In the few hours since he had agreed to the challenge, word had spread throughout Freedom like prairie fire in the dry season. He’d been told all of the seats to the pit match were sold out, “seats” being a term for spots to stand around the protective railing and watch. Already a sizable sum of jack had been generated through pay-per-view sales via the mall’s antiquated closed-circuit television system.
Money had even been made from Ryan himself, since he’d been forced to pay a substantial entry fee as a pit challenger. His new manager, Lucas, had kicked in additional funds to complete what Ryan needed to satisfy the demanded sum.
“Case you run. Case you chicken out, call off match before it begins,” Lucas explained. “Refunds expensive. I’m counting on you. Do good.”
“Don’t have to worry about my turning tail,” Ryan replied, gesturing at the open hole in the center of the mall, “What the hell was this thing, anyway? I doubt any predark malls had gladiator bouts between shopping stints.”
“Used to be stage,” Lucas said. “Live shows. Raised and lowered from the basement for special effects, scene changes. Worked for a long time till motors gave out. Now floor don’t go up no more. So, gutted most of the innards and ripped out the old floor. Sloped the walls. Made a dandy pit for the brawl. One-on-one or big fight. Doesn’t matter. Sometimes stuntmen come in on cycles. Motor bikes. Ride them around and around, high up the walls. Like magic show! Fall sometimes. Best part.”
“Centrifugal force,” Ryan said. “Holds them up.”
“Whatever you say,” Lucas replied, not understanding the terminology, but wanting to keep his new warrior happy.
“Am I going to have to chill this guy?” Ryan asked bluntly.
Lucas sniggered. “You’ll be the one who decides, friend Ryan. My guess is yes. To stop him, you have to put end to his feeble life. I shall meet you down there in but a moment. Must go pay more fees, see to betting, wagers. Money to be made.”
Ryan turned and entered the access door that led to the backstage area of the arena, heading for the room assigned earlier to use as his place to prepare for the fight. Dean was standing in front of the door, waiting for him.
Ryan nodded to his son as he pulled on his tight black gloves. He clenched his fingers, enjoying the sensation of warmth and protection inside the comforting second skin of leather. He shrugged out of his long coat, his previously dislocated shoulder reminding him of the injury he’d suffered back in the Barrens. Ryan mentally debated keeping his long white scarf with the weighted ends, but decided to leave it behind, choosing instead to keep himself as unencumbered as possible.
Once the SIG-Sauer was unholstered and the exterior layers of clothing removed, Ryan was dressed in a black T-shirt, heavy jeans, combat boots. Simple, tight apparelthe better to keep a foe from finding a handhold with. He kept his hidden flensing blade under the back of his shirt and the deadly eighteen-inch honed panga on his hip.
“How do I look?” he asked Dean, who’d been watching. The room they were inside was once a dressing room when the stage was used for less deadly performances of music and song. The door of the room had been taken off the hinges, allowing a partial view of the site of the fight to come.
“Like a hot pipe, Dad. Aces on the line all the way down. This won’t take long,” Dean said. The boy seemed quite sure of this, much to Ryan’s hidden amusement.
“Wish I shared your confidence, son. It’s not always skill. Many a time luck plays a big role.” Ryan did a deep knee bend and frowned at the loud pop that cracked out of his joints. “Knees aren’t what they used to be,” he noted ruefully. He stretched out his arms, extending them and moving them from side to side. His dislocated right shoulder twinged again.
“Nothing is what it used to be,” he muttered.
Luras walked into the room through the open doorway, followed by the tense figures of Krysty and Mildred.