Page 37 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

“I’m pretty sure Tony’s people heard. What if—”

“Then we face whatever comes.” He cups my face in his hands. “As we must.”

I crush the useless phone under my heel, but the action brings no relief. We’ve revealed we have outside help coming, and now have no way to contact our allies. Two days suddenly feels like both an eternity and no time at all.

Perhaps worst of all, if the gladiators do come, are all of them now in as much danger as Damian?

The next morning brings a glimmer of hope—an encrypted email from an anonymous account. Laura found a way to reach us. Her message is brief but clear: positions her people will take at the warehouse, which exits the other gladiators will cover, and warnings about armed corporate security. Not enough to coordinate a full escape plan, but enough to know we won’t face this alone.

“Trust your brothers,” she writes in closing—clearly a message for Damian from the other gladiators. “They remember their oath, only it’s to each other.” She writes it in Latin, “Ego feram uri, vinciri, verberari, et gladio necari.”

Damian leans close when I point to the line, then recites it out loud. It translates to, “‘I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword.’ The gladiator oath. If you break the oath, your life is sacrificed. This issacred.”

I picture this gentle philosopher reciting that awful vow and need to know the story of how he became a gladiator. Now is not the time, though.

I memorize every detail of what Laura wrote before deleting the email. Having even this tiny thread of communication feels like a lifeline.

“The pharmaceutical people will be there.” I don’t try to hide the rising panic in my voice. “If something goes wrong, if they get their hands on you…”

Damian doesn’t respond, but his jaw tightens. We both know what those companies would do to him—endless tests, tissue samples, and, in the end…probably dissection. They’ll see him as a specimen, not a man. A perfectly preserved sample of ancient DNA, not a soul who’s already lost everything and deserves to get his life back.

“We should run,” I say suddenly. “Just go. Now. Before—”

“They would find us.” His voice holds no doubt. “And your father would pay the price.”

The truth of it sits heavy between us. We’re trapped—by Tony’s threats, by my father’s debts, by the circling vultures who want to study Damian like a lab rat. And now we might have given away our lifeline.

Tomorrow everything changes. Until we either find freedom or lose everything.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Maya

Marco’s SUV takes a left when it should go right.

“You missed the turn,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Beside me in the back seat, Damian tenses almost imperceptibly.

Marco’s smile in the rearview mirror makes my stomach drop. “Change of plans. New venue.”

The words shatter my calm… and my hopes. Laura’s people, the other gladiators, our entire escape plan—all positioned at the McClain warehouse. Utterly useless now.

“Tony doesn’t like last-minute changes.” I aim for casual, but my pulse races. “Fighters need time to—”

“Tony’s the one who changed it.” Marco turns onto Industrial, but heads east instead of west. “Something about phone calls being traced to the old location. Funny thing about burner phones—they’re not as secure as people think.”

My mouth goes dry. They heard us. Knew we were coordinating with outside help. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I’d convinced myself it was a random tech glitch. That was a combination of wishful thinking and being delusional.

My mind races to figure out a way to warn Laura. Tony’s men might be waiting for her and the other gladiators. They’ve come to help us, and they’re now in danger!

As if reading my mind, Damian says, “Between them, my comrades have over a hundred years of fighting experience. Don’t worry about them. I imagine they didn’t come unarmed.”

I breathe a sigh of relief at his reassuring words, thankful Marco doesn’t have a translator.

Old warehouses give way to a sprawling complex surrounded by a chain-link fence. Razor wire glints in the harsh fluorescent lights. A sign, half-hidden by overgrown weeds, reads “Valley Cold Storage and Processing.”

“A meat-packing plant?” The irony isn’t lost on me—bringing Damian to a facility full of industrial freezers.

“Perfect setup.” Marco parks near a loading dock where other vehicles are already gathering. “Processing floor’s got plenty of space. Walk-in freezers make great private rooms for ourspecialguests.”

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