The Death Match by Christa Faust

hangover. A pair of silent thugs padded in and helped the semiconscious Long to the couch, leaving Matt’s ax where it lay. Then a third man entered and stood between Matt and his ax, arms crossed and clearly less than thrilled to have been picked for guard duty.
    Matt took a second to size up his new guard. Sunburned, freckled skin. Thick, bristly blond hair mowed into a perfect flattop. Not tall, but bulky and muscular. Neck the size of Matt’s thigh. No visible gun, just a fat ring of keys clipped to his belt with a gaudy dangling chain decorated with skulls.
    Matt focused on his hands again, on trying to work his wrists free, millimeter by precious millimeter. When the light above the pit suddenly illuminated, he squinted against it, sore eyes assaulted by the harsh glow.
    The door opposite the couch opened, and Tanya entered, still nude, but the blood and dirt had been rinsed away and the stitches in her forehead completed. Behind her was Stacy, also nude and being ushered to the ring at the end of a pistol. She was already badly bruised and battered, her body language slumped and defeated. She didn’t make any attempt to cover herself. It was as if she’d already lost.
    Once both women had entered the ring, Long began to cheer, seeming none the worse for wear after Mr. Dark’s little joyride.
    “I won’t fight you!” Stacy said, turning her face away.
    Tanya didn’t give her any choice.
    Stacy kept on backing up, bobbing and weaving and stuffing takedown attempts, her face tense and tortured, pleading. Tanya was out for blood, but Stacy was so fast and agile, she was able to stay one step ahead. Until she spotted Matt.
    Matt saw her notice him dangling behind the couch and squint against the glaring light like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Tanya took instant advantage of her opponent’s distraction and took her down to the stone floor.
    It made Matt crazy to be bound and helpless like this, utterly powerless to help Stacy. He had to concentrate on getting free. If he could just get one hand loose, he could swing himself hard enough to reach the ax, but the more he twisted and strained his wrists, the tighter his bondage became.
    His blond guard was utterly absorbed in the fight, his back to Matt.
    Matt had to come up with something, and fast. He focused on the keys and the tacky chain dangling from the guard’s belt. There was a slim red object the size of Matt’s thumb hanging between the keys. An object that might be a small folding knife. If Matt could swing himself close enough to grab the chain in his teeth, he could pull the keys off the guard’s belt. Of course, if and when he got the chain in his mouth, he’d need to figure a way to get the keys up into his bound hands while simultaneously dealing with the pissed-off guard they’d been lifted from.
    Maybe it wasn’t the worst plan of all time, but it was up there.
    Matt pushed all doubt out of his mind and narrowed his vision to block out everything but those keys. He began to swing his body, slightly at first, then harder, his face moving closer and closer to the keys with each swing. The guard shifted slightly, turning his hips away from Matt and moving the keys out of reach.
    Matt swore silently, frustration like barbed wire in the back of his throat. On his next swing forward, the guard reacted to something inside the pit, throwing air punches as if he could somehow control the action with his own hands. As he did this, he swiveled his hips back toward Matt. Matt realized at the last second that if he twisted his neck all the way to the left, he could reach the keys. There was no time to think.
    Mat gripped the chain in his teeth. There was a terrible moment on the backswing when Matt was sure the chain would be ripped out of his mouth by his own weight, so he clenched his teeth as hard as he could. But the slick metal offered nothing to grip. It slid painfully between his teeth until one of the gaudy little skulls acted like a