Read Death Layer (The Depraved Club) for Free Online Page B

The crowd
boos.
    “Too easy, no way!”
    “Come on!”
    “Fight for it!”
    The giant looks over to a man sitting in the front row,
flanked by bodyguards, wearing a silk suit and tie and smoking a cigar. He
gives him a slow nod of the head.
    The giant nods back and kicks the machete back over to the
kid. Kid snatches it up, trembling, and stumbles to his feet. The crowd roars
approval, and the terrified kid uses the tide of adrenaline and noise as
impetus to heave himself at his opponent.
    My hands fly up to cover my eyes, but I can’t help but peek
through my fingers, sickened. It’s like watching a train wreck, or an autopsy.
    Somehow the kid ducks the swing of the giant’s bat and
manages to sink the blade into Giant’s leg. Giant bellows in rage and wraps his
arms around the kid’s neck, squeezing. Choking and spluttering, Kid’s arm flail
until he finds his grasp on the machete again. He rips it out of Giant’s leg,
blood squirting, and drives the blade into Giant’s ribs.
    The slash makes the giant twitch and roll, and he takes the
kid down with him. They are a mass of churning arms and legs and blood. I see
the kid’s arm reel back for a punch that lands on the giant’s chin. The whites
of the giant’s eyes roll in pain, and he suddenly looks desperate.
    One arm closes around the kid’s neck, locking him in an
embrace, while the giant’s other meaty fist closes on the blade sticking out of
his ribs. The giant rips the machete out of himself and with lethal swiftness
tilts the kid’s head back and swipes the blade across his jugular.
    The crowd roars and the giant jumps up and down in victory.
    “Motherfucker!” Mr. King curses, slamming his fist into his
own thigh.
    Vomit burns up my throat and it takes everything in me to
swallow it down. Disbelieving, I look back into the ring and see that the kid
is, in fact, bleeding out in the center.
    Dying.
    Dead.
    “Mr. King, please.” My voice is gone. It’s only a whisper.
“Please get me out of here.”
    “You’re alright, Miss Clark,” he says firmly. “Just a bit
shaken up. We’re not finished yet. Get a hold of yourself.”
    I stare at him and see he’s serious, his cold blue eyes
unyielding and merciless. With a trembling hand, I reach in my purse for a
napkin or maxi pad or anything to wipe my face. Mr. King is watching me coolly,
and when I finish, he takes a firm hold of my elbow.
    “Well done, Clark. Let’s go.”
    We stand up, and I have a better view of the arena. They’re
carrying the boy away like a sack of potatoes. More sand is poured and raked.
And two women are thrown into the cage, trembling and sobbing, each of them
clutching axes.
    “Please, no!” Screams one. “Help me! Somebody help me!”
    I can’t feel my legs. Adrenaline and terror and Mr. King’s
forceful grip are the only things making it possible for me to walk.
    Mr. King leads me through an aisle to another room, this one
lined with plush couches. A few richly dressed men are lying down, tended by
scantily clad and startlingly beautiful women carrying trays with syringes,
pipes, and bongs.
    “Jesus,” I whisper. It might just be an actual prayer.
    Mr. King marches us to the back and raps loudly on a wooden
door. An eye appears in the peephole, and I hear the sound of a latch turning.
    “Paperwork,” Mr. King hisses at me.
    Behind me, from the arena, I hear a woman scream bloody
murder.
    Shaken, I scramble to hand him the documents as the door
opens and he drags me inside with him. This room is an office in an English
library style, with dark leather chairs, bookshelves, and brocade wallpaper.
Did I just step into fucking Wuthering Heights? What the fuck is this fucking
place?
“Mr. King,” says a dark voice. “Not your best night, I’m afraid.”
    The voice belongs to a hulking man with a weathered face,
high cheekbones, gray hair, and imposing build. He’s sitting with his feet up
on the desk, smoking a cigar. One eyebrow is missing, replaced by a burn