Page 47 of Nasty

“What? Come over there to tell you that the last guy said fuck you, man? That makes no sense, Jack.”

“I’m going to enjoy peeling your thkin from your body, Priest.”

“You sound like a bad movie villain, dude. Just try and fucking hit me already.” The last time I’d fought on the thirteenth floor, one of my back teeth was knocked out. The guy I’d been pitted against fought like a goddamn bulldog, and he hadn’t given up easily. Seemed as if The Barrows standards had fallen significantly since then. Maybe all of the tough fuckers in New York had already made it up to the roof, and these guys were the only other fighters left. Maybe they never actually progressed from their floors and had been locked in the same circle jerk for months now, using the fights as an opportunity to get together and drink tea and talk about the fucking weather.

I was growing tired of this.

It was a fucking farce. Oscar was playing with me, just as I was guilty of playing with Jack. Time to end it and get on with the real business at hand: finding that thumb drive and getting the fuck out of here. I still had my bag with me. I’d brought the weapons along just in case Oscar tried to pull anything shady, but now I was considering taking out my gun and putting a bullet right between Jack’s eyes. That would be bad business, though. There was an understanding here that there would be no gun fights. It was common sense, really. Everyone came here with a gun, but no one used them. If one person fired a gun, the next minute everyone would be firing a gun, and then, shortly after that, everyone would be fucking dead. No more victories. No more glory. No more striving for the roof. Just an old, run down building full of dead idiots.

I left the gun where it was. I left all of the weapons I’d brought with me, and I approached Jack with intent.

It was over quickly.

Jack, to his credit, got a few solid punches in—one to my face, one to my shoulder, and a blazing right hook to my temple that made me see stars. I was too fast for him, though. Once I could see straight again, I took him out at the knees and twisted his giant arm so far behind his back that I could feel the bone flexing, about to break. He slapped his palm against the ground, wheezing asthmatically, and I let him go, strangely disappointed that the fight hadn’t been harder.

In the elevator up to fourteen, I scrubbed at my face with my t-shirt, loudly cursing Oscar. “Fucking cunt. Totally fucking stupid. Fucking huge waste of time.”

The elevator jerked to a stop.

“Cunt, huh? Such a graphic word to come out of an ex-priest’s mouth.”

I hadn’t noticed the small speaker underneath the camera in the corner of the elevator car. It crackled, Oscar’s voice coming out of it, and I pinched the bridge of my nose between fingers. “Do we really need to play this game?” I groaned. “Just call the elevator up.”

“You’re lucky you’re not fucking dead right now, you psycho little fuckboy. Your unbelievably crazy actions have earned you this little exercise. I’m still not sure I’ll grant you an audience if you complete the next floor.”

“IfI complete the next floor? Those last two fights were ridiculous, Oscar. Let’s just be done with this and talk like adults. I have a proposition for you.”

I didn’t have a proposition for him, buthedidn’t know that. Oscar loved haggling and bartering with people. Loved negotiating, even when there was no need. The very word ‘proposition’ was like a red flag being waved in front of a bull. Static crackled and hissed out of the speaker.

A knot of worry formed as I waited for Oscar’s response. How long had it taken me to reach the Barrows? Half an hour? Forty minutes? And how long had I been participating in this charade of Oscar’s? The fights had been over quickly, but I must have spent half an hour on each floor, and now I was suspended somewhere between the thirteenth and fourteenth floors, wasting even more time. What if Sera wasn’t alone? What if someone went to the apartment while I was here, fucking around and playing these stupid games? What if she was in danger? I balled my fist and drove it into the side of the elevator car.

“Oscar! If you’re not going to let me up to fucking see you, then send me back down, you motherfucker. I swear to god—”

“I didn’t think you and God were on speaking terms, Felix.”

I scowled at the camera, hoping he could see the rage in my eyes. “I make promises to Him sometimes. Very serious fucking promises. Promises I don’t break. If you don’t let me the fuck out of this fucking elevator, I’ll be making a promise concerning you, Oscar. Your body guards won’t matter. Your trip wires and your traps…none of the measures you’ve put in place will fucking save you, you bastard. Do you understand?”

Oscar laughed.“Don’t get worked up, friend. I just wanted to apologize. That’s all. The men you fought this evening weren’t up to scratch. You should have been matched against more competent fighters. I’m sending someone down to fourteen now. Someone far more suited to your…capabilities.” As soon as he’d finished speaking, the elevator began to move again.

He wasn’t letting me up to the roof. He still expected to fight, and then,maybethen, he would see me. It wasn’t fucking good enough. I was going to rip the fucker’s dick off and shove it down his throat, and then I was going to shove burning coals down there after it. He wasn’t going to know a moment’s peace. If anything happened to Sera… If she was harmed… If she woke up tonight, alone and scared, Oscar Finch was going to wish he’d never fucking been born.

The elevator jerked to a halt, and the doors moved back.

The fourteenth floor was completely silent. There wasn’t a single soul in sight. Countless boot prints marked the dirty floor, and blood, fresh blood, was splattered in great swathes all over the concrete. There had been a match here tonight, but all of the fighters had been moved, relocated somewhere else. I stepped into the eerily quiet space, casting a look around. And then—

Therewassomeone. A man, leaning against the fourteenth floor’s leader board. Another of Oscar’s men. He barely acknowledged me as I walked out onto the floor.

“Well?” I snapped. “Who the fuck am I fighting?”

The guy licked his index finger and dipped his finger in the chalk dust that was gathered in small dunes on the lip of the match board. Slowly, he raised his hand and put his finger to the board. He drew two straight lines, parallel to one another, about three inches apart. And then, carefully, he drew a long diagonal line from the left-hand corner of the bottom line to the right-hand corner of the line sitting on top.

It was the letter Z.

Nothing more.

“Zee?” Zee was more respectable than Dementor. Definitely more respectable than Jackhammer. I searched and found a camera bolted to the wall, then stalked up to it, knowing that Oscar would be watching the feed from his chair up on the roof. “Who the fuck is Zee, Oscar? And why the fuck am I fighting him?”

Behind me, a scraping sound interrupted the silence. I spun around, and a figure appeared from behind one of the pillars close to the windows, on the far side of the space.

A man.

Tall.

Broad.

As he got closer, I saw the packed muscle on him. The tattoo chaining his collar bone that read, “Such is Life.” The large, black fleur de lis that marked his chest. The array of angled scars on his stomach that looked like long-healed stab wounds. I saw the amused twist of his mouth. The slight frown that formed a crease between his brows. And I saw the dark, familiar shadow in his eyes. The same dark shadow I saw in my own eyes whenever I looked in the mirror.

“I’mZee,” he growled. “But only my friends call me that. You can call me Zeth.” He cocked his head to one side, sizing me up, the same way I was sizing him up. A savage, slow smirk spread across his face.

“You must be The Priest. I think I’m supposed to kill you now.”