My heart filled with sympathy for the homeless and their unfortunate situation. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a large, no, a huge dark figure sitting at the end of the rundown street. A huge dark figure sporting a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his face, sitting with his legs crossed, head downcast. A huge, dark male figure clutching a big glass jar in his hands. My palms spread on the window as we rolled by. My eyes urged him to look up so I could see his face. A passerby walked past him and causally dropped money into his jar.

I froze in realization.

The man who saved me… the man who had just saved my life was… homeless?

The man who fought like an animal freed from a cage, a killer… was begging for money in the street?

I owed my life to a mysterious homeless man on the street.

A homeless man who fought like a killer.

Chapter Three

818

One month ago…

Guns firing.

Crashes.

Screaming.

Gunshot after gunshot and the tumult of shouting pounded through the stone ceiling as I paced the small area of my dank cell. Above me was a stampede, the thunder of hundreds of feet; prisoners were on the loose. And here I was trapped in this fucking cell!

I need to get out. I must get out! I screamed inside my head as I ran my hand over the metal bars keeping me trapped inside.

Charging the door of my cell, my right shoulder slammed into the metal. It didn’t even shake. Wrapping my hands tightly around the bars over the “window,” I scanned the dimly lit hallway, its flickering dull bulbs swinging back and forth from all the heavy movement upstairs. This level of the prison, the Gulag as it was known amongst the inmates, was reserved for us champions, the most prized of the death fighters. The fucking killers, the murderers, the monsters they’d created to want nothing but to feel rage and spill blood. We were jailed in the bowels of this shithole, no chance of escape. Our cells were too far apart to ever see another fighter except when we were training.

My breathing became ragged. Bellowing in frustration, I pulled on the steel bars, my arm joints creaking with the enormous pressure I put them under. My bulging, drug-created muscles corded with the effort. I roared out a final yell when they refused to budge.

The shot they’d just given me was making my skin crawl and was evoking the need to fight. I was scheduled to fight later tonight. I felt rage, nothing but rage.

I needed to kill. It was the only way to stop the rage.

The first shot had been fired about thirty minutes ago, I guessed. I didn’t know; time had no meaning in the Gulag.

I could hear the other fighters shouting, screaming that they’d been released, could hear the screech of cell doors being wrenched open, the screams of men dying.

I was fucking incensed.

I wanted blood.

And I needed to fight!

My blood boiled under my flesh, fiery, searing, preparing me for a fight to the death. To do what I did best—maim, slaughter… kill.

Roaring out, I released the cell bars and once again began pacing the cell. My eyes, even in the dark, focused on the wall and the name engraved in the stone. Alik Durov. Underneath was an address. Brooklyn, New York. Below that, a motive. Revenge. Lastly, there was a clear instruction. Kill.

I had no memory of writing it down, no memory of my life before this place. Didn’t know if I ever had a life outside of these stone walls. My brain had shut down, blocking out anything but the need to kill, erasing any knowledge of who I was, where I was from, and why I was in this fucking shithole. But one thing was certain. I had written that name, that address, that motive, and that instruction. When I stared at those jagged letters carved permanently on the wall in my line of sight, anger consumed every cell in my body and I knew, without a doubt, I had to do what the inscription commanded.

But I had to get out of this place first.

The sound of the hallway door slamming open echoed off the walls. I rushed to the bars to see what the fuck was happening. My skin was itching with the need to break free, to join the fight… to get my revenge.

The clinking of cell doors opening made my heart race faster. My knuckles cracked with the intensity of my grip on the bars.

“Get me the fuck out!” I growled as I heard heavy footsteps approach my cell. My cheek pressed hard on cold metal as I stretched to see who was coming, my hands rocking the cell door until blood began to ooze from the constantly splitting skin on my fingers.

“Go! Go!” a male voice ordered a prisoner, and I heard a man running away. “They’ve been overpowered. Head for the east gate.”

They’ve been overpowered. Hearing these words spoken out loud, I lost it. Wildfire pulsed through my veins. Running to the back of my cell, I charged the door, my shoulder dislocating with the force.

Seizing my right hand, I popped my shoulder back in place. “GET ME THE FUCK OUT!” I bellowed, my voice sounding as sharp as razors.

The light above my cell flickered off, plunging me into darkness, but it didn’t matter. I could hear everything, I’d learned to embrace the dark. Thudding on the stone floor made its way toward me. My roaring and bellowing increased.

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped and I could hear the sound of heavy breathing outside my cell.

“Get. Me. The. Fuck. Out,” I warned. I caught a nervous flicker of movement to my right.

Two men.

Two men were pussying out of facing me head on.

“It’s him,” one of them whispered as my jaw ticked in annoyance. “It’s 818.”