Chains (7 page)

A smart fighter took a few shots and waited, holding back until he had an opening. Then he struck and didn’t relent.

Rollo instantly came at me with a right. I dodged and darted to his left, landing an overhand punch to his clavicle. He cut back and kicked out with his right foot, connecting with my side.

Every chance he had, he jabbed with his right fist. The metal point glinted in the harsh white spotlights. If he trash talked, I couldn’t hear him over the roar of his fans.

Sweat poured down my chest and back. Heat churned inside the circle of the walled courtyard and all the people crushing in on the ring. My punches slid across Rollo’s wet skin, and his did mine, leaving red burns from the tape.

After what seemed like only minutes, the first round was over with neither one of us any worse for wear. “That was great,” the dealer said, tossing me a grungy gray towel to wipe my face. I dug into an ice chest of beer and grabbed an ice cube to chomp down. “Maybe you could go after him a little more this round?”

I chuckled, a dark, resentful sound. “Maybe you want to fight him since you know what you’re doing?”

The bullhorn signaled the next round. I shook out my arms and went back in slowly as Rollo came at me full speed. I stepped back, ducking his punch, only to dart forward and land a few blows to the side of his head. The way he bounced around in circles, it was clear he’d forgotten everything Mike taught him about footwork and timing. He was wearing himself out, and all I had to do was wait for the right moment to strike.

The second round went down like the first, but back in the corner I watched Rollo bending at the waist and panting to catch his breath. It was time.

The bullhorn sounded round three, and he was a little slower out of his corner. As soon as he was within range, I kicked out and connected with his gut. He bent forward a bit and took my fist right in the face.

It didn’t take him long to recover, using his frustration as momentum. His fans caught the wind of his fury and started chanting Renegade over and over. A tequila bottle landed by my foot and shattered into a million little shards of glass. Rollo lunged forward. I blocked, but he wasn’t throwing punches. He grabbed both sides of my head, head butted me and swiped his leg behind my knees.

I crashed down to the ground on top of the broken glass. Rollo lunged again, his right fist with the blade coming down at me fast. There wasn’t time to stop him or rip my own shiv from my thigh. I grasped a piece of glass off the dirt and rolled out from under him, bringing the glass up in my hand. I jabbed it into his side. He caught me in the shoulder with the point of his blade.

Both of us were on our feet, bleeding and panting, circling each other, aware that we were evenly matched. What he lacked in technical skills, he made up for in fighting dirty. If I wanted to win, I had to fight dirty too—and pray I didn’t get busted and end up in jail.

When the round ended, I rushed back to the carport and ripped the tape off holding the shiv to my leg. “Taking my advice,” the dealer said, pressing a rag to my bleeding shoulder. “Without rules and a ref, that’s the only way to beat him.”

I pulled off my shoe—the courtyard was too littered with glass and shit to fight barefoot like in a real ring—tucked the shiv inside and jabbed the end through the toe so it stuck out about an inch, then taped it down inside so it wouldn’t move around under my foot. “I haven’t used many kicks yet. He won’t expect this.”

“Good,” he said. “End it.”

I re-entered the ring to the blast of the bullhorn. Rollo came out with a second wind, ready to fight. My mind buzzed. The dealer saw me put the shiv in my shoe, so he was a witness to the fact that I did it after seeing Rollo had one taped to his hand. If I let Rollo get a shot in on me with his blade before using mine, it would be self-defense in the same way carrying any weapon in a place where you felt threatened would be. At least, I hoped if the cops got involved it would be seen that way.

And I hoped the shot I let Rollo have wouldn’t be fatal before I could retaliate.

I hoped I could get Danny out of here fast when it was over.

Rollo ran at me, leaped into the air and surprised me with a spin kick that I didn’t try to avoid. I’d take what he gave until it would be clear that self-defense was my only means of getting out of this fight alive. His foot struck my side, crashed against my ribs—a few already broken by the run-in with Jose—and knocked the breath out of me. Pain flared hot like a thousand suns down into my hip, up into my shoulder and through my chest. I stumbled and he lunged for me.

It had to be now, before he knocked me out.

Not wasting another second, I brought my knee up and kicked out, catching him with the knife in my shoe to the left of his chest beside his armpit. Confused, he staggered back, looking down at the blood flowing from the cut to the ground. With his attention distracted for a second, I cranked my right arm back and swung, connecting my fist with the side of his face. His head flew back, his arms splayed out. I followed with a left handed uppercut to his jaw and another right that knocked him to the ground on his ass.

He was in and out of consciousness, not knocked out. The crowd pulsed, their outrage closing in on me with loud taunts and more glass bottles hitting the packed dirt—one bouncing off my calf.

“End it!” I heard the dealer yell.

Jesus, I didn’t want to have to do this. In a regulation fight, the ref would’ve called it by now. Rollo had been down for a ten count, and I wouldn’t have to knock him unconscious to win.

But this wasn’t regulation, and it could be over. Now.

I hauled Rollo back to his feet. Blood streamed down his side onto my hands. I held him with my left hand, clenched my teeth and pounded him with my right. Over and over until white noise filled my head and I was back in Striker’s driveway and Danny was screaming.

Screaming and screaming and screaming.

“He’s out!” someone shouted in my ear. Someone pulling me off of Rollo.

Rollo. He was slack in my arms, and I was still hitting him. Shocked back to my senses, I dropped him on the ground. The dealer stood beside me. “You gotta get the fuck out of here, man. He might be dead.”

There was still screaming and screaming and…Danny.

I spun around to find her standing by the backdoor of the apartment watching. Screaming. Her hands pressed to her face, her eyes huge and disbelieving. Just like before.

Just like when I did it to Striker.

I ran toward her, my heart jack-knifing in my chest. The dealer’s girlfriend was there, trying to pull Danny away. A group of drunk, dirty-asses closed in on me.

“You think you can do that to The Renegade and walk away?” one asked, pounding his fist into his hand. Heavy silver rings gleamed on each finger.

“Fight’s over,” I said. “Go home.”

Another sneered and spit on my chest. I was reminded of my disqualification fight with Jose when I spit on him. Karma. What a bitch. “This fight’s just started,” he said, flashing a K-BAR.

Danny’s screams disintegrated into piercing cries and sobs. “I’m not fighting you,” I said, side-stepping him. “I’m done here.”

He moved in front of me, the guy with the rings beside him, others looming around. “You’re done when we say you’re done, son.”

A gunshot rang out behind me. Danny started screaming again. Shouting and running erupted. I caught sight of the dealer, a gun in his hand, darting toward me. “Get her and go!” he yelled.

I sprinted for her, adrenaline racing, fight or flight kicking in like it never had before. The stakes were higher than ever before—getting Danny out of there. She was still screaming when I reached her. I lifted her over my shoulder and took off. “Where are you going with her?” Dealer’s girlfriend yelled. Ignoring her, I shoved through a group of bikers and out through the courtyard gate into the darkness. The driveway and yard were packed with cars, pickups and motorcycles. Most had revving engines and honking horns, their owners trying in vain to get out of the tangled mess.

I kept to the dark side of the building and darted in and out between cars to the street. Once we hit the sidewalk and got a block or so away, I could breathe again. Danny was still sobbing, but it was more of a whine and she hiccupped a few times. “We made it out,” I said, setting her on her feet in front of me. “We have to find a taxi.”

She shook. Her eyes jittered around, and she wouldn’t look at me. I took her face in my hands and wiped her tears away with my thumbs. “Danny, you’ll be okay now. I’ve got you.” I wrapped her in my arms and rested my chin on top of her head. “I’ve got you,” I whispered. “I’m sorry it reminded you of Striker—of that night.”

“They’ll take you away again,” she said against my chest, flooding me with remorse for not going back for her after getting out of prison.

“No,” I said, stroking her hair. “It’s okay. We’re together now. I’m not going anywhere.”

An old, black Buick pulled up to the curb with the window rolled down. “Get in.”

I peered inside. It was the dealer’s friend, the guy who witnessed our agreement this afternoon. I hesitated for a second until I heard the roar of motorcycles coming from the apartment complex.

I jerked the passenger door open and pushed Danny inside, following her into the backseat. “Thanks,” I said.

The guy gunned the engine and the tires spun. Danny gripped my arm and hid her eyes against my shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said, trying to ease her. “We’ll be safe soon.”

We flew down the street, blowing past stop signs and rolling through red lights. “Where to?” the guy asked.

I gave him directions to the shit-hole motel I couldn’t remember the name of and glanced out the back window. We seemed to be in the clear.

On the front passenger seat, there was a dog cage with a puppy inside. On the top of the cage was a sign: Training Pup For Sale.

“What’s a training pup?” I asked.

The guy looked at me in the rearview mirror. “He’s not a full-bred pit. Can’t fight. Someone can use him to train their fighter though, as a sparring dog.”

My stomach curdled. This dog was bait. That was all the value these people saw in him. Jesus, I grew up as bait—Striker’s sparring partner. I knew that kind of fucked up life and didn’t want any other living, breathing thing to go through it. “How much?” I asked. “I want him. How much?”

The guy licked the corner of his lips and eyed me in the mirror again. “A grand.”

“No way. Not for a sparring dog. He’s not worth that to you. I’ll give you a hundred bucks for him.”

“Five,” the guy said, turning into the motel lot.

I was running out of time. “Two-fifty,” I said, “and another twenty-five for gas money since you saved my ass.”

He considered the offer for a minute. “Fine. He’s yours. I’ll take it out of your share of the winnings.”

“Winnings? Nobody said anything about winnings. How much?” I wasn’t sure I wanted money earned for fighting in an underground match, but I hadn’t planned how I was going to take care of Danny. I needed the cash.

“Depends on the number of bets, but there was a big draw tonight. I’m thinking your take is probably around five grand.”

I nodded, not letting the shock and mixed-emotions of relief and guilt show. “How’s Rollo? Do you know?”

He shook his head. “Not good, man. Alive, but not good.”

I inhaled deep, trying to dull the acidic pang of regret creeping up my throat. How could I take money I earned from illegally beating the shit out of Rollo? For losing control?

Danny shifted beside me, reaching a finger through the bars of the puppy’s cage.

How could I not take the money?

For her.

That’s why I did this to begin with, and whatever it took from me, I’d see it through. I’d lose everything if it meant saving her—not turning my back on her this time. “Come on,” I said to her, opening the car door. “We’ll take him inside. You can name him.”

Her face lit up, her blue eyes gleamed and she was the same Danny I knew when I was twelve.
My Danny.

“I’ll drop the money off here tomorrow,” the guy said. “You’ll be here?”

I thought of Austin and the fight. Could I make it? What would I do with Danny and the dog? Bring them with me? I ran into this blind without a plan. What possible plan would’ve played out like this though? “I’ll be here,” I said.

Somehow in the past few hours, I’d gone from an up-and-coming semi-pro MMA fighter on the brink of going pro to a man who might have permanently injured Rex The Renegade, a man responsible for a drug-addicted, emotionally-damaged woman and a mutt meant to be sacrificed.

“I’ll be here,” I said again, because where the hell else was I going to go now?

Refuge In The Woods