The Gender Fall (The Gender Game #5)(90)

Cruz laid a hand against his heart and bowed slightly, a smile on his face. “Thank you, madam.”

She gave him a droll look, seemingly immune to his considerable charm, and accepted a clipboard from another guard, holding it out to him. One by one we wrote names down. Looking at it, she gave a satisfied nod, and then pointed us onward.

My heart was still thudding hard against my ribs, even after we had passed through the checkpoint. I couldn’t believe this was all it had taken—she hadn’t even asked for any identification papers. If she had, we might have been toast. Thomas had recreated forgeries, but the coding had all been identical. If they had taken the time to actually scan them, it would have been game over. Still, maybe Elena’s arrogance was to blame for this oversight. After all, she did control the borders of the city; maybe she felt that was enough? Or, maybe she had too many things going on at once? It was either that, or we were walking into a trap. It wouldn’t have been the first time Elena and Desmond had outmaneuvered us.

I kept my eyes peeled, searching for any indication that would spell our impending doom. But as we walked down the silent halls, empty and hollow without the bustle of fighters, managers, and press I had been used to when I’d patrolled here, I saw nothing to indicate any form of a trap. No cameras, no posted guards between checkpoints, no nothing.

“Now, because of the Matrian queen’s new way of showing the news, I no longer get to make the announcements like I used to,” Cruz droned as we came around the landing to the next series of steps. “But I still know this stadium better than anyone else. Or at least, anyone still alive. A great number of the fighters in the PFL were caught in the fires that decimated the docks, valiantly trying to quench the hungry flames that threatened to consume the city.”

“Were you there, Mr. Cruz?” Amber asked, her eyes wide.

“Of course I was! I was lucky enough to survive, but many of those fighters were my friends. I…” He trailed off, his voice becoming soft. “Well, I do miss them.”

Ms. Dale patted his hand sympathetically as we came to the second checkpoint, this one guarding the main stairs to the third story. It had the same basic setup as before, but this time, there were half a dozen women in the checkpoint area. I felt my breath catch in my throat as they looked at us—there were a lot of them to take on at once! —but after a cursory glance, we were waved on. Cruz continued to drone on as we moved, heading to the steps.

It was all I could do to pretend I was even remotely interested in what he was saying. I was just glad Amber and Ms. Dale were there. They kept him distracted, asking questions here and there about the stadium and its history. All I could do was think about every shadowed nook and cranny and calculate how quickly I could get to the gun pressed against the small of my back.

We came up the final landing of stairs and headed right, moving toward the next checkpoint. This one separated us from the control room. My eyes noted the sign for emergency exit 3C, which had an arrow pointed down the hallway, and I exhaled. We were on the opposite side of the stadium now, as far away as we could get from the hospital. Deep into hostile territory with what felt like an army between us and our borrowed getaway car. I prayed we had made the right choice with this mission, because if we hadn’t, we would all be dead soon.

At the checkpoint, one warden—a captain, according to her insignia—came over to exchange a few softly spoken words with Cruz. I could see the curiosity in her eyes as she took in the rest of us, but she gave a tight nod, pointing at her watch and holding up ten fingers. Cruz flashed her a suave smile and nodded, and then began pushing us forward.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said as we moved through the wide hall, passing the wooden double doors every fifteen to twenty feet that led to private balconies for wealthier patrons to view the fights, our footsteps echoing loudly. “They are very concerned about the equipment, so we’ll only have ten minutes in this area. Please hurry.”

We walked in tense silence, moving around the stadium to the opposite side of the stairs. The hall continued on, curving around as we approached a final, sandbagged area right in front of what had to be the control room. I noted only two women guarding the light blue door to the projecting room, much to my relief. I exchanged looks with Ms. Dale, giving her an imperceptible nod, and we began to slow as one, drawing our steps out.

If Cruz had even begun to notice, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Amber was already creating a distraction. “Mr. Cruz, can I ask you about that loss you suffered early on in your career? Not with the PFL, I know… This was a few years back. With Scarpelli?”

It did the trick. Cruz groaned theatrically and began to launch into the inconsistencies of a ruling that had not been in his favor, citing ridiculous facts and statistics, as well as the referee’s loose familial ties with Scarpelli. I ignored it all, my heartbeat speeding up as we drew closer to the guards. I kept my body relaxed, my focus on the two wardens before me.

As we came around the sandbags, Ms. Dale reached into her pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief, dabbing her forehead, and then replacing the white cloth. I watched as Amber leaned into Cruz, practically resting her chest against his arms, distracting the man further.

There was no script for this next part, especially for Amber, Ms. Dale, and me—it was more of a gut feeling of when to go. Maybe to Jeff or Cad it seemed they’d missed a message, but in truth, there was none. One minute we were a group on a tour with a famous PFL fighter. The next, our guns were out and pointed.