3. Chapter One

Chapter One

M itchell watched from his cot as a drip of water formed on the pipe above him. The drip would join its friends in the plastic container sitting between Mitchell's legs. The plumbing problem hadn't gotten worse in the months he'd been in the tunnels, but Mitchell pictured the worst happening. His cell would flood and then the entire wing of the tunnel system. The tunnels weren't any deeper underground than a subway system, but everyone in the tunnel could drown.

Mitchell tried to muster up some sort of emotion. He wanted to care about drowning but didn't. That trajectory toward death was a lot quicker than the one he was on. The only time he felt a twinge of caring was when he thought about his brother. If he were going to die, then he needed to know Jude was safe. And he couldn't know anything while he was Davorion's prisoner. It wasn't like he could ask the guard about his brother. It would give Davorion more control over Mitchell. Not that he didn't already have a lot. But the small bouts of rebellion gave Mitchell a purpose. And only God knew what a monster like Davorion would do to his brother if he got a hold of him. Mitchell didn't want to find out.

He willed God or the universe or whatever higher power existed to show him a vision of his brother. He wanted it in real time. Only then would he know he'd done the right thing by sending Jude to the Dragon Skulls.

He was stuck in the dark.

Fight and hope were all he could do.

The air in the tunnels smelled acrid, like damp concrete and the remanence of every crime ever committed underneath the city.

Blood and alcohol. That's what it was. Both liquids flowed freely in the tunnels. But Mitchell could swear he could still smell the scent of prohibition too, and every murder ever committed.

Mitchell knew about the history of the tunnels because he won enough fights to earn rewards in the form of books. A stack of books sat on a cot in one of the empty cells at the end of the wing. He'd never been much of a reader before being held captive, but there wasn't much else to do in between fights. Reading helped take his mind off the pain.

The only other things the guards allowed was fucking each other. Mitchell didn't have the energy or the willingness for anything sexual. He honestly didn't know how any of them got it up. They were essentially slaves, although none of the guards called them that. They were called fighters or bait.

Being a prisoner of a sociopathic crime boss and forced to fight for his amusement didn't exactly excite Mitchell. The thought of Davorion getting rich from the gambling and membership fees he charged to the other sick bastards who liked to watch other people beat the shit out of each other turned Mitchell's stomach.

He guessed everyone had to take comfort where they could. Maybe that's all it was for those who chose sex. For Mitchell, nothing would comfort him. Not one thing in the tunnels. He read for entertainment. Because the alternative was watching water drip.

Mitchell hadn't done all the illegal shit he'd done without thinking about prison. He'd never been the type to not consider the consequences before he committed a crime. He thought about it from every angle and then decided. Everything he did to make money was out of desperation. So, he'd given incarceration some serious consideration, figuring it would be boring, and he'd figured right. But he'd thought he'd go through the legal system. Never once had he considered being human trafficked and held captive.

The outer door clanked when it opened.

Mitchell sighed and rolled off his cot, careful not to upend the container of water. It always resulted in him sleeping on a wet mattress. The water would soak the spot for days.

Mitchell wondered if mold grew unseen. Maybe the way he'd go out is by getting sick. What a slow, painful way to die.

He stood at his cell door, waiting for the guards to take him to the arena's prep area, thinking about what dying in a hellhole like this would feel like. He didn't want to find out, but it seemed likely. Someone was bound to beat him in a fight and when that happened, the guards would either kill him or make him wish for death, and that was if the fight didn't kill him first.

The guard stopped at Mitchell's door and fiddled with the lock. The guy's name was Wilson. Of all the guards, Wilson was the nicest one on the surface. He'd share information, even when he wasn't supposed to. It gave some fighters a sense of loyalty to him. Or at least protective vibes. Mitchell thought some of them might have Stockholm Syndrome. Not that he knew much about it, beyond the basic definition. But he knew it was when victims identified with their offenders.

Mitchell hadn't been born yesterday and didn't have a mental issue beyond what captivity was doing to him. He saw the calculation in Wilson's eyes every time he handed over little nuggets of information. Every word manipulated them.

Maybe Wilson wanted a reason to beat them. If they got out of line, that was the usual punishment. Mitchell had seen him do it to more than one fighter. He'd get them worked up and then beat them down again. If there was another reason for Wilson's behavior, Mitchell hadn't figured it out yet.

"It's the big guy. The one called Brutus." They called the fighter that because every punch was intentional, designed to cause the most damage. Brutal.

Mitchell hadn't fought him yet, but they'd dragged a guy named Simon in unconscious and bloody once.

Mitchell walked beside Wilson, not saying a word. He made it a point not to engage in conversation. The last thing he wanted was to get drawn into Wilson's game.

His mind rolled over every fighting technique he knew. He'd have to do the most damage right from the start. Kidney shots. Maybe one to the chest if the guy left himself open.

"The boss is getting a hundred grand." So that's what his life was worth. Interesting.

Mitchell schooled his features, even though it really pissed him off.

"It's the most he's gotten for any fight. All the other owners want their guys to defeat the undefeated."

Maybe he should lose on purpose. It would mean getting a beat down after the fight was over and if this Brutus guy was as bad as he seemed, getting beaten even more could kill him.

He almost welcomed death. If it wasn't for Jude, who was always in the forefront of his thoughts, he'd consider giving up. He'd go to his grave worrying about his little brother.

"A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. Especially for one fight," Wilson whispered.

Mitchell stopped listening to Wilson. Of course, he'd heard him. On some level, he took in Wilson's words, but it was only to understand Wilson's agenda. His mind wandered to the last moments he'd had with his father, as they often did before a fight. It only took one blow to end his life. The thought always sent him back to the past.

You boys have always been my number one. You know that. Now it's up to you to put Jude first. Do you understand, son?

He had understood. Everything he'd done since his dad passed away had been with Jude in mind. Even while walking with Wilson, wishing one day the devious dickhead would get what was coming to him, he knew he'd fight with everything he had because he had to make it back to his little brother.