Free Rogues Gallery by Will Molinar Page A

one of Zandor’s men. He stared at Marko as if they were old friends.
    A twisting fear gripped his gut. This was Zandor’s revenge. The man was average height, average weight, and wouldn’t stand out from a crowd, but Marko had a memory for faces even as so non-descript at this man’s.
    They knew who had trashed the betting tents and attempted, as pitiful as it was, to set fire to the arena. Part of him felt trepidation and fear that they had done too much while another part felt shame that their efforts had been so weak. They should have done more, fuck it. Jerrod would not approve and call them gutless.
    Marko stomped over to the man, feeling dull in his head but sobering with every step. The man continued to stare at him, a neutral look on his face, and his eyes followed him all the way in.
    Marko stood in front of him, waiting. When the man said nothing, Marko shrugged. “How can I help you, sir?” No reason not to be polite.
    The man nodded and reached into his cloak. Marko tensed; this was Murder Haven after all, and people were rash and vicious. But it wasn’t a dagger the man brought forth. Rather, it was a sheet of papers he handed over to Marko. Marko stared and looked it over. Since he couldn’t read, it might as well been a rock or a broom handle.
    “What is this?” he said, acting as if he could read it but wanted clarification on details.
    The man didn’t argue, and for that the lead tough was thankful.
    “It’s a challenge from the arena. This is an official invitation for your gang, the so called ‘toughs’ to come and fight in a special exhibition. An immediate answer is required.”
    The man said nothing further while Marko’s head spun, not sure what was meant. He looked again at the sheet as if trying to understand it better, but he was in fact stalling. Jerrod would know what to do.
    He would tell the man off or accept the challenge or… what would he do?
    “Hey, Marko! What’s going on here?” Renner stood behind him along with several others, all gawking at the unknown newcomer. Patrons, toughs, a barmaid, and some security men gathered around and asked questions.
    “Yeah, what this fella want?”
    “What’s happening?”
    The man wasn’t intimidated. “It’s a challenge to your gang. The arena fighters are throwing down the gauntlet. The men there want to know if reality matches your reputation. Come and fight, or prove yourselves cowards and unworthy of the title.”
    This last received a round of grumbling and shoving. Marko stared at the man with newfound respect. He was clever to make this challenge in public where people, their fans and supporters in particular, would know about it. Several of them began to talk at once and came forward.
    “Hey!”
    “Challenge, is it?”
    “They ain’t afraid of the arena! They’ll take ‘em on easy!”
    “Yeah, take the challenge, Marko. Give it to ‘em!”
    A chorus of agreement followed while the man smiled at Marko. A self-satisfied countenance settled over him.
    “If you are in fact so tough, take this challenge and prove for a bigger audience. Are you up to it?”
    People shouted. Someone patted him on the back and shoved him forward. Marko tipped forward on his feet and tried to center his mind amidst the chaos, tried to think what the best thing to do was. The patrons wanted to see them fight at the arena and would accept nothing less.
    More people gathered close behind, and he looked at some of the other toughs. They were pumped up as well, though their voices were not as loud. They looked to him for guidance, but he knew which way they leaned. They wanted to fight, to uphold their reputation as the toughest, most skilled gang in the city.
    He had always thought they were, but he had seen the arena fighters deal death every night when they worked security there. They were trained, professional killers. The toughs were performers, nothing more. That’s what people would call them; trained monkeys dancing for drunken