Something whistles in the air and thuds against bare flesh with a sickening smack. The crowd murmurs in appreciation. My vision blurs and my lungs seize up. Jake grabs me and spins me into his chest. “Don’t look. He’ll be fine.”

Another clang. A crack. A soft thud. A moan.

Jake sucks in a breath. “Oh, jeez. That’s gotta hurt.”

Using every ounce of strength I possess, I push myself away from Jake and grab my first aid kit. I launch myself through the crowd until I have a clear view of the ring. Max’s opponent is indeed armed with a long, thick metal pipe. He is also wearing a mask, helmet, and body armor all emblazoned with the name Iron Fist. He does not, however, have an iron fist. Max has a baseball bat. He is wearing body armor and a helmet without a mask. It seems inadequate protection against a huge, metal pipe. Blood trickles down his temple and his forearms are bright red and swollen twice their normal size. I press my fist to my lips to stifle my distressed squeak.

Two men stand in opposing corners of the ring, both wearing body armor. Tag team. At least Max is not alone.

Iron Fist swings his pipe and hits Max in the ribs with a bone-crunching thwack. Max grabs his side and holds up his other hand in a defensive gesture. The other fighter hesitates and in that split second Max grabs the pipe, twists it out his hand, and tosses it to his teammate. They switch positions and relief trickles through me. Safe. For now.

Iron Fist’s teammate hands him a printer. From the size and shape, it appears to be a multifunction unit that prints, scans, and faxes. I sure could use one of those. Maybe he wants to get rid of it because the cartridges are so expensive.

Max’s partner swings his pipe, and Iron Fist uses his printer as a shield. He swings the printer in a wide arc and knocks the pipe to the ground. Max’s partner trips backward over the pipe. Iron Fist smashes the printer over his head. Max’s partner drops to his knees. My stomach clenches so violently I double over.

“I told you not to watch,” Jake barks from behind me, shocking me with his deep, commanding tone. Holy smokes. Amanda misjudged him. He may appear easygoing, but underneath he has a core of steel.

“I don’t always do what I’m told.” I force myself up and look over my shoulder. Gone is his usual genial expression. Instead, his jaw is tight and his lips are pressed into a thin, straight line. “Then you aren’t the right girl for Torment, and he’s not the right guy for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gives me an enigmatic smile. “It means there’s a lot you don’t know.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Not my place.”

I turn to the ring. Max’s partner is still on his knees. His opponent has stepped back and is tossing the broken printer from hand to hand like a football, as if trying to decide whether to pass. Good thing he has big hands.

“I don’t understand this place.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I can sort of understand Redemption. There are a few rules. There seems to be some code of honor. But this place is just violence for the sake of violence.”

Jake shrugs. “It means a lot to the people here. It fills a need. For some, it gives them the sense of control they otherwise feel they lack in their lives. For others, it provides an outlet for aggression that might otherwise be used in destructive ways.”

“And for Torment?”

“Fighting is part of who he is. Unlike most of the guys here, he’ll never be able to walk away.”

The fighter slumps to the ground. He taps the floor twice and then goes limp. Only Max goes to his aid. I grab my first aid kit and climb into the ring. The look of shock on Max’s face when he sees me is almost worth the nausea.

“Take off his helmet,” I snap.

Max carefully removes his partner’s helmet. The fighters around us grumble about delaying the next fight. Someone suggests we drag the injured man into the corner and attend to him there.

“Ignore them,” Max says. “Do what you have to do.”

“What’s his name?”

“Frank.”

Adrenaline surges through me and my pulse races. The rush I got treating Homicide in Redemption was nothing compared to this. Everything comes into sharp focus: Frank’s gray pallor, his soft moans, and his shallow breathing. I register the loose threads on his body armor, the tiny cut on his finger, the wedding ring on his left hand, and the faded word “Daddy” written in pen on the underside of his wrist. Oh no. He’s somebody’s father and husband.

“Frank, can you hear me? My name is Makayla. I’m an EMT. Can I take a look at you?”

Frank moans. I check his pupils and run my hands over his head—huge lump and growing fast.

“Call an ambulance.”

Max’s eyes widen. “Usually the guys are a bit shaken after a hit like that, but after a few minutes, they’re fine. He was wearing a helmet.”

“He’s not fine. Either his helmet was damaged or the force of the blow was more than it could withstand. If we don’t get him to a hospital, he’ll sustain brain damage at best. At worst, he’ll die. Call 911. NOW.”

For the next ten minutes, I try to stabilize Frank, but his condition deteriorates quickly. His pulse slows and his breathing becomes shallow.

“He shouldn’t be going down this fast.” My voice wavers and rises to a high pitch. “Something else is wrong and I don’t know what it is. Where is the ambulance?”