SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

the teenagers who are on their way up, these fighters who, by this time, have killed more opponents than they can count—don’t bother sneaking around the side of the ring because this is the oldest trick in the book.

And these men—these arrogant men who are so full of themselves—have left their bodyguards all the way over by the cars because they are acting as drivers. And that is much too far away to stop what is coming.

Finally, these kids are in a fight worth dying for.

That night Cort and I jumped off the platform and sat under the rig we had that small conversation about revenge.

And Cort’s words have stuck with me. Have haunted me.

Don’t you ever think about revenge? I asked him.

Don’t we all?

Then why not go get it? I’ve heard you’re the most dangerous man on this planet.

Maybe I’m holding out for the fairy tale ending, Anya.

What’s that look like?

I don’t really know. I guess I never thought it through, but just off the top of my head I’d say… a rescue would be nice.

Doesn’t everyone want a rescue?

Sure. I guess I can see the logic in that.

It’s just all so unlikely.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life it’s that no one is coming to save you and if you want the happily ever after you should just rescue yourself.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Maybe the fairy-tale ending isn’t about being rescued at all.

Maybe that whole lie is all twisted-up backwards?

This is what I’m thinking about when Irina, and Rasha, and Zoya creep up behind the unsuspecting slave owners watching Maart and Cort pretend to fight, and the little kids crawl out from under the mat platform, and the older ones walk straight around the ring and the slaughter begins—I just watch for a moment and appreciate it for what it is.

And when Udulf and Lazar break away and start running for their lives—the way Cort ran in that maze of shipping containers back when he was just a small boy—I pay no attention to Lazar.

I go for Udulf.

Because this is the Sick Heart’s rescue.

And what comes next might not be anyone’s version of happily ever after, but we don’t care.

For the first time in our lives we’re in a fight worth dying for.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - CORT

 

Maart has me pinned to the mat when the slaughter begins, his fist raised, ready to strike. But he pauses. And smiles. Then hops up, pulls me to my feet, and says, “The ship is waiting at the dock. Meet you at the cliff when this is over.” Then he turns, ready to go join in the fight.

But I call out, “Wait! Maart! How long were you planning this?”

He looks over his shoulder and grins. “Since day fucking one, haven’t you?”

I hold my breath and shake my head as chaos erupts around me.

Maart comes back to me and grabs my shoulder. There are people dying ten feet away and we’re having a moment. He looks me in the eyes and says, “It’s fine. This day was never your job, Cort.” He puts his hand over my heart. Presses it like he’s making a point. “It has always belonged to me. And besides.” He grins at me. “I’ve always been the brains of this operation. Go find your girl, Cort. She needs saving.”

Then he jumps down into the fray and tackles one of the slave owners who is pointing a gun at Oscar. A shot rings in the air, but I don’t have time to see how it ends, because Ainsey screams somewhere behind me, and when I turn, I spot Lazar running through the woods carrying my daughter like a football.

Something happens to me in this moment. Something changes inside me and I go from Cort the Sick Heart to Cort the father before I can even process it’s happening.

Fuck that dude. Just… fuck that dude.

I jump off the platform, land, and then I am running into the jungle understory after him. Everything goes dark when I enter. The canopy above is so thick, almost no light gets past the tree tops, and this means that not much grows on the jungle floor. Ferns, mostly. Plants that suck nutrients from the ground instead of processing it from the sun.

So I can see Lazar ahead of me, weaving his way around the thick, massive tree trunks. Monkeys and birds scream as he passes, pissed off about the intrusion.

But even if the wildlife wasn’t announcing his presence in my jungle, I wouldn’t need to worry about losing him. Because there is literally no way Lazar escapes in that direction.

He’s heading for the cliffs.

So I go slow, my mind whirling at the sudden change in fate. I can hear the fight I just left. Guns are going off. People are screaming. But as I go deeper and deeper into the jungle, the shadows around me begin to shift into something else. Another time, another place.

Same man.

I stop in my tracks as the memory suddenly comes back.

The shadow people suddenly have faces.

Udulf and Lazar.

And I’m not running through a bathhouse—though that did happen at some point in my unfortunate childhood, I was just too young to separate all the horrific experiences I lived through after my sister and I were put into that shipping container and sent across the ocean.

She was the silent girl. She knew the silent language and she taught me.

That’s where I learned to sign. From the silent girls of the breeding camp I was born into.

There were dozens of children in the container with us. We were not the only ones. We were just the last ones out.

Stay still, stay back. She signed these words into the palm of my hand as we listened to the locks jangling on the other side of the metal door. We will go last. After everyone is out. And then we will run.

And that’s what we did.

We ran. And they chased us.

And, of course, they caught us.

Lazar