James Axler – The Mars Arena

“You know something we don’t?” Fielding asked. “That why you were getting such special treatment?”

“Hell,” Ryan said, “I’d never even heard of the villes or the Big Game little over a week ago.”

“So this is all new to you,” Fielding said. “Why should we listen to you?”

“This pit’s new to me,” Ryan said, “but chilling isn’t.” He made his voice hard, abrasive. The other men could be an advantage, and he wanted to win them over. “There’s a certain safety in numbers.”

A siren ripped through the cavernous upper floor, startling several of the sec men who’d been peering anxiously down into the lower floor.

“Open the doors!” LeMarck said. “It’s time!”

Chains ratcheted in their housings as the wheels above were turned. The double metal doors drew apart by inches at a time. In short order the light from inside the room spilled onto the wreckage of buildings soaking up the neon glamor of the Five Barons’ private killing ground.

Ryan stepped forward, the SIG-Sauer in his fist as he scanned the edges of the wall less than ten feet higher than his present position. Moonlight and neon reflected from the keen edges of the razor wire looped around the poles set on top of the wall surrounding the quake-sunk area. Other patches gleamed, as well. Upon closer inspection, Ryan identified them as glass and sharp bits of metal.

Even with the brief running start that was possible from the lip of the room jutting over the grounds below, Ryan knew he’d fall short of the wall, and not get the height he needed to grab the top. He glanced at the ground. The terrain had been shaped over the years, falling away as much as fifteen feet in a direct fall, then sloping away to the floor of the pit.

He raked his gaze around the pit and thought he could see two other groups making the jump into the battlezone to the west of them. He also spotted some bulky shapes moving casually through the dark, and some feline ones, as well. Something hungry snarled out its warning, building up its courage.

“Get outside!” LeMarck yelled.

“Fucker can’t make us do that,” Fielding said.

As if he’d heard the man, the sec commander made a show of pulling a pin on a gren, counting down, then dropping it into the room. It smacked against the concrete floor.

“Move!” Ryan ordered as he stepped off the edge of the building. He dropped fast, landing on spongy ground, his knees giving as he dealt with the sudden stop. Mildred and J.B. were on his heels. The other six men dropped only a heartbeat or two later.

Then the gren blew, spewing forth chunks of Black Michael that rained all over the terrain. Something in a pool of water only a few yards away reared up, seized one of the ebony giant’s hands in its sharp teeth and pulled it into the mud-colored liquid.

Overhead the doors closed, cutting off any hope they might have had about using the room as an escape hatch later.

Ryan watched, waving his group back while the rectangle of light coming from the room closed off and disappeared. He looked at his friends, perspiration already making his skin slick under the armor.

“J.B.,” he said, “you’ve got point. Mildred, you’re behind him, leading these men.” He made sure Fielding and the others heard. “I’m walking slack.”

They all nodded.

“Weapons out,” Ryan said. “Safeties on until I tell you otherwise. We’re going to keep a low profile for as long as we can. Kill quick and kill silent if we get the chance. Those other teams can take each other out for a while. They do it proper and really work on it, mebbe they can cut down the odds for us.”

When there were no questions, Ryan gave the order to move out. They sank into the shadows, listening to the first of the firefights break the natural rhythms of the night creatures gathered in the pit.

Chapter Thirty-One

Ryan stayed ten yards ahead of his group, panga in his right hand. Screams echoed all around him, punctuated by single shots and by short bursts from automatic weapons. Residual heat contained in the pit, whether from atmospheric conditions or from some other source, covered him with perspiration. His clothing stuck to his skin. Insects, including some of the largest mosquitoes he’d seen since his trek through Minnesota, swarmed him, darted at his eyes, danced on his exposed flesh and penetrated his clothing not covered by the armor.