“Kisa… what the hell just happened?” she whispered, her voice urgent.

Then the shock of the attack I’d resisted, delayed with staring at the hooded man, instantly surged through my body and tears dripped from my eyes.

“I… I was attacked…” I cried and Talia wrapped me in her arms.

“Shit! Who was that man running away?”

“I don’t know. But he saved my life.” I pulled back and looked at Kisa. “He k-killed that man to save my life.”

“Shit!” Talia hissed again. “I’ll call one of papa’s men to dispose of the body.”

That stopped my tears. “They can’t tell my papa or Alik. They’ll go insane if they knew I’d broken away from the group to go on my own.”

Talia stared at me like I was crazy, but reluctantly nodded her head. “It’s okay. I know someone who’ll keep this quiet. I won’t tell them you had anything to do with it.”

“Thank you,” I said in relief.

Talia stroked my messed up hair. “Can you walk? Are you okay?”

“Just shaken up,” I replied. “I’ll be fine, Tal. I just don’t want papa or Alik to know about it.”

Within seconds, Talia was pulling me down the alley and away from the kill scene.

Casting one final glance in the direction the man had sped off, I let Talia lead me back to the truck, all thoughts of the murdered man on the alley floor out of mind.

Father Kruschev watched me approach, quietly shaking his head in reprimand.

Stepping onto the truck, the waiting volunteers clearly pissed at my tardiness, I slumped into a vacant window seat, my forehead hitting the hot glass.

Talia sat beside me and gripped my hand in silent support, but I kept staring out of the window as the truck slowly rolled into the road.

My attention fell lazily upon the rows and rows of homeless men and women hunkering down in their makeshift shelters for the night. I shuddered at the thought of what just happened, the gravity of the attack, of the kill starting to hit home.

My heart filled with sympathy for the homeless and their unfortunate situation. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a large, no, a huge dark figure sitting at the end of the rundown street. A huge dark figure sporting a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his face, sitting with his legs crossed, head downcast. A huge, dark male figure clutching a big glass jar in his hands. My palms spread on the window as we rolled by. My eyes urged him to look up so I could see his face. A passerby walked past him and causally dropped money into his jar.

I froze in realization.

The man who saved me… the man who had just saved my life was… homeless?

The man who fought like an animal freed from a cage, a killer… was begging for money in the street?

I owed my life to a mysterious homeless man on the street.

A homeless man who fought like a killer.

Chapter Three

818

One month ago…

Guns firing.

Crashes.

Screaming.

Gunshot after gunshot and the tumult of shouting pounded through the stone ceiling as I paced the small area of my dank cell. Above me was a stampede, the thunder of hundreds of feet; prisoners were on the loose. And here I was trapped in this fucking cell!

I need to get out. I must get out! I screamed inside my head as I ran my hand over the metal bars keeping me trapped inside.

Charging the door of my cell, my right shoulder slammed into the metal. It didn’t even shake. Wrapping my hands tightly around the bars over the “window,” I scanned the dimly lit hallway, its flickering dull bulbs swinging back and forth from all the heavy movement upstairs. This level of the prison, the Gulag as it was known amongst the inmates, was reserved for us champions, the most prized of the death fighters. The fucking killers, the murderers, the monsters they’d created to want nothing but to feel rage and spill blood. We were jailed in the bowels of this shithole, no chance of escape. Our cells were too far apart to ever see another fighter except when we were training.

My breathing became ragged. Bellowing in frustration, I pulled on the steel bars, my arm joints creaking with the enormous pressure I put them under. My bulging, drug-created muscles corded with the effort. I roared out a final yell when they refused to budge.

The shot they’d just given me was making my skin crawl and was evoking the need to fight. I was scheduled to fight later tonight. I felt rage, nothing but rage.

I needed to kill. It was the only way to stop the rage.

The first shot had been fired about thirty minutes ago, I guessed. I didn’t know; time had no meaning in the Gulag.




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