The Exodus Towers Read Free

try,” he muttered.
    Sam extended her hand and he took it. Conversations embroiled the room as bets changed hands. Fistfuls of stamped notes here, a half bottle of cider there, and all the bravado and excuses that went with such things.
    “That was fun,” she said, rolling her head from side to side. “Who’s next?”
    “Take a break,” someone replied, handing her a labeledbottle of vodka, quarter-full. “No one fights twice in a row. That’s a rule.”
    She shrugged. “Advantage, me.”
    Another bout started and the fifty-or-so gathered Nightcliff personnel returned their attentions to the fight, bets, and drinks. She pushed through the crowd, noting the icy stares of potential opponents as she passed. Each wore their thirst for revenge like a badge.
    Her handler waited at the back of the room near the only door, billy club resting across his knees. His face betrayed a hint of admiration as Samantha handed him the bottle.
    Sam had learned his last name, Vaughn, from the handwritten label on his helmet. She’d yet to learn his first. A field of even stubble grew on his face, framing a wide nose and narrow eyes. The brown hair atop his head he kept shaved as close as his young beard. “I’ll eat like a king this week thanks to you,” he said.
    “Told you,” she replied, taking the spot on the wall next to him. “Should’ve brought me here sooner.”
    “No kidding.” He took a polite sip from the bottle and offered it back.
    “That’s yours. I need my wits.”
    He grunted. “Well, I’m on duty, so I guess we’re both staying dry.” He handed the bottle to his right instead, and the spectator there took it without hesitation.
    As much as she hated to admit it, she was warming up to the bloke. He’d become her target for seduction on the first night of her imprisonment. The look in his eyes the first time he’d brought her food marked him as possible prey. A way out if she played her cards right.
    Seduction had never been her strong suit, though. She knew from past experience that being too overt usually killed her chances, and that most of the men who sought her company liked her for her toughness and robust curves, not for her feminine wiles. So she’d skipped the batting of eyes and licking of lips bullshit, and taken a more subtle strategy: tough talk, opportune lack of modesty, and what she hoped came across as a genuine interest in his miserable, mundane life.
    A month on and all she’d managed to do was get Vaughn toadmit her into the informal boxing club that met once a week in the mess. Still, she counted this as a big milestone in her escape. She was out of her cell, step one in any prison break.
    Next on her list was finding Kelly. Vaughn occasionally answered her inquiries about the woman, with reluctance. Blackfield had ordered the two of them held separately, he’d told her. No contact whatsoever. Kelly was doing okay after a short hunger strike, kept in a similar cell to Sam’s but on the other side of the fortress. That’s all he claimed to know.
    Remembering her gambit, Sam began to tug at the collar of her tank top. Men loved a wet shirt—she knew enough about seduction to know that—but the bout had ended quickly. In hindsight it might have been a good idea to drag it on just to get her white shirt nice and sweat-soaked. She settled for stretching the collar in and out to fan herself, giving Vaughn an eyeful with each pull should he bother to glance.
    All you have to do is ask, you idiot , she thought, and we’ll be rolling between the sheets. A good time for both of us, though the last time you’ll ever see me. I’ll make it worth your while .
    The crowd erupted as another match ended. Someone was dragged from the makeshift ring, feetfirst.
    “My turn, jailbird,” came a rough voice nearby.
    Sam stood to face her next opponent. The swarthy giant of a man stood a few centimeters taller than her and had a bushy beard that came down to his chest. Faded tattoos laced his