Taro doesn’t turn away or close his eyes, but he lets his vision blur. He never liked watching gladiator sports, not even the ones that weren’t to the death.

  When it’s finally finished, the victor staggers to his feet. The crowd surges against the railing, cheering. The man takes a few steps, attempts to raise his arm in victory—then collapses, unconscious.

  This makes the crowd cheer even harder.

  Carson inhales deeply, smiling down at the scene with benevolent contentment.

  “Everyone at Global said I had a screw loose,” he says, turning to face them. “They used words like psychopath and masochist. But I’m no different from anyone else.” Carson spreads his arms wide, taking in the spastic crowd. “I do nothing more than reflect the truth of our world. The only difference between me and most people is that I don’t hide who I am. I’m not afraid to go after the things I want.”

  He built this place to prove he’s normal, Taro thinks.

  Is Carson right? Was humanity just one twisted, sick species? Is this place a reflection of what lurks inside every person in this place, himself included?

  “The principles of New Oleum are simple,” Carson says, charming smile never faltering. “Only the strong are granted citizenship. Prove yourself five times in the arena and you are given a place in our community. A warm bed, a guarantee of three meals a day, and a purpose. Volunteer to be a Recruiter once you are a citizen, and you gain the opportunity to move up in rank. It is my sincere wish that you will all gain citizenship into New Oleum. I have no doubt you will make great additions to our community. Even you, Aston. Even though it’s your turn to suck it.”

  Carson inclines his head in Taro’s direction. Four guards converge on him. Aston gives a wild shout, but guards swarm him, Maxwell, and Li Yuan.

  The world slows. Taro’s senses branch out, allowing him to size up the four men who rush him. They’re big men, all broader and a few inches taller. They were not chosen by accident or coincidence.

  “Leo, please, no!” Agnus jumps out of the wheelchair. “Please, not the boy, please—”

  Carson grabs her around the waist and squashes her against him, stroking her hair in a gesture that supposed to be soothing. “This is how it must be, my sweet. You will understand in time. Trust me.”

  “Taro!” Agnus cries, struggling to get away from Carson.

  There is no way out of this. They’re outnumbered, just the five of them against this community of thousands. Aston, Li Yuan, and Maxwell are putting up a good fight, but it’s only a matter time before one of them is severely wounded, or worse.

  He’s not going to let them get injured or killed on his behalf.

  He backs toward the railing as the guards close in. They grin at him, reveling in the moment. Taro doesn’t waste himself in a fight against them. This isn’t the fight that counts.

  He raises his zip-tied hands above his head. Then he yanks them down as hard as he can, bringing them hard and fast toward his abdomen. At the same time, he flexes his shoulder blades, bringing them together for extra force.

  The zip ties snap, falling soundlessly to the ground.

  The move is seamless, drilled into Taro by countless hours of practice with Aston. He is free in less than three seconds.

  Turning, Taro grabs the top rungs of the railing and vaults over the side, careening into the arena below.

  9

  Hammer and Torch

  The first time Taro entered a fight ring, he was thirteen years old. It was the minimum requirement for the underage merc tournaments.

  Aston had the good grace not to make him fight on his actual birthday. He let Taro savor the age of thirteen for a full twenty-four hours. Then, he took him took to his first fight.

  Ten minutes prior to the fight, Taro found himself pacing up and down the staging room. Adrenaline zinged through his body, making his heart race and his chest tight.

  “Stop pacing.” Aston sat on a bench, resting with his elbows on his knees. “You’re wasting energy.”

  I don’t want to fight. The words were on the tip of Taro’s tongue, but he couldn’t give voice to them. He’d learned too many times that defying his father only reaped physical discomfort.

  “I know you don’t want to do this.” Aston rose and placed his hands on Taro’s shoulders, forcing him to stop his pacing.

  Taro glared up at him, affirming with his eyes if not his voice.

  “This is essential to your training,” Aston said. “You need to be able to defend yourself.”

  “Against what?” Taro couldn’t hold back the anger. “What do I have to defend myself against?”

  Aston, when he gave his answer, was oddly gentle. “The world, Taro. The fighting ring is a metaphor for the messed up world we live in. If you can survive in there, you can survive in the world.”

  Taro jerked away and continued his pacing. Aston always went on and on about how tough the world was. As if Taro didn’t know. He saw what went on outside the steps of their condo. There had been more than one body dumped in the street. More than one murder committed within the community. More than one robbery, their home emptied of every edible thing.

  He knew all these things, and yet he didn’t buy into the idea he had to beat the crap out of another teenage boy to survive it. Yet that was just what his father wanted him to do.

  All Taro wanted to do was find a quiet place to draw.

  “You’re going up against Jason Van Deer,” Aston said. “The boy is well known among the merc boarding schools. He’s ruthless. Get into the ring and take him down. If you show any hesitation, he’ll obliterate you.”

  *

  Taro spent the first seventeen years of his life resenting the way his father raised him. As he plummets twenty feet down into a death arena run by a madman, one thought races repeatedly through his mind.

  Maybe Dad was right.

  Maybe it hadn’t been paranoid insanity that made Aston drop Taro over the edge of a seaside cliff with a bungee cord twenty-seven times. He had done it repeatedly until Taro figured out how to break his fall and climb back up. That lesson had taken three days. It generated no small amount of resentment and ten bloody fingers with broken nails.

  But now, Taro knows exactly what to do. His brain processes all the details. If he hits the arena floor at a dead drop, there’s a good chance he’ll break both his legs. The sides of the arena are anything but smooth. Jagged holes and raw dirt pock the surface.

  When Taro dropped over the railing, he was careful to stay close to the wall. He reaches out and snags a jagged edge of cement. His arm jerks in the socket, sending a spear of pain through him. The rough cement abrades his skin.

  The crowd oohs and aahs over this, some of them going so far as to applaud him.

  All the training with his father kicks in. Taro banishes pain to a distant part of his mind, focusing on the task at hand: namely, getting to the floor of the arena in one piece.

  As he dangles from the precipice, a large man enters the arena from the other side. The crowd surges, cheering for him.

  “Hamm-er! Hamm-er!” The crowd chants his name—Hammer—their fists pumping up and down in rhythm to the syllables.

  He’s easily six inches taller than Taro and fifty pounds heavier. Taro takes in his bare chest, rippling muscles, and knows without a doubt that this man was handpicked to kill him. Crazy Carson is living out a vendetta fantasy against Aston.

  As much as he dislikes killing, Taro doesn’t plan to die today. He has Sulan to live for. He will live for her.

  He drops to the next uneven edge, his feet sliding on bits of loose dirt and gravel. Instead of fighting for balance, Taro rides the momentum of the slide and flings himself to a jagged crack. His fingers catch the edge. Three seconds of dangling, then he lets go and drops the rest of the way to the ground.

  Hitting the floor, he throws himself into a somersault to break the fall. He comes up on his feet, crouching to face the inside of the arena.

  Hammer stands in the center, both arms upraised. Turning in a slow circle, he gestures to the audience with his hands, urging them to chant his name.

  “Hamm-er! Hamm-er! Hamm-er!”

  The deafening word crashes over Taro in a rhythmic assault. How many times has this man fought in a ring? How many more kills does he need to earn his New Oleum citizenship?

  Taro rolls his shoulders back and strides forward. It’s both comforting and disturbing to realize how familiar he is with this situation. It’s like sliding his feet into a pair of worn-out boots; they might not be comfortable, but one is accustomed to the defects.

  He’s been in the fighting ring hundreds of times. As much as he dislikes this world, it is his world.

  Ten feet away from Hammer, Taro halts and looks the other man up and down. He’s well-muscled, yes, but he’s bigger on his right side than on his left. This tells Taro his bulk comes from manual labor of some sort, not physical workouts. Which means his triumph in the ring likely comes from his size and stature, not his skill.

  “Today is not your lucky day, kid,” Hammer says. A wide, feral smile reveals missing teeth. “Get ready to die.”

  He charges. In a split second, Taro takes into account his speed, weight, and the overtilt of his body. He holds his ground, then sidesteps at the last moment and sticks out his foot.

  Hammer sprawls on his face, hitting the ground so hard he slides several feet across the rough floor.

  Taro knows this is his chance. He should pounce while Hammer is down and snap his neck. End it fast.

  If you show any hesitation, he’ll obliterate you. The words are so clear, it’s like his father is standing next to him. Get into the ring and take him down.

  Taro’s feet are welded to the ground. He doesn’t want to kill Hammer. He knows he has to, but loathing of the deed freezes him in place.

  The big man gets to his feet, turning to face him. His chest is scratched and abraded. A long scrape seeps blood across the right side of his jaw.

  “I was going to give you a quick death,” Hammer says, “but I’ve changed my mind.”

  Taro wishes things could be different. Wishes he was different. A normal boy would love the mercenary world. Would revel in the strength and skills his father bestowed upon him. A normal boy wouldn’t hesitate to kill a man who planned to kill him.

  It isn’t the first time he’s wished he was more like his father and less like his mother.

  Get your head in the game, Taro tells himself.

  Hammer charges him a second time. He’s ready for Taro to dodge to the side again and compensates for it, exposing his right flank.

  Instead of dodging, Taro brings up his foot and delivers a brutal kick to the man’s exposed side. Between Hammer’s own momentum and the force of Taro’s kick, the blow is so powerful that Hammer is thrown backward. He lands on his back this time, once again sliding across the ground.

  One boot could crush the man’s windpipe. The fight could be over in seconds.

  Taro’s feet are welded to the ground.

  A surge goes up from the crowd. “Torch! Torch! Torch!”

  At first, Taro thinks they’ve given him a nickname. Then, he sees a new man enter the arena. He’s even bigger than Hammer, with red hair you could see from a mile away.

  This, without a doubt, is Torch.

  The message is loud and clear. Crazy Carson does not want Taro leaving the arena alive.

  And now he is going to have to kill two men.

  10

  No Good Deed

  “No good deed goes unpunished.” Aston brought up a wet cloth and wiped the sweat and blood from Taro’s face. “You’re holding back.”

  Taro seethed, too angry to respond.

  “Use that anger, Taro. Use it and win.”

  Taro’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t respond.

  The fighting ring was as grotesque as he knew it would be. His opponent, a boy named Jason Van Deer, was a sadistic egomaniac. He’d gleefully pounded the crap out of Taro for the last twenty minutes.

  Taro doesn’t want to be a part of this madness. He doesn’t want to contribute to the violence of the world. He wants to make art. To be a tattoo artist. To give permanent art to people, so they can carry it around all their lives and remember there is beauty in the hard world.

  Instead, he’s here. Forced to participate in these humans cock fights. To just about everyone in this place, he’s nothing more than a statistic. A way to win money or lose money.

  A bell rings, signaling the end of the break.

  Aston gives him one last pat on the shoulder. “Remember, no good deed goes unpunished. Stop holding back. It will only get you hurt.”

  *

  Not one man to kill for Carson, but two.

  No good deed goes unpunished.

  The irony of the moment is not lost on Taro, which just makes him angry. Why did his dad have to be right?

  No more self-pity. No more hesitation. If he doesn’t get his head in the game, these two will shred him. Taro doesn’t want to die. He wants to get out of this place and find Sulan. The first step to doing that is surviving the next ninety seconds.

  Hammer sits up, shaking off the shock of the last blow.

  This time, Taro doesn’t let him get to his feet. He bounds forward, fist swinging, and catches him on the temple. Hammer groans, tipping sideways.

  That move will buy Taro a good sixty seconds.

  He spins around to face Torch. The red-haired man sprints across the arena, coming straight for him.

  This time, Taro charges back. The two of them zero in on each other, moving at a blind sprint. Torch screams wordlessly as he runs. Taro grits his teeth in concentration, his mind calculating all the ways he can bring down the bigger man.

  Right before they collide in the center of the arena, Taro turns his sprint into a leap. One foot kicks Torch right in the face. The soft cartilage of Torch’s nose crumples under the steel toe of Taro’s boot.

  His other foot lands on Torch’s left shoulder. He uses it as a springboard, vaulting up and over Torch. He lands lightly on the other side and spins around.

  Torch pivots at the same moment. Blood sprays as he turns, pouring from his broken nose. He doesn’t bother wiping it away; instead, he grins, letting the blood soak is teeth and gums.

  Taro doesn’t give him time to catch his balance. He kicks, aiming for Torch’s leg. He tries to hit the other man in the knee, but he slips on loose gravel. The kick goes high, hitting Torch in the thigh.

  Torch stumbles, but doesn’t go down. Taro rolls to the side, putting another few feet between him and his opponent.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hammer get to his feet. The people cheer as he rises, chanting his name along with Torch’s.

  He has to end this. Fast.

  He launches himself at Torch, throwing a series of relentless kicks and punches. Torch falls back with a wild shout, doing everything he can to keep Taro from landing a blow.

  It doesn’t work. Taro drives him back. He lands a blow to the side of his head, his rib cage, his shoulder, his head again.

  The last blow to Torch’s head is so hard the other man drops to his knees. Taro brings both fists down on his skull, then follows it up with a vicious kick to his groin.

  No good deeds tonight, he thinks grimly, watching as the other man collapses in a ball of pain.

  Taro grinds his teeth, bracing himself for the killing blow—and then Hammer tackles him from the side, crushing him to the ground.

  Even as the concrete shreds the side of his cheek, Taro curses himself for losing concentration. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have made such a rookie mistake. But he hasn’t been in a fighting ring for months. He’s out of practice.

  He brings his elbow down on Hammer’s head as the other man delivers a string of punches to his rib cage. Spikes of pain radiate into his torso, making him think one of his ribs has cracked under the onslaught.

  Taro slams down his elbow two more times. The second time, Hammer’s grip on him loosens. With one violent thrash of his torso, Taro manages to wriggle free.

  He rolls to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his side. Hammer tackles him a second time. The breath is knocked from his lungs as his back connects with the ground. Instinct makes him curl his chin to protect the back of his head from the fall.

  A stinging punch makes the right side of his face feel like it’s exploded. Hammer is on top of him, straddling him. His grin is feral as he gloats over Taro. He locks his arms around Taro’s neck and squeezes. The intense pressure makes Taro’s eyes bulge.

  He doesn’t panic. He’s been in this position before. More times than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t try to pry Hammer’s hands away. Instead, he strikes at the other man’s face with an outstretched index finger.

  His finger pierces the membrane of the eyeball. Taro doesn’t stop there. No simple poke in the eye is going to get him out of the arena alive. He plunges his finger all the way in, not stopping until the top of his knuckle grazes the edge of Hammer’s socket.

  The other man shrieks, a high-pitched sound that pierces Taro’s ears over the frenzied roar of the crowd. Taro plants both fists on Hammer’s chest and shoves him sideways.

  Hammer tips over bonelessly, convulsing as he grips his ruined eye. Taro rises over him, his insides growing cold at the knowledge of what comes next.

  Aston’s voice runs through his mind. No hesitation.

  Taro leans down, grips the man’s head between his hands, and delivers one succinct twist. The soft breaking of the neck is inaudible, but he feels the snap under his fingers and palms.

  Just like that, the other man is dead. Gone. Murdered for spectatorship. For the dozens of cameras suspended from the ceiling.

  Taro steps back, wiping bloody fingers on his snowsuit as he takes in the body of Hammer. Self-loathing rises within him. He is the perfect killing machine, handcrafted by his father.

 

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