Chapter 18 #3
Maurice’s voice cut through again. “Post,” he called over his shoulder, not even turning. “Move your ass. You’re up.”
I swallowed whatever I’d been about to yell and headed for the door in the chain-link.
The ref rattled off the same tired rules as we met in the center. My opponent was already there, bouncing lightly on his toes.
Bigger than me. Not by much in height, but heavier across the shoulders and chest. Late thirties, maybe forty. Short dark hair, nose that had been broken at least twice, eyes like chips of stone. No tats that I could see, but the way he carried himself screamed experience.
“Name’s Cole,” he said quietly as we met in the center.
“Zarek,” I answered.
He nodded once, like he’d filed that away, then slid back to his corner.
I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the screaming protest from my ribs. I could feel Chloe in the back of my mind—her hands on me, her voice telling me this didn’t fix anything. Her tears. Her turning away.
You chose this, I reminded myself. You said yes. Now do the damn job.
The whistle blew.
Cole came in measured. No wild rush, no showing off. Just crisp jabs, testing distance. His defense was tight. I answered with my own, keeping my guard high, footwork light. First round was mostly feeling each other out—little shots, leg kicks, checking each other’s reactions.
He caught me with a stiff jab that snapped my head back. I landed a solid low kick that made him adjust his stance.
We were both experienced enough to respect the other quickly.
Second round, he turned the heat up. Started feinting more, drawing my reactions, slipping in and attacking my body every time I overcommitted. The first time he dug a hook into my left side, I saw white. The ribs I’d been babying lit up like someone had set them on fire.
I grunted, clinched, forced a reset.
“Tender, huh?” he muttered under his breath as we broke.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I wheezed back.
He grinned, a quick flash.
I changed up my approach, tried to use my reach—picking at him with jabs, mixing in leg kicks, making him come to me. It worked some. I landed a couple of good combinations, felt knuckles connect with his jaw, his body. But every time I forgot myself and twisted too hard, pain stole half my gas.
By the end of the second, we were both marked, him with a cut at his eyebrow, me with a bruise blooming across my cheekbone and a ribcage that felt like someone had gone at it with a baseball bat.
Third round was pure grind.
We knew there wasn’t a knockout coming unless one of us made a stupid mistake, and neither of us was in the mood to oblige. So, it became a war of attrition. He pushed the pace, I circled. I pushed, he angled away. We traded combinations, clinched, broke, repeated.
The crowd loved it.
Every clean shot got a shout. Every near-takedown made the people with money riding on it suck in a collective breath. I could practically feel the women at the bar watching as intently as the men, all of them hungry for something.
When the whistle finally shrieked to end the third, my lungs burned, my hands ached, and sweat stung my eyes.
Cole and I stood in the center as the ref grabbed our wrists, one in each hand.
There was no official judge’s table, no scorecards. This wasn’t a sanctioned bout. It was vibes and money.
The ref looked at Maurice. Maurice looked at the crowd.
The noise was…mixed. Some shouted for Cole, some for me. It wasn’t an obvious skew either way.
Maurice’s lips thinned.
The ref lifted both our arms.
A draw.
It felt…right. Unsatisfying, but honest.
Cole exhaled, then grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. “Not bad, Zarek,” he said.
“Same,” I said, breathing hard.
We shuffled out of the cage, each heading in opposite directions. Cole disappeared into the darker part of the building where they’d taken Tyler and JJ.
I didn’t.
Maurice intercepted me before I could even reach the staging corridor. He pressed a thick, folded packet into my hand. I could feel the edges of bills inside.
“Your cut,” he said. “You move well. Crowd liked you. That kind of poise under pressure is useful.”
“Glad to be of service,” I said dryly, tucking the envelope into my gym bag.
His gaze sharpened. “Less useful,” he added, “is how curious you are.”
I went still.
“I don’t need a man in my rotation who can’t mind his own business,” he continued. “You keep trying to mother my prospects, we’re going to have a problem.”
“I’m not nosy,” I said, jaw tight. “I’m concerned. That kid earlier—Tyler—he was already compromised. My job, my entire life, has been about keeping people like him alive. Watching out for newbies, rookies, civilians. Told you that’s not something I just switch off because you put cash in my hand.”
“And I told you you’d better learn,” Maurice repeated, voice like ice. “Or decide this isn’t for you.”
We stared at each other.
“I heard what he said,” I said quietly. “About missing the ultrasound. About his wife. Him coming home brain damaged—"
“He won’t,” Maurice cut in. “And if he does? That’s between him and the choices he made. Not you. You did your part. You fought. You entertained. You got paid. That’s the whole arrangement.”
The whole arrangement.
My stomach turned.
“Where can I clean up?” I asked, grasping for something normal. “Rinse the sweat, at least.”
Maurice barked out a laugh. “This isn’t some kind of spa,” he said. “Get your ass out of here and clean up at home.”
He clapped my shoulder once—too hard—and turned away, already moving toward another cluster of men near the bar who were watching me like I was a new racehorse they were thinking about betting on.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit.
On the way, I slowed, scanning.
I didn’t see Tyler. Didn’t see JJ. Didn’t see Cole.
No fighters were coming out the door I was headed toward. No one limped past me to the parking lot, no one icing their jaw under the chandelier.
The only people leaving were a couple of over-excited spectators who needed air and one woman whose heels had finally given up on the concrete.
I pushed through the steel door and stepped back out into the night.
The air felt too clean. The stars were still where I’d left them. The lot was still crowded with shiny cars and stone-faced drivers, most of whom didn’t even glance my way as I limped toward my truck.
I threw my bag in the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and sat for a second, hands resting on the steering wheel, heartbeat thudding in my bruised ribs.
Where did they go?
There were only so many doors in that building. I’d come in one, seen another swallow Tyler, watched Cole disappear down a third hallway that didn’t lead back to the main hall.
None of them had come out front.
The envelope in my bag felt heavier than the cash inside should account for.
I started the truck. Gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled out, headlights slicing through the trees.
By the time I hit the main road, the distillery was just a dark smear in my rearview mirror.
But the questions stayed.
How big was this operation? How many places like this were running on any given night? How many kids like Tyler were being promised a way out and handed a loaded gun pointed at their own heads?
And how the hell was I going to explain any of this to Nash or Simon without something solid?
My ribs hurt. My face hurt. My conscience hurt worse.
I tightened my hands on the wheel and drove toward Jasper Creek, toward home, with one thought pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat.
This wasn’t just some back-room fight ring. Whatever I’d stepped into tonight, it went deeper.
I’d just watched it put its teeth into a kid with a baby on the way.
And if I didn’t move fast, it was going to kill Tyler.