special announcement. My long lost love has accepted my marriage proposal. By tomorrow night, she will be my wife.”

  Hoots and catcalls go up from the crowd. Carson grins. Agnus’s face forms a smile, but the expression is belied by her rigid stance.

  Carson raises his hands, once again silencing the crowd. “I know how eager you have all been to see the Blur fight again. As a celebration of my engagement, tonight I will bring the Blur to you for an extra special fight. I will give you fifteen minutes to get your bets placed.”

  An excited tremor goes through the crowd. Taro hears murmurs of “bride” and “wife” and “Blur.”

  He shakes out his hands and bounces on his toes, trying to circulate the adrenaline that pumps through his body. The fifteen minutes allotted for betting crawls by. When the horn at last sounds and the cell door lifts, Taro is almost relieved. He just wants to get this over with.

  He advances into the arena, scanning for his opponent. He blots out the roar and color of the crowd, ignores the chants of, “Blur! Blur! Blur!”

  Across the arena, he spots the other barred door that leads into the arena. It has been opened, but he doesn’t see anyone.

  Taro advances farther toward the center, scanning and seeing no one. The pit is empty except for him. He halts in the center and turns in a circle, making sure he is indeed alone.

  And that’s when he sees her.

  A young girl, no older than thirteen or fourteen, crouched against the far wall. Her resemblance to Sulan is unmistakable. Dark hair, slight build, elegant eyes.

  Taro feels his stomach drop out of him. His coiled concentration is sucked away, leaving his mouth pressed into a tight line.

  Where are the tilted odds? The multiple big brutes he’s supposed to take on?

  This was Dr. Hom’s fight. Carson handpicked this girl to go up against the doctor. The man is more twisted than Taro had guessed.

  Carson was going to give Dr. Hom the choice of killing a young girl who looks like his daughter, or of sacrificing himself to save her. Taro has no doubt what the doctor would have chosen.

  He feels sick. He doesn’t want to die, but he doesn’t want to kill this girl, either.

  The crowd is stamping, chanting his name. He advances across the arena, moving in her direction. How is he going to get out of this?

  The girl is curled into a tight ball, staring at him with wide eyes.

  He has a fleeting hope that maybe she’s just putting on a show. That secretly, she’s an all-powerful ninja that will explode into action. But as he nears her, he sees the fear in her eyes, the trembling of her body. She’s nothing more than a scared girl.

  He closes his eyes. You didn’t train me for this, Dad.

  He stops before the girl and holds out his hand. “I won’t hurt you,” he says.

  She shrinks back from him, curling even more tightly in on herself.

  Taro raises his eyes to Carson. The man watches him intently, mouth twisted into a dark smile. Agnus’s horror is clear even from this distance. She leans toward Carson, mouth moving rapidly as she speaks in his ear, but he ignores her. Dr. Hom has both hands fisted in his hair.

  “Only one person leaves the arena alive,” Carson says, his voice booming through the arena on a microphone system. “The choice is yours, Blur.”

  This is no choice! Taro wants to scream back.

  Something smacks into him from the side. He stumbles, not braced for the blow.

  The young girl latches onto him, wrapping her hands around his neck and her legs around his torso. She sobs, doing her best to squeeze his neck and choke him.

  Taro reacts without thinking. He shoves out with one arm, delivering a stunning blow to the girl’s chest. She chokes in pain, sloughing off him to puddle at his feet.

  He steps back, resolving not to take his eyes off her again.

  He could just let her win. Let the poor girl just kill.

  But what good would that do? She has to win five fights. No way will she win any other fights if Taro gives her this one. She’s as good as dead.

  Sulan’s face swims before him. Taro clenches his jaw. He has to survive for Sulan. Somehow.

  But he can’t kill this girl. He doesn’t care what it costs him. He doesn’t intend to let her kill him, but he knows he can’t kill her.

  Carson must know it, too. He must see it in Taro.

  “Aw, a kind-hearted boy,” Carson croons. “But New Oleum is not built on soft hearts. It’s built on strength. On muscle. On ambition and a desire to see the best of oneself materialize.”

  The crowd hushes, listening to him.

  “Sometimes, survival is determined only by a sheer desire to live. Even when desire means a hard choice.”

  Taro wants to scream at the smug bastard, wants to latch his fist around the other man’s throat. This situation is not about hard choices. It’s not about survival. It’s about money and one man’s twisted passion to see people hurt and killed.

  “Let’s up the stakes, shall we?” Carson calls.

  A rumble goes up from the crowd. A chant of “knife, knife, knife!” goes up.

  Carson nods. “My thoughts exactly, my good people.” Something glimmers in his hands. A knife, of course. Carson tosses it into the arena.

  It lands in the dirt fifty feet away from Taro. He doesn’t move when the girl springs to her feet and dashes for it. She fumbled it into her hand and spins to face him. Her eyes are wild, her grip crooked on the handle.

  When she comes at him, Taro sidesteps her. When she lashes out, he evades. She goes for his gut. Taro grabs her wrist and twists, breaking her grip. The knife falls to the ground.

  The girl scampers out of his reach. Taro picks up the knife and slides it into his belt.

  She looks so much like Sulan, yet that’s where the similarity ends. Taro can’t imagine Sulan ever cowering. She might be afraid, and look afraid, but she doesn’t ever back down.

  “Fight, fight, fight!” The chant goes up from the crowd.

  “Yes, I agree,” Carson says. “It’s time for a fight. Bring in Masher!”

  The crowd cheers, screaming for Masher. Taro turns to face the staging areas, wondering where this new opponent will come from. He instinctively puts his back to the girl in a protective stance.

  The man that steps into the arena isn’t built all that much differently from Taro. Tall and lean, he has wiry muscles and a hard jaw. His eyes glitter as they meet Taro’s across the expanse. There is no doubt in his mind that this is a man who can kill him, given the chance.

  This, Taro knows how to handle. A teenage girl, no, but a full-grown man with the means and will to kill him? Yes. He draws the knife.

  “Stay back,” Taro tells the girl, who has retreated up against a wall. Tears run down her cheeks. Her hands shake.

  “Just stay back and let me handle this guy,” Taro tells her. She gives no indication that she hears him, her eyes locked on the new threat that enters the arena.

  Masher advances in their direction. Taro studies his stance, his gait. Masher tries to hide it, but his left leg is injured. A slight hitch in his gait gives it away.

  Taro files this fact. The man might have a weakness, but that does not by any means make him weak.

  Taro attacks first. He goes straight for Masher’s injured leg, surging forward with a kick aimed at his knee.

  Masher leaps out of the way. Instead of circling back to Taro, as he expected, he sprints across the arena—straight at the young girl.

  No! Taro tears after him, all rational thought tumbling out of his head.

  The girl screams as Masher looms up before her. The lean man grabs her head between his hands.

  Taro leaps, knife arcing at Masher’s back. Masher jerks out of range at the last second. The girl breaks free and runs, streaking toward the far side of the arena. Taro’s knife slams into the wall and snaps off at the hilt.

  “Idiot,” Masher snarls, turning on him. “Only one of us leaves this arena alive. The girl has to die. No reason to put it off. I was going to make it quick.”

  “I won’t let you hurt her,” Taro grinds out. He tosses aside the hilt and attacks.

  He lands a blow to the man’s throat. Masher stumbles back, hand coming up to protect his throat as he chokes. Taro moves in, hands blurring in a series of kicks and punches. Masher does his best to deflect them, but falls back under the assault, blocking two out of three attacks but unable to retaliate.

  Make it fast. The words run through Taro’s head. Make it fast. Perhaps Masher was doing the girl a kindness, in the twisted world of New Oleum. There is mercy in a fast kill. Maybe he can do the same for Masher.

  Something moves in the corner of his eye. The girl, dashing toward them. He kicks sideways to deflect her.

  Masher takes advantage of the opening and lashes out. His punch to Taro’s gut sends him flying backward. He crashes into the girl. The two of them go down in a pile.

  The audience screams enthusiasm, cheering them on. They love every minute of this. Carson effectively weeds out sane and gentle people in these fights, populating his community only with those who propagate his madness.

  Taro rolls free of the girl. “Get back!” he shouts at her, but it’s too late.

  Masher grabs her, once again grasping her skull between his large hands.

  One succinct twist. That’s all it takes. Even above the roar of the crowd, Taro hears the crack of her neck as it breaks.

  Masher tosses her away, her limp form crumpling in a heap on the ground.

  “This is the way things are,” the other man says, turning to face Taro. “Softness won’t get you anywhere. I did her a favor and you know it.”

  The way the other man looks at him, eyes hard and unyielding, reminds Taro of his father. How many times has Aston looked at him in this very way? A mixture of pity, disappointment, and hardness all rolled into one.

  Masher is right. He has to kill to get out of this place.

  If Carson will ever let him go.

  Masher comes at him, moving on the offense. His body blurs as he knocks out a rapid series of kicks and punches.

  Taro is faster. He deflects them, pushing the other man back. In Masher’s eyes, he sees acknowledgment that Taro is the better fighter, but he also sees a gritty determination to live.

  Does Taro have that? He wants to live, of course. He wants to see Sulan again, but he is so tired of fighting.

  He inches closer to Masher. He’s going to have to do this. He’s going to have to kill this other man. As much as he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t have another choice.

  He makes it fast, wanting to end it as much for Masher as for himself. His fist strikes hard and fast, slamming into Masher’s throat and crushing his windpipe. The big man staggers back, gasping for air and clawing at his throat.

  Taro leaps, tackling him to the ground. His eyes meet the wide ones of Masher.

  “I’m sorry,” Taro says. Then, not giving himself any more time to think about his situation, he rams the heel of his hand down on Masher’s throat and crushes his windpipe.

  Taro picks himself up, watching Masher writhe on the ground, unable to breathe. Taro slams his boot down his throat. Blood sprays out.

  Taro stands over the dead man, head down. The hysteria of the crowd washes over him, their cries of “Blur!” pulsing across his skin.

  He sucks in great gulps of air, wishing he could disappear into the earth.

  18

  Cellmates

  Taro returns to the cellblock in a daze. He barely notices the Recruiters on either side of him, guiding him through the halls. His brain keeps replaying the slaughter in the arena. The girl. Masher. All murder for profit. How much money did Carson make off it tonight?

  When they arrive in the cellblock, the Recruiters don’t take him back to the original cell. Instead, they shove him into a new cell far from his father and the others.

  “Leader wants you to get your beauty sleep,” one raider says with a smug snicker.

  The other man guffaws. “Tomorrow is a big day. Leader’s wedding. Everyone needs to be rested. Especially you, Blur.”

  Carson’s wedding to Agnus. Tomorrow. And Taro is supposed to be rested for it.

  Which can only mean one thing. He’s going to have to fight again.

  The raiders lock the cell and saunter away, talking about the planned wedding feast. All New Oleum residents will be in attendance.

  Taro looks down at his hands. Blood coats his knuckles and splatters his wrists and forearms. He makes a lame attempt to wipe them clean on his dirty pants. All he manages to do is make a few red smears.

  He slides down against the far wall, staring dully out the cage bars.

  A few hours later, a bulky young man is led to the cell. The Recruiters fling him inside and slam the door.

  “Good luck with the Blur,” one of them jeers. “Maybe he’ll go easy on you.”

  The two Recruiters stand here, obviously anticipating a row of some sort. Taro doesn’t give them one. He remains sitting on the floor, observing the newcomer.

  The young man doesn’t even look at Taro. Instead, he staggers toward the toilet and vomits. He sort of manages to hit the toilet, but bits of it spray on the floor and seat.

  Taro watches him, unfazed. What’s a little vomit on top of all the blood?

  “Come on,” says one of the Recruiters. “You can have a little fun with the bald guy. We won’t tell anyone.”

  “He’s easy pickings,” says the other, his eyes taking in the hunched shape of the young man as he dry heaves.

  Taro ignores them, never stirring from his place. He stares past them at the ceiling beyond. If they had hoped for a free sideshow, they’re going to be waiting for a long time.

 

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