The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(68)

I lined up with the other ragged-looking prisoners. A pair of socialites strolled past, sizing us up, discussing their brochures for the night’s festivities. They talked about us like you might talk about a horse in a race or a pedigree show dog. Not like human beings.

My hatred and my hunger became one, simmering in my gut. I wasn’t a man anymore. I was a shark on two legs, and I smelled blood.

“Warden,” I said as Lancaster strolled past. He paused in the middle of glad-handing one of his guests and came my way.

“Faust. Nice to see you made it five days without another escape attempt.”

I stared at his throat.

“Does that mean I get the chainsaw tonight?”

His brow furrowed. “You seem…eager.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve had all week to think about killing someone. I can’t wait. Put me in the first fight?”

He took a half step back. He knew something was wrong, I could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t have a clue what it was or where to start looking.

“Maybe,” he said and turned on his heel. More new arrivals to greet.

The seats filled in, and the champagne flowed. I stared into the crowd, marking faces, burning the ones I didn’t recognize from television or the news into my memory. All the while, a hot and nervous tingle grew in the pit of my stomach. It was the anticipation of violence, the feeling of staring down a cocked fist or a loaded gun. That queasy sensation that came from knowing blood was about to spill.

Lights from the guard tower strobed behind the smoky glass, signaling it was time to begin. The sound system crackled and hummed as Lancaster took up his microphone.

“Ladies, gentlemen, welcome! We have a great show for you tonight. A banquet of thrills and excitement you just can’t get anywhere else. Well…anywhere legal, anyway.”

He paused, wrapped in a smug smile, as the audience tittered. Then he gestured toward me. Jablonski grabbed my shoulder, tugging me out in front of the crowd. Behind us, waiters rolled the weapon racks into place, teasing the crowd with promises of the carnage to come.

“Our first fighter tonight,” Lancaster said, “is last week’s returning long shot, Daniel Faust. Can this one-time winner beat the odds and survive another night on the killing floor?”

Jablonski unlocked my shackles. I slowly flexed my freed wrists, staring him in the eye. As applause rippled through the room, Lancaster cupped his palm over his microphone and leaned in to murmur in my ear.

“You just remember, son: I’ve got two men up in that tower, ready and willing to put a high-velocity round right through you. Don’t try anything dumb. Give us a good show and you might live another week or two.”

He started to move away, thought about it, and leaned in once more.

“And if by some remote chance you actually win this match? Do me a favor: make the kill good and messy this time. That’s what these people paid to see.”

“That’s a promise,” I told him.

Jablonski walked over to fetch my opponent from the lineup, while the warden strolled back and forth in front of the crowd.

“If you thought last week was a one-sided matchup, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Let’s meet Faust’s opponent. He’s racked up a legendary five wins, and that’s nothing compared to his kill count before he came to—”

“I’ve got an announcement to make,” I called out.

Lancaster paused, almost stumbling as I threw him off his patter. He glared over his shoulder at me.

“Hey, it’s good news,” I told him, then turned to the crowd. “The warden’s right. It’s going to be a great show tonight. Let me ask you people, do you like violence?”

A scattering of catcalls. So many eager, smiling faces in the candlelight. I grinned and spread my arms, playing the showman.

“I knew it. And how about blood? Do you like blood?”

Applause now, and someone in the back hooted. Lancaster held the microphone, mute, as if he wasn’t sure if he should interrupt me or not.

“I can’t hear you, people! Make some noise if you want a good show. How about death? Do you wanna see lots and lots of death tonight?”

I took in the applause, the hollering, the hammering feet, basking in it.

Then my arm shot up, pointing one finger to the ceiling.

The guard-tower window exploded.

A man plummeted from the tower, slamming on the concrete floor behind me with a splat like someone stomping on a tomato. He’d been torn open from throat to groin, his chest a ragged ruin of splintered, wrenched-back ribs and mangled organs. His dead eyes were still open, jaw wrenched wide in terror.

Then came the rain. The second sniper, one piece at a time. Hands. Feet. Arms, wrenched off at the elbows. His severed head bounced like a basketball as it hit the concrete, rolling across the floor and coming to a stop next to Warden Lancaster’s Italian leather shoe.

A horrified silence fell across the room. The guards looked at one another, uncertain, hands on their guns but not sure if they should draw. Lancaster stared down at the severed head, frozen like a deer in the headlights.

“Well,” I said, “you’re about to get everything you asked for. What do you think, Warden? Is this good and messy enough for you? Wouldn’t want you to think I ‘pussied out’ again.”

His gaze snapped toward me. He took a halting step back, away from the carnage. “How? How did you—”