Chains (6 page)

FOUR

Mike’s voice rang in my ears. “I trained Rex The Renegade Rollo. I took him in. I made him the man he became.”

“You didn’t make him like this,” I’d said, standing next to him after the fatal fight. The body was being carried from the ring by paramedics. Police and arena crew ushered the crowd out of the building as fast as they could.

“I trained him,” Mike said, hanging his head in shame. “I took him in and taught him how to fight. This is my fault.”

“Rollo’s
insane
,” I said, desperate to get Mike to understand this death had nothing to do with him. “He should’ve never been let out of jail on parole. He’s a sociopath. And you’re not his trainer anymore. How long’s it been since you’ve even seen him?”

“Over a year.”

We both stood watching the cops question Rollo and his current trainer who had a reputation for training aggressive, violent fighters. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

I left the arena that day with an understanding of how all of my training could be twisted and if not used in the way that it was meant—with sportsmanship and honor—the unthinkable could happen.

Rex The Renegade Rollo was a beast, and he was standing across the courtyard staring fucking daggers at me. We met before. Briefly. He knew I was one of Mike’s fighters. That fact alone would add fuel to his fire.

“You can take him,” the dealer said, sidling up next to me.

“He’s fucking insane. You know he killed a guy in a fight, right?”

Dealer whacked me on the back. “That’s why he’s here and not in the cage.”

Rollo wasn’t any bigger than me, and we’d been trained the same way by the same man.
He has nothing on you but crazy,
I told myself. Crazy was a big edge, but being rational and thinking your way through a fight—picking the right moves at the right time—was crucial to winning. Even if he fought dirty, I’d fight smart.

My mind might have been clear on the matter, but my pulse pounded and I broke out into a sweat. My stomach clenched, and my chest tightened.

He fucking killed somebody.

I didn’t want to fight a guy who beat the life out of a man and didn’t think twice about it.

Then I thought: I could’ve beat the life out of a man—out of Striker—and not thought twice about it.

Did that make me like Rollo? Maybe. Maybe not. Was it insanity if it was justified? God—if there was such a being—would be the judge of that, but tonight I’d do whatever it took to win and get out alive. With Danny.

“I thought you said one five minute round?” I asked the dealer.

“The rules changed,” he said, his eyes skittering over the cluster of people. “If the cops show up, you’re on your own.”

I followed the scan of his eyes. “More people here than you wanted,” I said, guessing that was what was making him skittish.

“It’s too risky, but I can’t call it off now.” He looked at me. “End it fast.” He gripped my hand and put something sharp in it. I opened my palm and looked down at a shaved piece of metal the size of a small file. “Tape that onto the back of your hand so the point sticks out,” he said. “Jab him in the neck—hard and clean.”

I wrapped my fingers around the shiv, considering. I didn’t fight this way, but chances were Rex would. If the cops busted us, that was bad enough, but having a weapon taped to my hand was a whole new level of charges I’d face.

“No thanks,” I said, handing the sharpened metal back.

“You want to live, you’ll take it,” he said, shoving it back into my hand. “You want to walk out of this with the girl—tape it to your hand.”

Fuck.

“You can be sure he’s got one,” the dealer said, eyeing Rollo across the courtyard. “All you’re doing is evening the playing field.”

Bass from car stereos throbbed, and spotlights shined down from the wall where they’d been rigged. Motorcycles rumbled as more spectators showed up. This was a fucking fiasco. “Come around here and tape up,” Dealer said, ushering me into a falling down carport on the far side of the apartment building.

Bottles of booze and pipes were being passed around along with money being bet on the outcome of the fight. Things were getting out-of-hand fast. The air pulsed with the ripe, raw sense of chaos. It hung thick around my neck, like a noose. The frenzied crowd was greedy for the spill of blood, and I’d do everything I could to make sure it wasn’t mine.

Under the carport, I leaned against the wall of the building and tore off a piece of tape. I debated using the shiv, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wouldn’t use it offensively, but I would keep it on me to defend myself if it came to it. Lifting up the side of my shorts, I taped it to my outer thigh.

I wore no gloves for this fight, but wrapped my wrists and knuckles with gauze strips, then tape, flexing my fingers and squeezing my hands into fists. I had a routine that couldn’t be broken. Fighting was as much, if not more, mental as it was physical. I couldn’t let the place or situation throw me off tonight. More than ever, I needed to be one hundred percent present in the ring—in the courtyard—and not let my mind wander.

The music got louder and the crowd started cheering. “What’s going on?” I asked, but before the dealer answered me I heard dogs barking and growling and knew. Before the main event, they were fighting dogs.

“Are you fucking serious?” I said, slamming my fist into my palm. “Dog fights? What kind of sick bastard are you?”

“Listen,” he said, stepping back with his hands held up in front of his chest trying to ward me off. “None of this was my idea. I told you, I need to double up and win the money or I’m fucking dead where I stand. Rollo’s promoter can fight fucking llamas for all I care as long as it pays out.”

“You owe for drugs, don’t you?” I asked. I knew this level of panic and desperation. Drug dealers didn’t fuck around. I did a job for one once, but my limit was beating someone with my fists. When it came to busting heads with bricks or taking out knees with a pistol, I was out.

“Yeah, man. I’m in deep. You gotta win tonight.”

A man with an urban accent started talking into a bullhorn. “Get back. Stand your asses back. We got Achilles, the pit that put Bulldozer down last week, against Eight Ball.”

I glanced out of the carport, around the corner into the courtyard. The crowd was rowdy and loud as fuck. Two guys stood inside a ring made of orange snow fencing holding on to choke chains. Their dogs were both pit bulls and to say they looked menacing was an understatement. Those dogs could tear an armored truck apart. Both stood on back legs, pulling against their chains, salivating, ears back, growling and gnashing their teeth. When they got loose and clashed together… I didn’t even want to think about it. It made me ill.

I paced farther back into the carport and faced the side of the building, pressing my palms against the brick and closing my eyes. I should’ve brought headphones. There was no way to focus and concentrate on my upcoming fight when all I could hear were barks, snarls and whines of pain coming from the abused dogs I’d follow into the makeshift ring.

This was all for Danny. If I kept reminding myself of the end goal, I’d make it through. Soon, I’d have her out of here and we’d be together. She’d sober up, and I’d keep her safe.

“Eight Ball’s got Achilles by the neck!” the announcer shouted through the bullhorn. Then the crowd let out a resounding “Ohhhh…”

“Karma’s a bitch, Achilles,” the announcer said. “R.I.P. brother.”

Disgust ripped up my throat. I spit on the ground and punched the brick wall.

Motherfuckers killed a dog.

A fucking dog!

I hoped to God Danny was inside and not witnessing this mess. “Is it time?” I shouted to Dealer.

“Yeah. They’re done. Let’s go out.” He rubbed his hands together, eyeing the crowd. “You’re the underdog, so watch for beer bottles and shit.”

That’s all I needed was a beer bottle to the head. “If this ruins my chances of going pro, I might kill you,” I said.

“You agreed to this. Don’t put it on me.”

“You put my balls to the fire. All I wanted was to take Danny home. This fight is on your back.”

“Just make sure you win,” he said, “for both of us.”

We got out to the courtyard where there was a guy spreading hay over the grass, soaking up blood. Bugs swarmed around the lights on the walls. I blinked my eyes hard, spotting a group of kids in a side yard playing on a swing set, watching.

My head swam with memories of growing up in a place like this. When my mom took off, I was passed along to neighbors for a while in our Section 8 apartment complex until one of them turned me over to social services, and I entered into the foster care system.

The first twelve years of my life were spent playing in yards where no grass grew, covered in dirt, sliding down rusty swing set slides, knees and elbows bruised and covered in scabs, eating Wonder Bread and ketchup sandwiches—the government cheese wasn’t for the neighbor’s kid whose mom didn’t even want him.

“Why the fuck are those kids out here?” I asked. “They don’t need to see this shit.”

Dealer didn’t answer.

The announcer’s bullhorn let off a loud bleep. “I hope you pimps and hos got your bets in, because it’s time to bring out tonight’s main event!”

I bounced on my toes and stretched my neck from side to side. My stomach burned, and I had the urge to yell as loud as I could to let out pent up aggression, but soon enough I’d have someone in front of me to take it out on.

The dealer shoved his way through the crowd making a path for me behind him as the announcer introduced me. “The contender, here from parts unknown, John Doe!”

Boo’s rippled across the courtyard as I stepped over the orange fencing. Cigarette butts were flicked my way along with jeers and taunts: “Mama let you out past bedtime tonight, homo?” “The Renegade’s going to fuck you up, son.” “That pretty face is about to be busted wide open.”

It was nothing I hadn’t heard before. The organized MMA associations were regulated and went by codes of conduct and ethics, but the amateurs were only a step up from this. The semi-pro’s weeded out most of the low life’s. My first few years were spent wading through the bullshit that tested my patience and my temper. I had no problem zoning it out now.

“Back for his twenty-sixth consecutive win tonight,” the announcer said, spurring on Rex’s fans to start going wild, “Rex The Renegade Rollo!”

Pandemonium broke out when Rex stepped into the snow-fenced ring. He threw his fists into the air and let out a guttural war cry. His chest was painted with red symbols. I’d heard a rumor that he used his opponents’ blood to draw them on and never washed his chest. I’d also heard that they were gang signs, but I didn’t believe any of it. I knew how the publicity machine worked, even in these underground fights—especially in underground fights where psyching out your opponent was half the battle.

I wasn’t psyched out by Rex Rollo. He was a punk-ass bitch that needed to be taught a lesson. For the guy he killed in the ring.

And for Mike.

Rollo had been trained by the best and needed to be reminded what that meant.

“Bring it in,” the ring announcer said, motioning me and Rex into the middle of the ring. “We go fifteen minute rounds until the knock out. Anything goes.”

Rex had his head shaved and stared at me through arrogant green eyes. “I know you,” he mouthed, before putting his mouth guard in, covering his brown teeth and menacing grin. On his arm was a tattoo of a swastika.

Skinhead motherfucker was going down.

“To your corners,” the announcer said, and before Rollo got too far away from me, I ran my eyes over his knuckles—there it was, the sharp edge of a blade taped to the back of his right hand.

I stalked back to my corner.
You’re doing this for Danny.

The dealer looked me in the eye. There was no hiding his doubt. “Avoid his right,” he said.

“I saw.”

The bullhorn bleeped, signaling the start of the first round. Rollo charged forward. It was like he never learned a thing from Mike.

Draw them out. Let them initiate. Watch how they move. Anticipate what they’ll do next, and be ready.