Copyright © 2015 Shay Savage
All rights reserved
Cover art design by LJ Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations
Formatting by LJ Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations
Editing by Chayasara
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems-except in the case of brief excerpts or quotations embodied in review or critical writings without the expressed permission of the author, Shay Savage.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
DEDICATION
For the fans of Surviving Raine/Bastian’s Storm and the Evan Arden original trilogy. You all wanted to know just what happened to Evan afterward, so this story is for you!
Huge thanks to my team for pushing me along and keeping me on track! I’d never get anything done without all of you!
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Though I try to make each and every one of my stories a stand-alone, sometimes you just need to read the other books first. This is intended to be read AFTER Bastian’s Storm, and it’s definitely a plus if you have read the entire Evan Arden trilogy first. That said, I’ve tried to incorporate enough information that you shouldn’t be lost if you haven’t read the other books first, but it’s highly suggested. Enjoy!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR'S END NOTES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER TITLES BY SHAY SAVAGE
CHAPTER ONE
Unexpected Truce
It’s fucking cold.
My head is spinning, and I can’t focus on anything around me. Just a few moments ago, I’d fired my assault rifle into rock and snow with the intent of triggering an avalanche. It was either that or be strangled by Sebastian Stark, the reigning champion of illegal tournament battles to the death.
The trick had worked, but I’m not so sure I’m in better shape now.
The avalanche itself has run its course. Somehow, I’d ended up on top of the snow, painfully pressed against some rocks but not buried. I can’t explain why, but I’ll take this over being covered in ice. Stark is presumably buried somewhere underneath the snow. I find it somewhat ironic that he’ll likely die of suffocation, considering he had been trying to strangle me.
I breathe frigid air into my lungs and shake my head to clear it. The movement causes me to scrape my temple on a rock, and I glance down to get my bearings.
There is rock and ice wrapped around the left half of my body. My leg and arm are totally buried, and as I try to shift around, I find out very quickly that I’m stuck. When I try to move my arm at all, shooting pain runs from my neck to my fingertips. It’s the only way I know my arm is still attached to my body.
Random thoughts about phantom pains reported by amputees enter my brain, but I choose to ignore them. When I tense the muscles in my fingers, I can feel the movement. I’m pretty sure my arm is still attached.
I can move my leg a little but not enough to get it out from under the rock. I try to push some of the ice away with my free hand, but I accomplish nothing. The wind whips around my exposed face, and I realize my facemask is somewhere down below, buried in the snow along with the GPS locator and the camera that might have told someone where I am.
Maybe I will be found lying here and maybe I won’t. It’s not a large island, and a helicopter might spot me. It’s the only chance I have at this point; I can’t free myself.
Maybe that’s best.
I close my eyes and rest my head on the rock. It is far from comfortable, but at least it isn’t sand. I’d spent months in a hot, sandy hole as a POW, and I prefer anything to that.
The cold is seeping into me, and I realize hypothermia is going to set in quickly. I try to recall if that’s considered a good way to go or not, but I can’t remember.
A good way to go.
Have I given up? Am I going to just lie here and let myself die?
There are no answers to my internal questions. I’m as cold inside as I am outside. I can’t deny that it would be easy to just let go. I’m tired, hungry, and freezing to death. My Barrett M82 sniper rifle, my pride and joy, was damaged in the fighting, and I was forced to leave it behind so I could move faster. Without it in my possession, letting myself slip away does have a certain appeal. At another time in my life, I probably would have done just that. It’s different now. Now I have a reason to return home.
Lia.
Before she came into my life, I’d only gone through the motions. I killed because it was my job, but I never felt anything about it. Not good, not bad. I like shooting, so there has always been that level of enjoyment about what I did. The bodies that stacked up in my wake are just a part of that. Lia gave me a reason to kill—to protect her.
She also gave me a reason to live.
It’s so easy for me to picture her face. Maybe that isn’t unusual for other people, but I never thought about women’s faces. Even when I was intimate with them, I preferred them face down. I would give them what they wanted, but I didn’t really care who they were. There were a couple of exceptions during my life but not many.
I love to look at Lia’s face when I fuck her. Or make love. The term matters more to her than it does to me. I know how I feel when I’m inside of her. The sensations are beyond orgasms and the act more than just physical. It’s peaceful and calming. It’s centering and relaxing. I sleep without ominous dreams when she’s with me.
A slight scraping sound in front of my face brings me out of my thoughts. At first I think it’s just snow and rock settling, but a moment later, a hand pops out of the snow beside me. With wide eyes, I stare in disbelief as Sebastian Stark’s gloved hand begins to push the snow around, making a hole.
The fact that he has survived is surprising enough. Landing literally two feet from me is simply fantastic. I watch him push snow around to give himself a wider opening, listen to him take some deep breaths, and then go back to digging himself a hole. When a handful of snow hits me in the face, I realize I’m still staring at him.
Slowly and quietly, I reach down my side and grip the butt of the Beretta at my waist. I unclip it with my thumb and then pull it up close to my chest. Stark has his head uncovered at this point and is trying to look around a bit, but I’m pretty sure he can’t see me from this angle. As I extend my arm, I can just reach him.
An unaccustomed hesitation hits me.
I pause to try to get as good a look at him as I can. I’d done this the night before during the pre-tournament festivities, but I wasn’t nearly as close as I am now. I do see similarities though they are subtle. There’s something about the curve of his jaw that reminds me of my own, and our eyes are the same shape though different colors.
I’d done minimal research on the other competitors, but when I realized Stark was my main threat, I’d looked up everything I could find on him. Jonathan, my cohort in crime and only friend, had done some digging as well. With his cyber-sleuthing genius, he always seemed to be able to find something on anyone. Finding Stark’s organized crime history, his reasons for secluding himself on a sailboat in the Caribbean, and his subsequent status as a rescued castaway were easy enough to find.
There was something else in all the information Jonathan dug up—something I found far more personally interesting.
Sebastian had taken the name Stark after he began fighting under the tutelage of Landon Stark, but that wasn’t his actual surname. He wasn’t even from the Seattle area
like Landon Stark and his boss Joseph Franks were. Sebastian had been born in Chicago and abandoned by a young woman trying to escape her abusive husband. She’d ended up dead shortly afterward, most likely at the hands of her estranged spouse. Her name meant nothing to me, but the man listed as her husband was a name I recognized—Alexander Janez. The same name appeared as the biological father on my own adoption certificate.
Sebastian Stark was once called Sebastian Janez. And he is my half-brother.
I’d stared at the papers for hours, trying to make sense of it all. I suppose I should have realized before then that I might have a sibling out in the world somewhere; it’s every orphaned kid’s fantasy that there is a family out there to be found. It was never anything I gave enough consideration to warrant a search.
Maybe I should have. Maybe if I’d taken the information Jonathan had discovered about my own parents and looked for any remaining ties, I would have found out about Stark sooner. By the time I knew, I was already locked and loaded for this tournament.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I have a job to do, and I am going to do it. Guilt never plays into my motives, and our vague blood relationship is irrelevant. Stark doesn’t seem to have any idea of his own lineage, and there isn’t any reason for me to change that now.
I release the safety and press the end of the gun to Stark’s temple. His neck stiffens as the rest of his body goes motionless.
“Aren’t you supposed to give me some kind of ‘ha-ha-I-knew-I-was-going-to-win-the whole-time’ kind of speech first?” Stark asks.
I stifle a laugh and shake my head. “Not really my style.”
I have nothing else to say to him. As a veteran hit man for the largest crime organization in Chicago, I never hesitate or play games with those I intend to kill. In my mind, he’s already dead. I pull the trigger.
Nothing happens.
“Fuck.” I pull the weapon back to my chest and check to make sure there’s a bullet in the chamber. There is, but there’s also a lot of ice and rock around the barrel. I knock it against my chest a couple of times to dislodge whatever is causing the malfunction. Some of the ice falls away, but it still won’t fire.
“Run out of ammo?”
“No.” I don’t know why I even bother to answer him. “Jammed. Probably from the ice or a rock or something.”
Just as I say it, I see a chip of rock that is likely causing the problem. I try to use one finger to pry the fragment out, but it’s jammed tight. With my gloved hand, I can barely hold the weapon. There’s no way I can dislodge the rock even if I take off my glove. I only have one hand available. If I take the glove off, I might not be able to get it on again, and that would be worse than the lack of firepower.
“Motherfucker.” I clench my teeth and smack the Beretta against the ice beside me. Nothing seems to work; the rock stays firmly lodged.
“Having a problem?” I can hear laughter in his voice, but I don’t find anything terribly amusing.
“A bit,” I admit. I pull the gun up close to my face, wondering if I can get a grip on the rock with my teeth, but it’s in too deep.
“Something I can help you with?” Stark asks.
You can die on your own, I think but don’t say anything aloud. I take in a long breath and let it out slowly as I look around and consider my options. My lack of mobility is the biggest issue, and I don’t see a solution to it. There’s nothing around me to use as a digging tool, and with only one arm available, I won’t be able to dig effectively anyway.
I rotate the weapon in my hand, grasping the barrel tightly. I don’t have enough reach for a bludgeoning to be horribly effective, but it’s the only option. I pull back my arm and slam the butt end of the Beretta against the back of Stark’s head.
“Ow! Motherfucker!”
It isn’t a good hit, and I try again a couple of times before Stark manages to grab my hand and scuffle for the gun. I keep my grip as best I can, but when he slams my hand against a rock, I lose my hold and the weapon tumbles out of sight.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Why didn’t you just fucking shoot me?”
“Still jammed,” I tell him.
“I thought you were a fucking gun expert,” Stark replies. “You telling me you can’t unjam a gun?”
“Not with one hand.” My words are a mistake, and I realize it almost immediately. I’ve just given away my weakness.
Stark shuffles around enough that he is able to turn and appraise my situation. I meet his eyes for the first time, and his expression is hopeful. He lets out a short laugh.
“Well, you’re fucked,” he states.
I can’t argue with the sentiment. I need to stop giving him information. Anything I tell him can be used against me. Even my expression could tell him how bad off I am.
What difference does it make now?
I’m completely without weapons. In a bare-fisted fight, Stark would certainly beat me. I’m stuck in ice and rock, and I can barely feel my left arm. I’m immobilized; the temperature is well below deathly cold, and I have zero chance of digging my way out. Stark, on the other hand, appears much more hopeful. He pushes more ice and snow out from around him, clearing his shoulders and part of his chest.
I’m completely screwed.
I lay my head against my shoulder, trying to keep my exposed skin off the ice. As I close my eyes, I realize how easy giving up can be. It’s tempting. No, it’s beyond tempting. It’s downright appealing.
Stark is going to free himself, and then he is going to use whatever is handy to beat me to death—probably just his fists. I won’t be able to do anything to stop him. That thought pisses me off. If I’m going to die, I’d at least rather be able to fight back to the end. This way will suck.
I open my eyes and look down the edge of the cliff where something catches my eye. There’s a layer of rock lined up in the ice, surrounding a darker shape. As I squint, I realize the dark shape is actually Stark’s leg. I look up at his face and at the angle of his body. His leg is badly broken, possibly crushed. It’s also lodged against one rock at a tight angle. Even with Stark’s strength, he’s not going to be able to pull his leg out.
He’s as trapped as I am.
The thought offers me only a little comfort. At least I won’t be helplessly beaten to death. Instead, we will both die of exposure, and there will be no winner in this tournament. Rinaldo Moretti, Joseph Franks, and the other tournament organizers might not even find us, considering the cameras and GPS locators are buried in the avalanche.
They will still know I outlived the other Chicago-based organizations. Maybe that will be enough for Rinaldo to get what he wants. It shouldn’t matter to me, but it does. I’m not in this for myself; I’m in it so Rinaldo can win. I’m not even supposed to be involved anymore.
“This is supposed to be my fucking retirement,” I mutter under my breath.
“Mine, too,” Stark says with a humorless laugh.
“Oh yeah?” I shift my head lower to rest it on the snow and sigh again. “What are you doing here, then?”
“Killing your ass is the plan.”
I roll my eyes. In my opinion, the whole banter thing these tournament veterans find so entertaining is simply tedious. They are all so casual about it, but the puffing is annoying and pointless. It makes them sound like characters out of a Marvel comic, and I’d never enjoyed those for the same reason. All those elaborate plans and plots the villains would conjure up just to have the heroes escape at the last minute in some ridiculous way.
I tend to go with the straightforward approach—aim and shoot.
“I’ve heard that before,” I say. “Everyone who ever said it is floating in the Chicago river.”
“Everyone I’ve ever said it to is six feet under.”
I look at him and try to gauge his expression. Though the words are cocky, I don’t see the same cockiness in his face. He’s just stating facts, not bragging. He’s got history on his side as well. He’s out of practice, thou
gh, and skills do fade.
“So I’ve heard,” I say, “but you’ve been out of the games for a long time.”
He doesn’t respond, and we lapse into silence for a time. I keep picturing Lia and wondering what she is doing right now. She would be back from her trip to her mother’s and at home in our cabin. Right now, she’s likely taking our dog, Freyja, out for her afternoon stroll through the wooded area nearby. I wonder where she thinks I am.
If I don’t return, how long will she wait? Days? Weeks? Will she try to reach out to someone to learn what happened to me? Would anyone tell her the truth?
She’s going to be seriously pissed off.
I look over at Stark and wonder if his girl is pissed off at him. She knows what’s going on, but does that make it better? He’d been out of the games for so long, I have to wonder what made him decide to play again.
When I ask, the answer doesn’t surprise me. He’s fighting for her and his son. I didn’t realize Franks was actually holding the two of them hostage, forcing Stark to participate. I thought he was in it for the money or glory or whatever.
When he inquires about my reasons for being here, I see no reason to lie.
“Rinaldo asked me to do it.”
“You always do what he asks?” Stark asks as he eyes me.
“Pretty much,” I confirm.
“Why you?”
I smile a little to myself though I certainly don’t feel any joy. Rinaldo already had a tournament player lined up, but the guy had gotten in my way, pissed me off, and I put a bullet in his skull. If I had any kind of control over my temper or if that guy had just been somewhere else that day, I wouldn’t be here at all.
“I killed the guy who would have otherwise done it,” I admit as I look skyward. The cloud cover is thick enough to block the sun, and everything above me is gray.
“You killed one of your boss’s men?”
I just look at him in response. I don’t feel the desire or need to repeat myself.