Azazel stepped away from the wall and came a few steps closer to Jones. “First, I would like to say that when you fight in my arena, you are only asked to follow three, very simple, rules.” He ticked them off on his fingers as he recited them. “Rule number one, no killing unless I deem the fight to be a deathmatch. Rule number two, no enhanced fighters. Rule number three, and the most important rule of all,” he stopped and glared at Jones. “Don’t screw with me and break rule number one or two. Simple as that, Mr. Jones.”

  He dropped two of his fingers and pointed the remaining index finger at Jones’s face. “You and your boss have broken rule number two. You received enhancements prior to the fight to give yourself the edge. It didn’t work, but you still tried.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “The consequences for breaking my rules are quite severe, I’m afraid. I’ve come to enforce the punishment myself.”

  Jones furrowed his brow and snorted. “You just think so highly of yourself, don’t you, Black.” He pointed to his chest. “You think you’re going to punish me?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. But yeah, Taggart hooked me up. He went cheap on the upgrades though. Just my arms and shoulders. It wasn’t enough. Even still, Chico just got lucky. I had him beat but I screwed up.” He growled with frustration and pointed at Azazel. “You won’t be as lucky as he was though, Black.”

  He widened his stance as he continued to speak. “I’ve heard the stories and the rumors about you, Azazel Black. The scared little sheeple in your city call you The Angel of Death. Cute little nickname. No doubt because of the stupid name your parents gave you and nothing more. But it doesn’t scare me. I don’t buy into the hype. I think you’re all talk, and tonight, I’m going to shut you up, once and for all. Might even take control of Estorine City too.”

  Azazel lowered and tilted his head to the side with his arms spread, but never took his eyes off the man. “By all means, Mr. Jones. Feel free to try. However, I can assure you that my nickname has nothing to do with my given name. I was known as The Angel of Death long before my real name was even known to the people of Estorine City.” He smiled again. “Please, put my name to the test.”

  Jones roared with fury and charged. Azazel let him come. The man was fast, but not fast enough. He threw a punch that caught only air as Azazel dodged it with ease. Jones threw another. It was also dodged without much effort. The man had certainly been upgraded, but Azazel was much faster, and also better trained to use the upgrades. He continued to let Jones throw wild jabs and haymakers. The man was a brawler, and a savage one at that. Azazel could see where an un-enhanced being would have trouble defending against him. Jones spun into a roundhouse kick aimed at Azazel’s head. Azazel caught it with his left hand and threw a lightning-fast punch directly into Jones’s chest.

  Jones flew across the room into the far wall and dropped to his knees. He looked up with fear and confusion in his eyes and clutched his chest. It looked like he was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t form. His face was becoming redder by the second and the veins in his neck and forehead looked like they might burst.

  Azazel gave the man a grim smile and knelt down in front of him. “You’re wondering what happened to you. Correct, Mr. Jones? Allow me to explain. You see, I am also enhanced. Just much better than you are, and I’ve actually taken the time to learn how to use my upgrades. You never stood a chance. As for your injury,” He sucked in a breath through his teeth and clicked his tongue. “I’m afraid it’s quite fatal. You are experiencing what is called, commotio cordis. It’s what happens when a solid object strikes the area above the heart with immense force. The sudden focal distortion of the myocardium results in ventricular fibrillation and causes sudden cardiac arrest. Basically, I hit you so hard in the heart, that I gave you a heart attack. I’m afraid you only have another moment or two to live.”

  He stared into Jones’s eyes as he struggled and gasped for breath. He never caught it. In a few moments he was still, his eyes open and lifeless. Azazel leaned in and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. He stood and brushed off the knees of his pants and walked back out to the balcony. With little effort, he jumped over the railing and landed softly on the grass below.

  “Let’s get across town and pay Mr. Taggart a little visit, Mark,” Azazel said into his comm.

  “Sooo, we’re just going to ring the doorbell?” Mark asked. He and Azazel were standing at the front door of Craig Taggart’s mansion. An unconscious guard lay on the ground a few meters away.

  “We may be here to threaten his life, Mark, but we can at least be polite about it,” Azazel replied and pressed the illuminated button next to the door. “Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “it’s kind of funny, if you think about it.” Mark smiled and shook his head as the tones of numerous bells rang throughout the massive home.

  A moment later, the heavy, wooden door swung open and another guard stood in the doorway. His facial expression was that of both confusion and complete surprise. The man never got to process the situation any further. Before he could even ask what they were doing there, Mark hit him in the chin so hard, they heard the bone break.

  Mark winced as the man hit the floor. “Oops. Got a little overzealous that time.”

  “A bit, maybe,” Azazel replied.

  “Who the hell is at the door Terry?” a voice called from upstairs.

  “Mr. Terry isn’t able to answer you right now, Mr. Taggart!” Mark yelled back. “Why don’t you come down so we can speak for a moment?”

  Craig Taggart appeared at the top of the stairs. His eyes went wide, his mouth gaped, and face turned pale. He slowly started to walk down. He wore a large, fluffy red robe and matching house slippers. In his right hand, he carried a large handgun. The gun never came up, but he was obviously prepared to use it. He reached the bottom of the stairs, gripped the banister, and gathered his composure. After a moment, a bit of resolve returned to his expression and he straightened himself. He walked to the open doorway where Azazel and Mark continued to wait patiently on the front stoop.

  “What are you doing here, Black?” Taggart asked in a stern tone. His eyes darted around the landscape behind Azazel and Mark. Finally, his gaze rested on the unconscious Terry lying on the floor. He shook his head in dismay. “How the hell did you get past my guards? No one is permitted on the grounds without an appointment. You should have never made it past the front gate.”

  Azazel smiled and spread his arms out slightly. “Good evening to you too, Mr. Taggart. Come now, do you honestly believe that a mere dozen or so patrolling guards would be any match for someone like me? Please, come to your senses and put your weapon away. We wouldn't want anyone else to get hurt this evening. Would we? Besides, it’s not like it would do you much good.”

  “You killed all my men?” Taggart asked in disbelief.

  “No,” Azazel replied with a shake of his head. “We incapacitated them. Fear not, Mr. Taggart. Your men will be good as new tomorrow. They may have a headache, but they’ll be fine. No sense in killing men who are just doing their jobs.” He looked past Taggart and into the house. “Would you mind if we went inside, now? I have business to discuss with you and I’d rather not do it standing on your front porch.”

  Taggart nervously tapped his gun against his hip as his eyes roamed over the tactical gear both the men on his porch wore. He let out a reluctant sigh. “Of course. Please, come in.” He stepped to the side and Azazel and Mark entered his home. Taggart shut the door and rushed past them. “This way,” he said, and motioned for them to follow him through another door.

  The door led them into a sophisticated lounge. The walls were lined with shelves full of old-fashioned books printed on paper, several oversized, leatherbound lounging chairs, a walk-in humidor fully stocked with cigars of every make, and a bar with no less than fifty different types of liquor visible on the serving top. Taggert walked behind the bar and put his weapon away. Then, he grabbed a small crystal glass, threw in a few ice cubes, and filled it with a very expensive scotch. He motioned to the ice bucket and empty glasses with his free hand. “Would you like a drink while we talk?”

  “A drink sounds wonderful,” Azazel responded. “We’ve had a busy night, and two fingers worth of that scotch would certainly hit the spot.”

  “Mark, is it?” Taggart asked. “I believe I’ve heard my men mention you a time or two. Would you care for a glass?”

  “None for me, thanks,” Mark said with a raised hand. “Never did develop a taste for hard liquor. I prefer an ice-cold beer, but I already had one this afternoon and I have to drive us back.”

  Azazel slapped him on the back. “Suit yourself.” He walked over and poured the scotch into a glass until it was the same depth as two fingers are wide. “I like my drinks neat,” he said as he swirled the liquid around in the glass and inhaled the aroma. “Ice waters it down and ruins the flavor.” He raised the glass to Taggert, then drank the entire thing in one smooth gulp. Azazel nodded his head in approval and sat the glass down on the bar. “A fine blend, Mr. Taggart. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Taggart replied as he walked back to the front of the bar. “Now,” he said as he sat his glass down next to Azazel’s, “do you mind telling me why you’re here?” He crossed his arms and stood there with an irritated look on his face.

  Azazel put his hands in his front pockets and took a couple steps to the side away from the bar. “Bad business, I’m afraid, Mr. Taggart. It has to do with my fighting organization.”

  “Oh?” Taggart said. “It must be serious if you felt the need to come to me in person at this hour. Is there something I can do to help?”

  Azazel cocked his head in Taggart’s direction and one corner of his mouth raised in a half smile. “Funny you should ask, Mr. Taggart. I think you’ve done enough, already. Don’t you?”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Taggart asked, his voice cracked a bit. “I don’t have anything to do with your fights or your fighters. Only with my own fighter, Jones.”

  “Precisely,” Azazel replied, and turned to fully face the man. Taggart was now standing with his back to the bar. “But I’m afraid Mr. Jones won’t be fighting for you anymore. It pains me to inform you that an unforeseen heart condition recently ended his life in a most abrupt manner.”

  Anger flared up in Taggert’s eyes, his face turned red, and his hands dropped to his sides. “You killed Jones?” he shouted. His hand went to the opening of his robe as if to grab for something. Another gun, most likely, but his hand never made it there.

  In a flash, Azazel closed the distance between them and lifted Taggart straight up off the floor by his throat. Taggart’s hands shot to his throat and futilely attempted to break Azazel’s grip. He didn’t so much as manage to move a single finger out of place.

  “Yes, Mr. Taggart,” Azazel answered in his calm, cool voice. “I killed Mr. Jones. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice the difference in his abilities during his last fight with Mr. Chico?” He smiled up at the man. “I do know a thing or two about enhancements, you know.”

  Taggart’s face had turned a dark shade of red and was well on its way to purple. Azazel sighed and shook his head. “You were well aware of the rules, Mr. Taggart. Everyone is. Yet, you broke them anyway. As punishment, your man had to die. And now I’m here to deal with you, being as you were the one who funded the whole operation.”

  Taggart tried to say something but only managed to grunt and gurgle. Azazel shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to deny it, Mr. Taggart. Jones admitted everything before I carried out his punishment.”

  A loud scream rang through the room and Azazel thought his eardrums might burst. He turned to see a short, brunette woman standing in the doorway with her hands clasped over her mouth and her eyes wide with fear. Mark drew a pistol from his side, but Azazel waved him off.

  “No need for all that, Mark. Mrs. Taggart has done nothing wrong here. She’s no threat to us.” He turned his attention back to the woman. “Mrs. Taggart, I apologize for this dreadful inconvenience. I never meant for you to see any of this. Rest assured that this is a simple business transaction between your husband and me. You have nothing to fear. Now, please, if you would be so kind as to leave us so that we may conclude our meeting. It won’t be long now, and we’ll be out of your hair.” He turned to Mark. “Mark, could you escort Mrs. Taggart to the kitchen, please.”

  Mark walked over and said, “If you could show me the way, Mrs. Taggart, I would be very grateful.”

  She gave Azazel another fearful look and then looked up at her husband. Tears began to flow down her cheeks, and she looked back at Azazel again, this time with pleading eyes.

  “Everything will be fine, Mrs. Taggart,” Azazel assured her again. “You have my word.”

  She was reluctant, but turned and slowly exited the lounge with Mark on her heels. Azazel turned his attention back to the purple-faced Taggert, who was on the verge of passing out. He dropped Taggart back to the floor and loosened his grip just enough to allow the man to breathe. The color of his face turned from purple, back to an ugly shade of red.

  “Unfortunate she had to walk in and see that,” Azazel said. “But that’s a risk you run in our type of business. That being said,” he reached back with his free hand and pulled out a field knife reminiscent of the old military style. In one, lightning-fast movement, Azazel sliced off Taggart’s left ear and pressed the tip of the knife under his left eye. Taggart tried to scream, but Azazel tightened his grip on the man’s throat and muffled the sound.

  “You broke my rules, Mr. Taggart. The results of which caused my fighter’s ribs to be broken so badly he won’t be able to fight for another month. For this, you will lose your ear, and you will pay me everything Mr. Chico would have won in the fights that I had to reschedule.” He pressed the knife harder into Taggart’s face. The skin broke and blood trickled down the blade. “If you fail to do this, I’ll cut off much more than an ear. But before I do that, I’ll make you watch as I dismember your wife, piece by pretty piece. Furthermore, you are forever banned from any and all of my fights. You may not enter a fighter, nor can anyone from your city participate without first moving to my city and getting clearance directly from me. Blink if you understand and agree to my terms. If not, I’ll have Mark bring Mrs. Taggart back in here, and we can end it all right now. This is your one and only option, Mr. Taggart. I suggest you choose wisely. For your wife’s sake, if not for your own.” Taggart blinked rapidly without hesitation and tried, in vain, to nod his head.

  “Good,” Azazel said. He retracted the knife from Taggart’s face, then brought the butt down hard against the side of his head. The man collapsed on the floor in a heap. Blood ran down the side of his head from the area of his severed ear. Azazel reached behind the bar, grabbed several bar towels, and placed them on the carpet under Taggart’s head before it dripped onto the carpet. “No sense in ruining such a nice lounge, Mr. Taggart. Blood is difficult to get out once it sets in.”

  He grabbed the bottle of scotch and had a second drink before leaving the lounge. Mark was waiting for him in the foyer by the front door. He smiled as Azazel walked up to him. “Get everything squared away, Boss?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” Azazel replied. “Mrs. Taggart?”

  “Asleep,” Mark answered. “She had some sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. I suggested she take a couple with a glass of wine. Told her everything would be fine when she woke up tomorrow. She was out in no time.”

  “She’ll need her rest,” Azazel said. “They’ll certainly have a busy day tomorrow. Anyway, let’s get back to the tower. I’m starving.”

  The enhancements burned a lot of energy and, in turn, gave him quite an appetite. Especially when he exerted a lot of energy in a short period of time. While his power-cells ran his major systems, his natural body still burned a ton of calories. So, naturally, he ate much more than the average human did, and more frequently too. They made it back to their vehicle and Azazel immediately pulled out his phone and dialed up a number. After a moment, a husky man with dirty blonde hair and a matching beard appeared on the screen.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Black?” he asked with a smile.

  “Chef Shane, I’m so glad you’re awake,” Azazel replied. “Would it be too much trouble for you to whip up some burgers and maybe some of your hand-cut french fries? Mark and I are about two hours out and we’re starving.”

  Chef Shane Kirkland was one of the best chefs on Arth. He’d once been well on his way to becoming one of the most famous too. That was until he’d gone onto one of those cooking competition shows, however. He’d caught his competition trying to pour white vinegar into the mix for his dessert in the finale. The attempt had cost the other chef his hand by way of Shane’s hand-forged cleaver. Taking the man’s hand had landed Shane in the Arth Maximum Security Detention Center for six cycles. When he’d walked out the front door of the facility on his release day, Azazel had been there waiting and offered him a job on the spot. As it turned out, Shane had more skill with knives than just cooking, and life in prison had hardened him further. It made him all the more valuable to Azazel as an employee.

  “No problem at all, Mr. Black,” Shane answered. “It’ll be ready when you get home.”

  “Thank you, Chef,” Azazel said with a smile. “I’ll see you then.” He hung up the phone, laid his head back, and took a nap while Mark drove them back to the tower.

  The next afternoon, Azazel found himself scrolling through the list of local flower shops, when he should have been reviewing the numbers from the brothel he operated on the north side of the city. The business was advertised as a physical therapy facility, but that wasn’t the only service offered. The flower search was for Ms. Delaware. He had an upcoming date with her. It simply wouldn’t do not to have a beautiful, fresh bouquet of flowers waiting for her when she arrived. He had almost decided on a bundle that was lavender and canary yellow when Mark rushed into his office with a data chip held in the air.