Derek tried to avoid Connor’s sword by doing what he’d done in his other matches, using his quick feet and lightweight weapon to tire his opponent, but the group of Aryans formed a circle, like a noose, with their pointed steel out front, forcing the fight into closer quarters.
Derek looked over his shoulder at the tightening of the metaphorical noose. He ran for his sword, barely grabbing it before the Aryans took the precious real estate. Derek dropped his knife, taking the sword with two hands. Connor moved closer, holding his sword one-handed, his other hand holding the circular shield.
Summer watched her fiancé intently, telling herself that Derek was a murderer or a rapist. He wasn’t like them. Derek deserved to die.
Connor took a big swipe at Derek’s head, but Derek ducked. As the blade cleared Derek’s head, he slashed at Connor’s calf, drawing blood. Summer winced as Connor cried out in pain. Derek took a step back, and Connor limped forward. Connor attempted an overhead chop, but Derek sidestepped and swiped at his legs again, this time slicing at Connor’s knee. Connor’s leg buckled; his knee wobbled. Derek swung with two hands, knocking Connor’s shield from his hand. Derek swung again, this time hitting Connor’s sword, the sound of steel on steel reverberating through the stadium. Connor struggled to stay on his feet, and Derek swung at the sword again, this time knocking it from Connor’s hand.
Javier grabbed Summer’s hand and said, “Don’t look.”
But Summer snatched her hand from his, her unblinking eyes still locked on Connor, her mouth open.
Connor fell to his knees, his hands in the air. He said something to Derek, and Derek said something back, but it was inaudible from the stands.
The Aryan guards closed their circle. Derek stuck his sword into the sand and the crowd booed. The Aryan’s said something, and Derek shook his head. They pointed their machetes, and Derek picked up his sword. Derek said something and Connor raised his head, gazing to the heavens. Derek sliced Connor’s exposed neck in one strong swipe, arterial blood spraying into the air.
The crowd roared with approval.
In a daze, Summer watched Connor bleed out on the sand. Derek dropped his sword and turned from the carnage he’d created. Summer felt dizzy, her world spinning.
“We have to go,” Gavin said.
“That’s a woman,” one of the fans said.
“We have to go,” Gavin repeated, this time with his hand on Summer’s shoulder.
Another fan echoed the same sentiment.
“He’s right,” Javier said, his eyes red and brimming with tears.
Summer shook her head, trying to center herself, the world coming back into focus. She swallowed the lump in her throat, holding back her tears.
They hurried from the stadium, blending in with the crowd. Javier and Gavin shielded Summer through the crowd, keeping her in between them. The men who’d discovered Summer’s secret were left in their wake.
As they ran for the river, Summer struggled to keep up, her chest tight, and her mind flooded with images of Connor’s death.
On the river, Javier and Gavin paddled, and Summer slumped in her canoe seat and cried. Beyond the river, the bay was choppy, the dark clouds closing in, and the temperature dropping. Summer gazed up at the clouds, pregnant with rain. Then she saw something she never thought she’d see again.
An airplane. A little Cessna two-seater, similar to some of the wrecks she’d searched just three days earlier. If it hadn’t been flying so low and directly overhead, she might’ve missed it. The plane was quiet, as if it didn’t have a motor.
“It’s the Netas,” Javier said. “They have electric planes.”
Summer watched the plane fly into the distance, wishing she was on it, wishing she was headed back to civilization, back to Byron. A missile came from the heavens, the impact turning the little plane into a fireball, the wreckage falling into the ocean.
80
Naomi and CCCA
“We have similar interests,” the CEO said.
“We do,” Naomi replied.
It was Monday, nearly lunchtime. Naomi sat at her desk in her congressional office, her encrypted cell phone to her ear, talking with the CEO of Corrections Construction Corporation of America, or CCCA for short.
“The island prisons are barbaric, and I for one am thrilled that a politician is finally willing to take a stand against them,” the CEO said.
Naomi frowned to herself. “I’m sure you are.”
“If the island prisons are closed, those prisoners will have to be repatriated, but domestic prisons are in terrible shape. You’ll need a construction company with experience building prisons.”
Naomi sighed. “What do you want? No-bid contracts?”
The CEO chuckled. “I’m not looking to gouge the government. I’d like to make a healthy profit like any good businessman. In return, you’ll receive a good faith investment in your campaign.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen million Fed Coins to your super PAC.”
Naomi leaned back in her chair, thinking for a moment. “Twenty-five million.”
“If you don’t win the presidency, this is money down the drain.”
“If I do, your company will receive at least a twenty billion Fed Coin contract. The more you donate, the more likely I’ll win.”
“Twenty million,” the CEO said.
“Twenty-two.”
The CEO sighed. “Are you sure you’re not a capitalist?”
“Are you sure you’re not a socialist?”
The CEO chuckled again. “The real money’s in the public sector.”
They made arrangements for the donations to be spread among CCCA and their subsidiary businesses. It wouldn’t be embarrassing for Naomi to be supported by CCCA, given her open stance against the island prisons. Having said that, it still looked better if the donations were spread out among different entities. She’d prefer to maintain the illusion of independence.
Shortly after the call, Vernon entered her office, locking the door behind him. “So?” he asked.
Naomi stood from her desk and strutted toward him on high heels. She smiled from ear to ear and said, “Twenty-two million Fed Coins.”
Vernon nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “Corrinne better watch out.”
Naomi wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. She whispered in his ear. “Let’s go to the Mandarin and celebrate.”
81
Derek’s New Family
After he’d killed Connor, Derek had thought he’d be given to a tribe of his choice. That’s what The Reaper had said. But Derek had no preference. He didn’t know one tribe from another. After his final fight, he’d been escorted back to the locker room, where The Reaper had waited.
The Reaper had rapped him on the back and said, “Welcome to the Aryan Nation.”
“I don’t understand,” Derek had replied. “Don’t I get to choose?”
“The niggers do. I know the difference between an Italian and a sand nigger.” The Reaper had chuckled. “I know you’re white. That’s why you got the weakest opponents. We wanted two whites in the finals.”
“That’s why they stabbed Jordan.” Derek had glared at The Reaper and his tattooed face.
“Don’t fucking look at me that way, boy. You’re damn lucky we handicapped that big nigger. He would’ve killed you.”
Derek hadn’t responded.
“If the niggers knew the games were rigged, they’d stop coming. They want their team to win, just like we do. Good thing you won too. We might’ve had a riot on our hands.” The Reaper had laughed again. “Dumb niggers believed you were one of ’em. They get rowdy when whites win too much. We try to give ’em some equality.”