Raze (Scarred Souls 1)

I did everything I was ordered to do.

And I survived

*****

Gulping in the sticky Brooklyn air, I jerked awake, body drenched with sweat as I slept behind a dumpster, still gripping tightly to the jar of cash clutched to my chest.

My dream ran through my mind, head pounding with the images. Unzipping my sweatshirt, I ran my fingers over my chest and traced the tattooed numbers. 818. My eyes squeezed shut. I saw the kid still looking into the mirror.

A pain ripped through my skull as I tried to remember, the drugs now slowly wearing off.

ARGH!

Revenge, I thought. Forget the motherfucking dream and get your revenge. Zipping up my sweatshirt, I glanced up at a dark but lightening sky.

It was morning.

Jumping to my feet, I stepped from behind the dumpster, cracking my stiff neck and focused on the dockside gym. A light was on inside, cars entering the underground parking garage to the side of the building.

Blood searing in my veins, I pulled my hood over my head, pounded over the asphalt and pushed open the doors. The weak dick from before was behind his desk. He shit himself again, pulling the same gun on me again. I stormed to the desk without even flinching.

The barrel of the gun pressed against my chest as I slammed the jar of cash on the wood. The dick’s eyes shot down to the jar, then back up to me. Sliding off the stool his fat ass was perched on, he banged on a side door.

“Yiv!”

My eyes bored, my jaw tensed, and my palms still clutched the jar. The side door suddenly flew open. Yiv walked through, a pissed scowl aimed at the guy behind the desk.

“What?” Yiv spat, then saw me standing at the desk. His expression changed on a dime, and he hesitated for a minute before he asked, “You got the money?”

I pushed the jar out in front of me and gave him a single nod. Yiv stepped forward and, without counting the cash, pushed the jar at the other guy. “Take it to the boss’ office.”

The guy disappeared, and Yiv lifted the counter. He flicked his chin, signaling me to come through. I followed behind Yiv, savoring the sound of the punching of bags being hit and the grunts of men in training. My skin prickled with the need to train—a driving need to get back to building my body into the honed weapon it had become, to maintain my focus and kill.

The steel of my bladed knuckledusters weighed that bit heavier in my pocket, reminding me of the task I had to perform, of the fights I had yet to win.

Yiv led me to a room filled with about a dozen men, but my eyes sought out only one… and there he was, dead center, his packed body training on the salmon ladder. His fists were wrapped around a metal bar and he used his upper body strength to climb up the rungs as effectively as anyone I’d seen.

I made sure my hood was pushed low over my head.

“You get a trainer, you get the use of the gym all day, and you turn up whenever the fuck we tell you to. You eat here, take whatever the hell we want to pump you with and you don’t complain,” Yiv said, leading me to a back room.

He glanced back at me, seeing my attention on Durov, and smirked, pointing his way. “That’s my fighter, Alik ‘The Butcher’ Durov. He’s the one everybody wants to beat. Five time champion. The guy is a fucking king in that cage. That mean bastard will never die.”

My nostrils flared with rage as Durov dropped to the floor. Taking out a dagger, he turned to a dead pig hanging upside down on a hook from the rafters. It only took a few perfectly precise strikes for Durov to slice the pig in half. He stood back, chest heaving, eyes lit with that addictive fire of violence, his blade dripping blood at his feet.

That bastard will die, I thought.

As if sensing my fury, my hatred for the man I’d vowed to destroy, Durov’s psychotic stare tried to meet mine, but my hood covered my eyes. His eyes narrowed as he stared me down.

A hand grabbing my shoulder made me react. I gripped the wrist with my right hand, spun around, and slammed the attacker against the wall, his arm almost breaking as I wrenched it up his back.

“Hey! It’s Yiv!” a muffled voice said. It was the trainer, so I let go and stepped back. Yiv turned and ran his eyes up and down my body. Shaking his arm, he declared, “You’re quick. Good. You’ll need to be quick here in The Dungeon.”

I didn’t give a response, and Yiv carried on down the hallway. Still feeling Durov’s eyes on me, I glanced back and he was resting his arms on the ladder, watching me.

Watch me, I thought. See the man who is going to slaughter you.

Yiv led me to a back room where a drunken man was lounging in a seat, clutching a bottle of vodka in one hand. Yiv cursed and kicked the sleeping drunk’s leg. “Get the fuck up!”

The drunk snorted and woke, his bleary eyes immediately landing on me. “What?” he asked in a heavy accented voice.

Yiv reached forward and yanked him to his feet, the half-empty bottle of vodka smashing on the floor. Yiv turned to me, the drunk’s unfocused eyes meeting mine, and Yiv pointed to the trainer. “Viktor, you got a fighter.”

The trainer—Viktor—seemed to hear this. Brushing aside Yiv, Viktor stood right in front of me. My lip curled as the older man gripped my muscled arms, walking around me to check I was in good shape.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed. “Your name?”

I stared blankly at the floor. “I have no name.”

Yiv backed away to the exit door and I could hear his fucking condescending laugh. “You have a week and half of training until the contest. You report here every morning and don’t leave until we say you can. You signed up for this. We now own you. You belong to The Dungeon. You leave, we kill you. You talk of this place, we kill you.”