Page 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

M aya

Marco’s SUV takes a left when it should go right.

“You missed the turn,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Beside me in the back seat, Damian tenses almost imperceptibly.

Marco’s smile in the rearview mirror makes my stomach drop. “Change of plans. New venue.”

The words shatter my calm… and my hopes. Laura’s people, the other gladiators, our entire escape plan—all positioned at the McClain warehouse. Utterly useless now.

“Tony doesn’t like last-minute changes.” I aim for casual, but my pulse races. “Fighters need time to—”

“Tony’s the one who changed it.” Marco turns onto Industrial, but heads east instead of west. “Something about phone calls being traced to the old location. Funny thing about burner phones—they’re not as secure as people think.”

My mouth goes dry. They heard us. Knew we were coordinating with outside help. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I’d convinced myself it was a random tech glitch. That was a combination of wishful thinking and being delusional.

My mind races to figure out a way to warn Laura. Tony’s men might be waiting for her and the other gladiators. They’ve come to help us, and they’re now in danger!

As if reading my mind, Damian says, “Between them, my comrades have over a hundred years of fighting experience. Don’t worry about them. I imagine they didn’t come unarmed.”

I breathe a sigh of relief at his reassuring words, thankful Marco doesn’t have a translator.

Old warehouses give way to a sprawling complex surrounded by a chain-link fence. Razor wire glints in the harsh fluorescent lights. A sign, half-hidden by overgrown weeds, reads “Valley Cold Storage and Processing.”

“A meat-packing plant?” The irony isn’t lost on me—bringing Damian to a facility full of industrial freezers.

“Perfect setup.” Marco parks near a loading dock where other vehicles are already gathering. “Processing floor’s got plenty of space. Walk-in freezers make great private rooms for our special guests.”

Armed men in dark suits flank the entrance—not Tony’s usual muscle. These move with military precision, eyes constantly scanning. I assume they’re the pharmaceutical companies’ security teams, already in position at the new venue.

Damian and I exchange worried glances. There’s no escape from this. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, but Damian, at least for now, is worth his weight in gold. Me, I’m expendable. My last sight on this earth might just be the inside of one of these walk-in freezers.

Although Damian has no idea what I’m thinking, he clearly senses my rising panic. One look at the affection pouring from his gaze tells me all I need to know. Today, I might take my last breath, but I will do it knowing this honorable, ancient gladiator thinks I hung the moon and the stars in the sky.

Inside, the processing floor has been transformed into a fighting arena. Steel tables dragged away to make room for the cage, deadly looking hooks still dangling from overhead rails. The concrete floor shows dark stains that might be old blood, perhaps animal, perhaps human.

“Your corner’s over there.” Marco points to a makeshift prep area near a heavy metal door marked “Cold Storage 3.” “First fight starts in twenty.”

The pharmaceutical executives arrive in waves, their expensive suits marking them as different as night and day against the regular raucous crowd. They cluster near the cage, tablets and phones ready to record every detail of their potential specimen.

“They’re watching you,” I murmur to Damian as I check his hand wraps. “Like vultures.”

“Let them watch.” His voice stays calm, but I feel the tension thrumming through him. “They will see only what we choose to show.”

Movement by the loading dock draws my attention. More corporate security filtering in, positioning themselves near exits. I count eight… ten… no, twelve armed men barely trying to look inconspicuous in their dark suits.

Tony arrives with his entourage, immediately pulling Marco aside. Their heated whispers carry hints of urgency. Something’s made them nervous. Since they’ve effectively eliminated any threat from Laura and the gladiators, it must be something beyond our intercepted phone call.

Two fighters from rival gyms cross paths near the betting tables. Words are exchanged, shoulders bump. Their teams move closer, tension crackling. It’s normal pre-fight testosterone, but in this pressure-cooker atmosphere…

“First fight!” Tony’s voice booms through speakers mounted on the processing line rails. “Place your final bets!”

Damian watches everything with a predator’s focus—the armed men by the exits, the corporate security’s movements, the growing friction between rival fighters. His expression gives nothing away, but I know he’s mapping escape routes, analyzing threats, preparing for whatever comes. It’s so different from the gentle philosopher who shares my bed at night.

He leans closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. “Three men at the main entrance. Two by the large metal gate where we entered.” His warrior’s instincts from the arena are still sharp after two millennia. “But that small side passage near the red door…”

I follow his gaze to the narrow corridor he’s indicating. He’s right—just one pharmaceutical security guy stands there, looking bored and distracted by the growing tension in the room.

“You’re up third,” I tell him, but we both know reaching his fight isn’t guaranteed. Not with pharmaceutical mercenaries itching to grab him and Tony’s men watching our every move.

The first fighters enter the cage as I scan the crowd one last time, hoping against hope to spot Laura or one of the other gladiators. But there’s no rescue coming. We’re on our own.

The bell rings. The fight begins. And somewhere in this frozen hell of steel and concrete, our chance for escape waits to be seized.

If we survive that long.