Madness Rules - 04 (17 page)

“Of course.”

“Why don’t you stay here? You could work the land. Raise some pigs or cows. There are surely plenty around.”

“Right now, I have some unfinished business to take care of.”

He glanced back at her.

“Revenge still burning hot?”

“As hot as the iron that was pressed to my flesh.”

“And after it’s all settled, then what? You’ll come back here and settle down?”

“If I find the right man, I might. I couldn’t make a go of it alone.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

“I’m tired, Marshal,” she said, getting to her feet. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“All right, get some rest. It’s been a rough day.”

She walked to the kitchen doorway and hesitated.

“What is it?”

She turned to face him, and he could see worry in her eyes.

“Would you mind staying in the room with me tonight? I’m still feeling a little... unsettled.”

He placed the cup on the kitchen table and walked over to her.

“I’d be happy to. But just so I’m clear, is this an invitation to sleep in the armchair or curl up naked under the covers?”

She grabbed his hand and led him up the stairs.

“You’re in luck. I don’t have an armchair.”

CHAPTER

13

Tanner turned right onto Veterans Memorial Highway, keeping the Harley a comfortable distance behind Commando’s vehicle. The road paralleled a wide set of railroad tracks that he assumed eventually led up to Horseshoe Curve. They swung around a small lake on their left and passed a filtration plant that processed water from the Lower and Upper Kittanning Dams.

They finally came to a stop in a parking lot for the Horseshoe Curve Visitor Center. A long set of stairs led from the visitor center up to some kind of landing overlooking the railroad tracks. Tanner shut off the bike and slowly dismounted.

Commando motioned for him to follow as he headed toward a group of men standing in front of the nearest building. One of them, a dark-skinned giant as enormous as the famous sumo wrestler, Akebono, stepped forward to shake hands with Commando.

“What kind of trouble are you bringing me this time?” he said in a slow baritone voice.

“This is Tanner. The Merchant has him fighting three fights tonight.”

“Three?” He studied Tanner. “He won’t last one. Besides, I got a full docket tonight.”

“Not my call. Or yours,” he quickly added.

Akebono shrugged. “Whatever. If the Merchant wants him to fight three fights, I’ll give him three fights.” He turned to Tanner. “Are you up for this?”

“I agreed to fight, so I’ll fight. Only one thing…”

“What’s that?”

“I want the first three fights, one right after the other. I’m sort of in a hurry.”

Akebono laughed. “You are, are you?”

When Tanner said nothing more, Akebono shrugged, an amused look on his face.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen. But when that third fight comes around, assuming you’re still standing, remember that you asked for it.”

“Understood.”

Commando turned to Tanner and shook his head.

“You’re either one hell of a fighter or one hell of a fool. I haven’t decided which one yet.”

Tanner met his stare. “Nothing says I can’t be both.”

Tanner had been in more fights than he could count, but he had never once fought for profit. With more than thirty years of martial arts training in karate and jujitsu, as well as some conventional boxing and wrestling, he had developed his own style of hand-to-hand combat that merged the practical benefits of each.

In all his life, he had lost only two fistfights, the first to a girl in second grade and another to a gang of bikers who were not above biting, head butting, and nut crunching. From both losses, he had come away with more than bruises—he had learned valuable lessons. From the first, it was to never underestimate someone because of what swings between their legs. And from the second, it was to always be the nastiest fighter on the battlefield.

“Fights are held in front of the old steam engine at the top of the funicular,” Akebono said, pointing up the steep hill.

“What the hell is a funicular?”

He shifted his enormous finger to point to a track that ran up the steep hill. A trolley car sat at the bottom.

“It’s basically a small ski lift that carried tourists up to the curve. Of course, it doesn’t work anymore, so you’ll have to hoof it up the stairs.” Akebono turned to walk away.

“You don’t watch the fights?”

“Do I look like a man who climbs up and down hundreds of stairs every day?”

Tanner bit his tongue. Akebono would select the fighters he would face, and he could see no reason to give the giant a hard-on to teach him a lesson.

“I plan the fights down here,” he continued. “You fight them up there.” He looked up at the sky. “It’ll be dark soon. You should go and size up your opponents.”

Commando led Tanner up a long stretch of stone stairs. At the top was a gazebo stuffed with vending machines, all long since raided. As he suspected, the landing overlooked the tracks, obviously designed to allow tourists to take pictures of trains as they whistled their way around a curve four football fields wide. An old-fashioned steam locomotive sat in front of the gazebo, along with a collection of rusted train parts, axles, bearings, and large metal wheels. In the center of the landing, a ring of oil drums had been set up to cordon off a makeshift arena.

A handful of men were already in the arena, stretching and practicing basic drills in preparation for upcoming bouts. All of them looked tough, and a few could have even passed for professional cage fighters. Tanner took his time watching them, looking for respective strengths and weaknesses.

“What do you think?” a squeaky voice said from behind him.

Tanner looked over his shoulder and saw a greasy-headed kid who couldn’t have been much older than Samantha. The boy extended his hand as if meeting a business partner for lunch.

“I’m Snaps.”

“Tanner,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand.

“You fighting tonight?”

“The first three.”

“Three fights in a row?”

Tanner nodded.

Snaps took a moment to study him.

“No offense, Mister, but are you sure you want to do that?”

“I need three white cards.”

“We all need three white cards, but I’ve never seen anyone try to get them in one night, never mind in a row.”

“What do you do here, kid?”

He pulled on the white towel that hung around his neck.

“I clean up after the fights. Sometimes I doctor people if they’re not too broken up.”

“They pay you?”

Snaps shrugged. “They feed me.”

Tanner thought about asking where his parents were but realized he already knew the answer. Besides, he sure as hell wasn’t going to lecture a kid who had already figured out a way to survive the world’s deadliest pandemic.

Snaps leaned in. “Plus, I play a little action on the side. When I have enough, I’m going to find a way to get out of here. Maybe head over to Virginia. Everyone says the government’s setting up a big city over there.”

Tanner grunted and turned back to look at the competitors.

“Who’s the best fighter here?”

Snaps looked around. “Lots of these guys are good, but if I had to worry about one, it’d be the Russian.” He nodded toward a dark-skinned, muscular man with tattoos covering the entire left side of his body. “He’s horrible. The good news is that he’s a finisher. They only call him in when the crowd demands it.”

“Finishes as in what? Kills?”

“Sometimes.”

“Great.”

“But don’t worry about it. With you fighting three fights, they’re not going to put him in. Not unless you make the crowd really mad.”

“All right, kid. Walk me through a typical fight, start to finish.”

Snaps shrugged. “Two guys square off, usually barehanded but sometimes with knives or hammers. They go at it until someone surrenders or can’t fight any longer. That’s about it.”

“Any rules?”

“Only that no one interferes with the fight.”

“Referees?”

“Just the announcer. There’s never any issue with deciding the winner because he’s the guy still standing.”

Tanner nodded. “Sounds simple enough.”

“Oh, it’s simple all right. But simple and easy are a mile apart.”

By the time darkness arrived, the entire landing was packed with people—easily two hundred, ranging from teenagers seeking a thrill to old men seeking a buck. The weather was warm enough that many of the spectators had pulled off their shirts, including some of the women. They danced around, screaming and shouting like punks at a college rave, only instead of DJs and dancing, they were looking forward to violence in its rawest form.

Commando had stayed on as well. Whether it was to watch the fights or keep an eye on Tanner, he wouldn’t say.

A thick-necked man, who probably competed himself, walked to the center of the arena with a slip of paper in his hand.

“All right, listen up!” he shouted. “We have a special event to start off this evening’s festivities. To my right is Tanner, a first-time fighter determined to be the only combatant to ever win three consecutive bouts.”

The crowd came alive, the jeers and boos far outnumbering the cheers.

“He stands at six-foot-four and weighs,” he looked over at Tanner, “let’s call it two-hundred-and-forty pounds. His first fight will be against Gerard, a master of
savate
.” The announcer gestured toward a tall, lanky man with long brown hair and a pointed goatee. He wore a pair of tight-fitting stretch pants and a white t-shirt. “Gerard’s record is eleven wins and two losses. The odds are currently…” he looked over at a man who held four fingers in the air, “four to one in favor of Gerard. I invite you to place your bets. The fight will begin shortly.”

Tanner watched as people sized him up like he was a head of cattle being put on the auction block. Based on what they knew, any smart man would surely bet against him. A few who liked to play longshots might give him a go, but surely not risking much. Rather than bring supplies with them, people exchanged simple promissory notes. Tanner could only assume that the Merchant and his organization helped to ensure that deadbeats were properly punished.

Gerard moved into the arena, jumping up and down and pumping his arms to get the crowd to feed off his energy.

They did. Pretty soon, many began shouting, “Gerard! Gerard! Gerard!”

While everyone was looking at Gerard, Snaps hurried over to Tanner.

“Watch his kicks. He likes to go for the knees.”

Tanner nodded his thanks.

Snaps patted him on the back.

“Just so you know, I got a little something riding on you.”

Before Tanner could reply, the announcer called the two fighters to the center of the arena. When both were standing in front of each other, the announcer leaned in.

“There are no time limits and no breaks. You fight until someone is down for good. Questions?”

Gerard suddenly lunged forward and shouted in Tanner’s face. His eyes were laced with thick red veins, likely the result of some kind of amphetamine. Tanner felt his blood pressure rise, but he made no move to push the man back. It was the oldest trick in the book to get in a cheap shot at the expense of an agitated opponent. Seeing that he couldn’t goad Tanner into doing something stupid, Gerard stepped back and gave him a toothy smile.

The announcer told the two fighters to return to their sides of the arena. Once they had, he retreated and motioned for the fight to begin.

Tanner knew what to expect even before Gerard charged forward. The kickboxer was wired on something, and the drugs filled him with energy just busting to get out. That would likely prove to be both an advantage and a disadvantage. Gerard would be fast and strong, but also careless and operating with less than perfect form. And despite the man’s expertise in
savate
, being a good sixty pounds lighter would be difficult to overcome.

They closed to within a few steps.

Gerard leaped at him with a quick jab. There was little behind it, and Tanner batted it away. Without pausing, Gerard whipped a roundhouse kick to the outside of his thigh. It was quick and powerful and slapped his leg with enough force to rupture blood vessels.

Instinctively, Tanner dropped the point of his elbow directly onto the man’s ankle. There was a muffled crunching sound as bone met bone. Gerard hopped back a few steps, testing to see whether he could put weight on the injured foot.

Tanner advanced, giving him no time to recover.

Gerard fired three quick punches, a jab, cross, and then an uppercut. All three hit Tanner in the face, and all three hurt, but none stopped his advance. He grabbed Gerard’s hair and pulled the man’s face down into a powerful knee strike. The blow broke Gerard’s nose and probably would have ended the fight had he not managed to grab Tanner’s back leg.

He jerked up, trying to upend Tanner like a mountain giant trying to uproot a tree. Tanner sprawled backward, driving the man down into the dirt beneath him. Gerard rolled away and scrambled back to his feet, wiping the blood from his face.

Tanner slowly stood back up and stared at him. The energy in the man’s eyes had turned to panic.

“Walk away,” he mouthed.

Gerard looked around. People were shouting for him to fight, waving their fists with anger. Bets were on the line, and he was supposed to be the surefire winner. The fear in his eyes slowly subsided, replaced by uncontrolled rage. He started toward Tanner, ignoring the pain of his injured ankle and the fresh trickle of blood dripping off his goatee.

When he got close enough, he leaned away and kicked his heel toward Tanner’s shin. It was a vicious kick, unique to
savate
, designed to break an opponent’s leg. To be effective, however, it relied on the proper angle as well as leverage—neither of which Tanner allowed him to have. As soon as Gerard’s foot left the ground, Tanner shuffled forward and swung an elbow to the side of the man’s head. The blow was short but driven by all of his upper body mass as well as the twist of his hips.

Gerard’s head spun sideways as his jaw dislocated and blood sprayed from his mouth. He was already on his way to the ground when Tanner caught him with a short cross from the other direction. Gerard landed flat on his back, his head cocked up at an odd angle, blood oozing out from his nose and mouth. Had it been personal, Tanner would have put a boot to him, but as it was, he simply stepped back to see if the man had any fight left in him.

He didn’t.

Snaps hustled in and squatted down next to the fallen man. He made a quick gesture to indicate that he was alive. Two beefy men moved in and dragged Gerard out by his arms. When the arena was clear, the announcer returned to stand in the center.

“The first fight goes to Tanner!” he shouted. The crowd was too busy settling bets to really pay much attention to him. He turned to Tanner. “You’ve got five minutes before the next fight.”

Tanner nodded and walked over to his side of the arena. His thigh hurt, and he massaged it, hoping to reduce any chance of cramping.

Snaps hurried over.

“Here,” he said, handing him a bottle of lukewarm water.

“Thanks.” Tanner tipped the bottle up and didn’t turn it back down until it was empty. The fight hadn’t really taken much out of him, but it had been a long day. He let out a deep belch.

“I knew you were a fighter,” Snaps said with an admiring smile.

“You get your payout?”

“Four fold, even.” He looked around as if wanting to make sure no one was listening. “I got word on the next fight.”

“Who’s it going to be?”

Snaps nodded toward a barrel-chested man sitting on a folding lawn chair. Two other men were talking to him. All three had their eyes set on Tanner.

“That’s Captain Ford. The way I hear it, he used to be the star quarterback before going off to fight in the war. Came back with a chest full of medals and something not quite right in his head. He was awaiting trial for murdering his wife when the pox hit. His two brothers let him out of jail, and no one’s cared enough to try to put him back in.”

Tanner recalled his own fortuitous escape from prison.

“He’s only fought a handful of times,” continued Snaps, “but he fights like he’s fighting for his life. He won’t go down easy.”

“Good to know.”

“I’m going to let everything ride on you. The odds are three to one. That’d be big for me. Real big.”

“You do what you want. It won’t make any difference how hard I fight.”

“I know that,” Snaps said, looking down. “I just wanted you to know that I’m with you. We’re in this together, right?”

Tanner set his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Sure we are, kid.”

By the time the announcer finished his second round of introductions, the crowd was starting to get wound back up. Captain Ford was a town favorite, a war hero who had beaten the unfair justice system. He had only fought six times in the arena but had yet to lose a single bout. He had also killed two of his opponents by repeatedly stomping on their throats, which further endeared him to those who enjoyed the more bloodthirsty competitions.

As the announcer finished reminding them of the rules, Captain Ford stepped forward and smiled, showing off a couple of gold crowns. He was nearly a full head shorter than Tanner but as stout as a pit bull.

“Have you heard about me?”

“Some kind of war hero, right?”

“That’s right. I spent two years over there. And believe me, I killed a lot of men. A lot.”

“Good for you.”

“They say I have PTSD.”

“You sure it’s not PMS?” Tanner said, grinning.

Captain Ford’s face and neck burned a bright red.

“I’m gonna kill you for that. Do you understand what I’m saying? This is the last day of your miserable life.”

Tanner stared into the man’s eyes and saw only hatred. Hatred for his wife. Hatred for his country. But most of all, hatred for himself.

“You do what you need to, Captain, and I’ll do the same.”

“I can see this one’s going to be fun,” the announcer said, shaking his head.

They retreated to opposite corners, each man never taking his eyes off the other. The announcer shouted from the sideline for the fight to begin.

If Snaps was to be believed, Captain Ford was a ruthless murderer. Even if that tidbit had been intentionally planted to give him reason to fight, it didn’t change the fact that the captain was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic lunacy. That meant he was dangerous, not knock-your-teeth-out dangerous, but stomp-your-brains-out kind of dangerous. Tanner would have to be careful.