The Flesh Cartel #1: Capture

said. “Leave the brother here until we can get a hobble and a muzzle on him. I’m not embarrassing myself by getting my ass kicked in front of the curators, are you?”
    “He’s been in that fucking cage for ten hours. You think he’s in any position to kick anybody’s ass? Probably won’t even be able to stand.”
    “You willing to bet on that? I heard about a guy in District Six, his catch kicked him in the nuts and got loose in the warehouse, had to be put down, so they put down the guy too, replaced him with somebody smarter. They like shit orderly here. Plenty of guys slavering over your job . . . well, maybe not the job so much as the perks.”
    At that, he spanked Dougie hard on one ass cheek, making him cry out.
    “Fine. Let’s do it your way. Not like I care if the hole spends another three days in that fucking cage. I’m kinda disappointed the ten hours wasn’t long enough to see him piss or shit himself.”
    Not for lack of need. He had to piss so bad his back teeth were floating, but no fucking way was he gonna do that in front of these fuckers.
    “You’re fucking sick. I don’t want to smell that shit.”
    “Literally.”
    They laughed. Hoisted Dougie to his feet, although it took two of them to keep him standing.
    From his vantage point, Mat could see the shiny flakes of dried cum on Dougie’s inner thighs, the slightly pinkish hue it had at the very top, where it disappeared between his ass cheeks.
    They were right to keep Mat in the cage. He didn’t care if his legs were asleep, he’d learn to fly if it meant he could kill these fuckers.
    One by one, the men hopped out of the van. The one remaining inside passed Dougie down to them. No resistance, no struggle. Dougie didn’t so much as flinch, despite the rough handling. He still seemed a million miles away, and as much as that’d terrified Mat before, he was starting to be grateful for it now. Maybe, wherever he was, he wasn’t feeling any pain.
    But then they pulled him away from the van, and suddenly he was a flurry of violence, bound hands jerking, legs kicking, body bucking like a beached fish as he screamed and screamed Mat’s name.
    “It’s all right, Dougie!” Mat shouted, closing his eyes against the terror in his brother’s voice, the thud of a fist hitting flesh, the sheer fucking helplessness of it all. “It’s all right! I’ll be right behind you, okay?” Another thud. Two more. A short sharp scream, and then silence. “Do what they say,” Mat added, voice cracking as the words burned like poison on his tongue. Don’t give them an excuse to hurt you.
    Not that they fucking needed one.
    The sounds of their footsteps slowly faded, and Mat waited, just trying to breathe, to calm himself, to ignore the pain, find that cold center he tapped in the ring and wait . It’d do him no good to struggle now. No good to let his anger control him. He needed to stay whole, preserve his strength, keep a clear enough head to spot the weakness when it came. And it would come. It always did. Half a lifetime in the ring had taught him that, if nothing else.
    He was alone a long time. Or maybe it just felt it, the way his joints and muscles were screaming. He allowed himself a single moment of panic over his hands, half numb and bruised and bleeding as they were, then shoved it away. Getting out of this alive would be blessing enough. If he could never fight again after, well . . . he’d worry about that then, if he needed to.
    Hopefully I’ll get the chance.
    Footsteps returning, echoing through what he instinctively knew was a massive room. His neck was far too cramped for him to turn and look, and he itched with that un-knowledge, burned to know how many men were coming up behind him, how his body would respond when he came free of this cage, if it would function or betray him.
    “I cannot believe this,” someone said, and it was a woman’s voice. She sounded . . . terrifyingly competent. Just that one sentence. “He was on television last night . The only way you could be more damn conspicuous is if you’d kidnapped one of the Brangelina kids.”
    “He’s a nobody, bottom rung. He saw our faces; it was either this or kill him.”
    “So kill him. I don’t pay you to be merciful, you pack of oafs. Give him an overdose of heroin and dump his body somewhere. I don’t want him here.”
    “I don’t . . . with respect, Madame, I don’t see how that’ll help. The fighter shows up dead and the brother missing?