Free Underground Warrior by Evelyn Vaughn Page B

easily.
    They certainly saw her. But she clearly didn’t concern them, either in a good or bad way. So she headed closer, one step at a time.
    Ah, now she definitely heard strains of a shouting crowd. No real music—not a rave, despite the undertones of illegality. She wished it were a rave, and Trace working as a bouncer or bodyguard, there to help anyone foolish enough to get into trouble with drugs or fights or underage drinking. But no. Muffled cheering. Faint booing. Like…a sporting event. Obviously, to judge from the area, hour and lookouts, a criminal sporting event.
    Cockfighting? Sibyl felt increasingly sick from the narrowing possibilities. Dog fighting? She thought of Greta’s happy, wiggly cocker spaniel, and her stomach clenched. Animals like little Dido were often used as bait to train the real fighting dogs. Despite the futility of wishing, she wished anyway. Please, no, Trace. Please, no.
    The man directly in front of the sliding freight door—not unlike the door on her borrowed condo—stepped into her path.
    They studied each other.
    He stood bigger, wider than Trace, his dark skin and clothes helping him blend into the shadows. The style of his facial hair—thick here, thin there—made no sense to her. One of his jacket pockets sagged, with a gun probably.
    And here she stood, small, insubstantial, unarmed except for the pepper spray in her own pocket. But she refused to lower her gaze. No weakness.
    He grinned, a white semicircle of teeth against his bad-guy pose. “Twenty dollars.”
    Now she got it. Ticket taker.
    “Ladies drink free,” Sibyl challenged him, and he laughed.
    “Good point, babe, good point. Go in and draw more business for us, yeah?”
    She neither nodded nor declined, just waited for him to pull open the door.
    Noise swamped her as she stepped inside. So did the sudden warmth generated by so many crowded bodies, and smoke from cigarettes and from less legal substances. She could smell beer and liquor and human sweat. But the noise felt like a physical assault. She wove her way through the crowd, knowing that to stand still would make her appear confused, weak. She ignored the entrepreneurs hawking dirty coolers full of bottled refreshments, and the apparent pimp, two girls not much older than her under each of his arms. She wished she could ignore the people laying bets, either with money or ego. “My money’s on the big one,” shouted one chunky, redneck type and she ducked by, and his skinnier friend said, “I dunno, that Messican looks awful fast.”
    Now she could see chain fencing, easily eight feet high, apparently the ring where this match took place. As she approached it, she thought she could smell blood. Trace, no.
    But, no matter how loud the shouts, she should hear some kind of animal noise, shouldn’t she? Perhaps dogs fought silently, without barks, but wouldn’t they at least snarl? Yelp? All she heard was an occasional “oof!”
    Like—a human oof.
    Finally, she cut far enough through the press of the crowd to see the truth. Not cockfighting. Not dog fighting. Just…fighting. Two large men wearing shorts and nothing else grappled with each other, sheer strength against sheer strength—and the larger was Trace. Her Trace.
    Her…?
    Now that she recognized him, Sibyl couldn’t tear her eyes from his swarthy, sweaty near-nakedness. Broad shoulders. Tree-like limbs. Pure, physical power. His muscles gleamed and bulged. He and his opponent bared their teeth at each other, like wild animals, as they circled. The reek of violence filled the warehouse like the cheers of the maddened crowd, especially when the smaller man flew at Trace, feet first. Trace somehow dodged the kick. With a bull-like lunge, he tackled his opponent, hard, to the floor. Using his strength, his size, his power, Trace began to punch him. Again. Again.
    Their bodies lurched with each blow. Violent. Raw.
    Sibyl’s stomach twisted. So why couldn’t she look away? Where did the sudden,