Chapter 8
KANE
The stairs led down into noise and heat.
The space was smaller than Bangkok's arena—more basement than warehouse. Low ceilings. Concrete walls sweating condensation. A makeshift ring constructed from rope and metal poles that looked stolen from a construction site.
But the energy was the same.
Money changing hands. Bodies circling. Blood on canvas.
Home.
I made my way toward the back where two men sat at a folding table, counting cash with the methodical attention of people who'd been doing it their whole lives.
Fat. Both of them. Not soft—the kind that came from decades of good eating and zero concern. Expensive watches. Cheap tracksuits. Gold chains. Rings on fingers that looked like they'd broken more than a few noses.
French gangsters.
One looked up as I approached, eyes narrowing.
"Qui êtes-vous?" Voice rough as gravel.
I didn't understand the words, but I understood the tone.
"I want to fight."
The two exchanged glances. The second one leaned back, studying me like I was something unpleasant.
"You are cop?"
"No."
"You look like cop."
"I'm not a cop."
The first man said something in rapid French. The second laughed—wet and phlegmy.
"American?"
"Yeah."
"American cop?"
"Not a cop." My patience was already thinning. "I want to fight. That's it."
They looked at each other, having an entire conversation without words. Finally, the first man shrugged.
"You know how to fight?"
"Of course."
"Of course." He mocked my accent. "Everyone know how to fight until they are on ground bleeding."
I said nothing.
The second man pulled a cigarette and lit it, smoke curling toward the ceiling. "Maybe you are spy. CIA. Maybe you want to shut us down."
"If I wanted to shut you down, I wouldn't walk through the front door."
That earned me a grunt that might have been approval.
The first man leaned forward. "You want fight, okay. But first, we see if you are real or just American tourist who watch too many movies."
"Fine."
"Rules are simple. No balls. No eyes."
I stared at him. "What?"
The second man stood, reaching down to cup his crotch while poking two fingers toward his eyes. "No balls. No eyes. Everything else—" He shrugged. "Is permitted."
Right.
"When?"
The first man glanced at his watch. "One hour. Maybe two."
"Maybe two?"
Another shrug. "Is busy night."
It was three hours.
Three hours on a metal folding chair, watching fights that ranged from competent to embarrassing. Three hours of the fat men pushing drinks—beer, whiskey, something homemade and probably illegal.
I stuck with water.
They had a buffet—cheese, bread, meat I couldn't identify. I didn't touch it. Paranoia or experience, either way, I wasn't eating anything I hadn't prepared myself.
The fat men found that funny.
"American thinks we poison him," one said loudly, laughing.
I ignored them.
The fights blurred. A knife scar here. A broken nose there. Men who fought like they had nothing left to lose.
I watched the patterns. The tells. The way certain fighters favored their left. The way others telegraphed hooks with their shoulders.
Old habits.
Finally, they pointed at me and gestured toward the ring.
I stood, rolling my shoulders. My spine cracked.
My opponent was already in the ring.
French. Late twenties. Lean and showy, bouncing on his toes like he was warming up for a dance recital. The kind of build that looked good in a mirror but didn't mean much when fists started flying.
The crowd pressed closer.
The ref gestured us forward, said something in French, then clapped once.
The French fighter dropped into some theatrical stance.
Then he did a backflip.
The crowd roared.
I waited.
He circled me, making a show of it—feinting, bouncing, making little growling sounds like he thought he was a leopard.
I tracked him, letting him waste energy on performance.
He came in fast with a spinning kick.
I slipped it and drove my fist into his liver.
He folded.
I stepped back as he hit the canvas, gasping. The ref counted. The fighter didn't get up.
The crowd went silent, then exploded.
I walked out without acknowledging any of it.
I found a corner near the makeshift bar and ordered water. The bartender—a kid who couldn't have been older than twenty—handed it over with wide eyes.
"Très bien."
I nodded and drank, feeling adrenaline ebb. My knuckles ached. Good pain. The kind that reminded you that you were still sharp.
The fat men appeared, moving through the crowd like tugboats.
"American," the first one said, grinning now. "You are real."
"Told you."
"Yes, yes." He waved dismissively. "You want to fight again?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Now?"
"One of our regulars—" He made a gesture that meant sick. "He call, say he cannot come. So, we need someone."
I studied them both. Something off about the way they looked at me. Too eager. Too calculating.
Crooks were crooks. You couldn't wipe that look off their faces.
"When?"
“Thirty minutes.”
"Fine."
They grinned at each other.
"Good, good. Thirty minutes."
It wasn't thirty minutes. It was two hours. And when they finally called me back, I understood why they'd been smiling.
Two fighters stood waiting.
Not twins, but close. Brothers. Same broad shoulders, same thick necks, same meaty hands. Pig faces. Small eyes set too close together.
I stopped at the edge of the ring and looked back at the fat men.
"Two?"
The first one shrugged. "Rules say nothing about numbers."
"That's not—"
"You want fight or no?"
I looked at the brothers. They were grinning, thinking this would be easy.
"Yeah. I want to fight."
I climbed into the ring.
The ref clapped his hands and stepped back.
The brothers spread out immediately.
Smart.
They'd done this before. Knew how to work angles, how to divide attention.
I moved to the center, giving myself room to see both at once.
The one on my left came first—testing, throwing a jab about gauging distance. I slipped it and didn't counter. Not yet.
The one on my right circled wider.
They were patient. Disciplined.
Good.
The left one came again, harder, a combination that forced me to step back. The right one moved in immediately.
I pivoted, angling away so they had to adjust, burning energy to reposition.
This was how you won against multiples. Make them work harder. Make them frustrated. Wait for the mistake.
It came ten seconds later.
The left one overcommitted on a hook. I stepped inside his reach and drove my elbow into his temple.
He staggered.
I followed with a knee to his ribs—hard enough to crack something—and he went down, air leaving his lungs in a rush.
The right one roared and charged.
Rage.
Angry fighters made worse mistakes.
He came at me like a bull, all power and no thought. I sidestepped and caught him with a short punch to the kidney.
He grunted but didn't go down.
Tough.
He turned and came again, slower, more cautious. His brother was trying to get up behind me, wheezing.
I needed to end this.
I let the right one close distance, feinting left, then exploding right with an uppercut that snapped his head back. His eyes unfocused—enough.
I swept his leg and drove him into the canvas, following with an elbow to the side of his head.
He went limp.
The left one was standing now, swaying, favoring his ribs.
I walked toward him slowly.
He backed up, hands raised, shaking his head.
Smart.
The ref stepped between us, shouting in French.
Fight over.
I stepped out and headed for the bar. My hands throbbed. My jaw ached. But the pressure in my chest had eased. That constant hum of violence needing release—quieter now.
Good enough.
The fat men found me ten minutes later.
"American. How long you are in Paris?"
I shrugged. "Don't know yet."
"You come back, yes? We pay you good. People like to watch you fight."
I didn't answer.
The second one leaned closer, squinting at my face. "You are bleeding."
I touched my cheek. My fingers came away red.
The cut from Dmitri. Bangkok felt like weeks ago.
"Looks like it need stitches. There is clinic around corner. Very close."
He pulled a wad of Euros from his pocket.
"You earned this."
I looked at the money, then at him. "I don't want it."
His hand moved fast. The cash disappeared back into his pocket.
"Suit self." He gestured toward his face. "Tell the doctor at clinic we sent you. The fat men. He come here when not working."
I raised an eyebrow. "The fat men?"
"The nickname sound better in French," he said, grinning.
I shook my head, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the bathroom.
The mirror confirmed what I already knew. The cut was deeper now, reopened and extended. Blood ran down my cheek in a thin line.
Yeah.
Stitches.
I pressed a towel against it and left.
The clinic was exactly where the fat man said—around the corner, tucked into a quiet street that looked nothing like the neighborhood I'd just left.
Simple sign. Professional. Hours listed underneath.
Opens at 8 AM.
I checked my phone.
7:14 AM.
Shit.
Where had the time gone?
Hours waiting. Two fights. Walking. The night had dissolved without me noticing.
I leaned against the wall next to the door, towel pressed to my face.
The street was empty. Paris waking slowly. A delivery truck rumbled past. Somewhere, a dog barked. The sky was lightening—pale gray bleeding into something softer.
My body felt heavy now that the adrenaline had worn off. The kind of tired that lived in your bones.
I closed my eyes.
Just a few minutes.
Just until they opened.