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Sal slept on, oblivious to the raucous noise taking over the bus.

Sophie sank down in the seat next to him, wondering how much longer until they reached the next pit stop.

Chapter Twelve

ANACONDA CHOKE: A camping trip gone horribly wrong

Somewhere in the middle of the desert between Albuquerque and Phoenix, the Aston Martin blew a head gasket.

Caden could deal with engine problems. He could put up with the oddball route Jerry’d mapped out for the trip, having them head south, then west, then north, instead of in a more direct northern route to Phoenix. He could tolerate the one-hundred-twenty-five-degree temperature—the baseball cap he’d dug out of his bag helped. But he was about to quiet Jerry with a fist if he didn’t change his tune. Fast.

As the heat spiked, so did Jerry’s frustration. And, judging by the manic way the douchebag was pacing up and down the barren asphalt highway, kicking at the desert dirt and muttering curses, his temper was about to skyrocket. If heatstroke didn’t do him in first.

Caden was close to his breaking point, as well.

Three hours ago, Harold had arranged for a tow truck. They’d bummed a lift a half mile down the highway to a dilapidated 1950’s style gas station.

Two hours and fifty-nine minutes ago, Jerry had pounded the digits on his cell phone and demanded the bus pick them up. Seemed the mechanics needed a specialized part which had to be driven in from God knows where.

Caden expected to wait five hours, minimum, for the bus to rescue him. He hoped it’d happen sometime before he took Jerry by the neck and shook him, a sure way of ruining his chances at Tetnus. He needed the asshole, he kept reminding himself. Which is why, after three long hours, Caden was surprised to spot the vehicle way off in the horizon. Hard to miss it.

Not a moment too soon.

“If I have to cancel tomorrow night’s appearance in Phoenix, it’s coming out of your pocket,” Jerry’s voice rose, drawing Caden’s attention back to him. Boy, the cheap-as-shit promoter had some mad sense of entitlement. Last night, they’d had time to kill, the bus was that far behind. Per Jerry, it had driven nonstop through the night so as to make it to Phoenix on time. Which meant Caden had ended up paying for Jerry’s hotel room, meals, and extensive beer tab, without receiving so much as a thank you. He’d gone on this freakin’ road trip because Jerry had demanded it of his fighters.

Yep, Jerry had served his purpose—as useful as an electric heater on a day like today.

Based on Caden’s subtle questioning and Jerry’s big mouth, it was doubtful the promoter had anything to do with the steroids. Surprising, but true. Oh, he’d bragged about being the mastermind behind the illegal bets run at events he’d scheduled. The way he double-dipped, taking money from the top, fifty percent of admission, and the bottom, the lucrative betting system he had going on off on the side.

But when Caden brought up the topic of drugs, Jerry didn’t even flinch. In fact, he’d described in detail why he’d never deal. It had nothing to do with morals, which hadn’t surprised Caden, and everything to do with money. The man was invested heavily in the MMA scene and, like Caden, hated the idea that performance-enhancing drugs might hurt this sport—like all those baseball Hall of Fame records now under scrutiny.

Beyond the money, Jerry had an aversion to blood. Ironic, given that the Boys spewed enough of it during bouts. But blood transfusions were all the rage in steroids. An athlete could purify his own blood, making it rich in red blood cells for added energy, then inject it back into his body. A nasty practice, yet much harder to detect during mandatory drug tests. Caden passed the time last night telling horror stories about having seen dudes doing this. Jerry’d turned green, revulsion written within the deep lines of his face. It had become pretty clear Jerry probably wasn’t dealing. As for being a manipulative, money-hounding, flesh-betting bookie, Jerry was numero uno on the asshole list.

So, which fighter was the dealer?

Caden covered his eyes and squinted at the bus. It would do Jerry some good to take a long humbling ride on that piece of crap.

“Phoenix was gonna be the biggest turnout yet. Sold out the place. Fifty bucks for every seat. That’s five thousand dollars in my pocket, less the venue fee of nine hundred plus change. Your piece of crap vehicle is gonna cost you big time.”

Caden flexed his fingers, but tuned him out. He willed his thoughts toward something more pleasant, and they turned to Sophie, as they tended to do of late.

Guilty conscious? Perhaps. He imagined the pleasure in her eyes when she’d woken up to find herself sprinkled with rose petals and significantly richer than she’d been when she went to bed. If she’d had extra cash around, he doubted she’d subject herself to the bus.
Had she watched the video?
He grinned at the thought.

What had begun as a serious one-sided discussion about fighting styles had ended on a naughty note—for her ears alone. Hopefully, her editing skills were as strong as her reporting skills, or America was going to get an eyeful of a well-satisfied woman. His on-screen antics had been amusing. But in the bright light of day, he wished he’d stuck to his original intent of giving her an exclusive, and then washing his hands of the matter.

Still, he wondered at her reaction.

“Damn it all. There’s the motherfuckin’ bus. Time to get out of this hellhole.”

Jerry’s excitement was palpable. Caden couldn’t have summed it up any better.

The two mechanics came outside to witness the bus’s arrival, as if an unnatural phenomenon was barreling down the empty roadway instead of a banged-up junk heap.

“Need to take a piss. Be right back.” Caden took advantage of the moment. He retrieved the duffel bag full of drugs and syringes from the trunk and pulled the zipper tight before heading off to the men’s room. He propped the bag on the bathroom sink while he took care of business. Returning to the roadside, he nonchalantly set the duffel next to his other gear.

A dark cloud of exhaust billowed up in the desert sky. Whoever had the back seats were either asphyxiated or wearing gas masks. No way was he getting on that thing. But, he had to play his hand with Jerry, just to make sure. He needed to be one hundred percent certain sure his instincts were correct and Jerry wasn’t the dealer.

If Jerry noticed, and commented on the duffel bag, then bingo. Caden would have the proof he needed. He’d confront the jerk and get it all on audio as planned.

“Phew-ee, I ain’t seen a vehicle that beat up since Leonard’s four-by-four bed rusted right off. Out here in the desert, we don’t get much cause for rusting,” one of the mechanics commented.

The second man chimed in. “If this don’t beat all.
That’s
what you’re traveling to Phoenix in, instead of the James Bond mobile we’ve got in the garage? I’ll be damned.”

So will I
, Caden thought.

Dust kicked up as the bus bore down on them. Whoever was driving it must have been mad as hell because the vehicle swerved back and forth across the invisible center line. When it reached about the one hundred yard mark, Caden reached for his gear and headed over to the gas pumps. The bus didn’t look as if it were going to stop.

The two mechanics seemed to think so too, and beat a fast retreat inside the garage, near the Aston.

Not so much Jerry. He marched into the roadway and held up his palm. It was like that scene in
The Terminator
, except Jerry was no Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Yet he stubbornly held his ground as the bus bore down on him.

As much as Caden detested the slimeball, he didn’t fancy seeing him end up as New Mexican road kill.

At the last second, it dawned on the foolish man that he wasn’t God, and that whoever was driving the speeding sardine can wasn’t stopping for anyone. As fast as his wiry legs could carry him, Jerry bolted out of the way.

The bus shot on by.

A cloud of dust billowed up in its wake, making Caden cough. Blinking away the grime, he caught sight of something that made him want to gag. Agitated gestures just inside the bus’s back door window. Bodies moving around inside.

A fight. Rather a full-blown, flat-out brawl. He made out a rapid whirl of auburn hair as it brushed against the emergency door windowpane.

Caden hit the asphalt at a dead run, his heart racing. Knowing who he’d find mixed up in the middle of it.

The wheels of the vehicle gave off a high-pitched screech a quarter mile down the roadway. A sudden jerk followed, and the bus finally halted. If the fists flying inside hadn’t killed anyone, the jarring stop might have done the job.

The rear door swung open, violently smashing against the worn yellow steel with a loud clang.

Caden picked up his pace. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and he swiped it away. God, if she was hurt...

A suitcase spiraled through the air. It landed on the asphalt ahead, bounced and rolled, but stayed closed. Just inside the frame stood a tall man with someone slung across his shoulders.
Jesus.
Someone whose fists were flailing and whose legs were kicking wildly, like an Olympian swimming the 100-meter freestyle—airborne.

Jesus.
What the hell was Jaysin Bouvine doing on the bus? He’d thought the man was recovering in a Wichita hospital. Turning, Jaysin filled the doorway, a manic expression on his face and a struggling Sophie in his arms.

The last few remaining treads on Caden’s personal head gasket burst. Jaysin was going to wish he’d never set eyes on Sophie Morelle. And if he hurt her, if he tossed her from that bus—which is what appeared to be his intent—she was going to be the last thing the asshat ever saw.

Caden’s long legs took him over the suitcase and a few lengths from the door.

Jaysin was cursing like a madman.

Sophie swung her camera bag over Jaysin’s head, nailing him in the face. She repeated the action, over and over again, causing him to grow more and more furious with every whack.

He lifted her higher into the air. Manhandling her. A defensive gesture or in preparation to hurl her out of the bus, it didn’t matter. Jaysin had just signed his own death warrant.

Caden stopped short, panting and so freakin’ pissed off, he struggled over his words. Rule number one as a fighter was to never let them see you sweat, but that’s just what Caden did, his tone sharp and his temper bordering on uncontrolled.

“Hand her down to me. Gently. Or you are going to wish you were never born.”

“Well, looky here. If it isn’t our tough guy model, shouting like a little bitch. What happened, is your underwear on too tight? Making threats you can’t possibly keep? I’m gonna dish out a beating you won’t forget for jumping me in the hallway back in Missouri. Long-term memory—that’s what I’ve got, and you’re gonna pay for it.”

That was it.

Caden grabbed hold of the door and hoisted himself inside.

The shock on Jaysin’s face was priceless—almost as priceless as the look of horror that replaced it when, in one fluid motion, Caden head-butted him.

A similar expression must have spread across Caden’s own features, after Sophie’s camera bag nailed him in the back of his head. Hard enough, he was guaranteed an egg-sized knot.

With one hand, he yanked the bag from her grasp. With his other one, he shot a fully loaded punch into Jaysin’s already-bloodied nose.

Sophie’s legs swung around as Jaysin jerked sideways beneath the impact. His arm loosened its vicelike hold and, with a gasp, she tumbled backward onto a vacant seat.

Caden swung an arm around the asshat’s neck and pinned him against the side of a seat in a choke hold. Immediately, Jaysin’s hand tapped the worn vinyl, like this was some kind of organized bout. With organized rules of conduct. Boy, was he in for a rude awakening.

“Come on. Let’s hear it.” He sounded calm, yet he was struggling to control himself. This guy needed a lesson in manners, and in why it was never wise to underestimate your opponent. “Sing for us.” Man, he wanted to put a hurting on him. It didn’t help that Sophie had composed herself enough to sit up, and was watching the events unfolding before her. Her expression was a complex mixture of surprise, admiration and horror. Definitely horror, Caden was sure of it.

A horror that mirrored his own when he noticed her red, swollen face.

Bouvine was a dead man.

“That bitch is bad luck. You know it...”

One quick uppercut silenced the fool. This was followed by a vicelike squeeze as Caden pulled his elbow in tighter around Jaysin’s throat. Squeezing harder. And harder still.

Caden inhaled deeply, desperate to calm his rage and not cross the fine line between leaving him temporary breathless and murdering him. Sophie was watching it all go down—watching him turn into the street thug, the boy with a deep, uncontrollable rage. The boy nobody wanted. A wild kid with a violent streak who lacked of self-discipline and control. But he’d learned his lesson, he’d changed, right? He was no longer that guy, an apple that had fallen from an abusive father’s tree. All that crap about “like father, like son.” Bunch of bullshit he was still coming to terms with.

Moments like this...the thought of Jaysin manhandling Sophie...He was one firm squeeze of the asshat’s throat away from proving this theory wrong.

Sophie sang out, off-key and out-of-tune, her face flushed a bright shade of pink, clearly furious. “‘You know, I’m bad, I’m bad, you know it.’ Sing it, bughead. Let’s hear your best Michael Jackson impersonation.”

Caden felt his temper mellow.

He almost burst out laughing when the throat pressed up against his arm began to vibrate with song. “Bad, bad, really, really bad.”

“What have we got going on here? A goddang symphony?” Sal asked, his tone filled with concern.

“Show’s over,” Caden told him, and the rest of the Boys dispersed. It was a wonder the bus hadn’t been lifted onto its back two wheels under the combined weight of them. “Get your bag. You’re coming with me.” He nodded at Sophie. He turned and spotted the duffel over in the distance by the pumps, exactly where he’d left it.
Good
.

She wiggled out of the seat, scooted around Jaysin, and was out the door before Jaysin could finish his next verse.

Caden relaxed his grip. Here he was, trapped in the desert in one-hundred-twenty-five-degree weather, on a bus with no air-conditioning, with a bunch of overheated fighters ready for a brawl. He’d been close, so close, to finishing Jaysin off. Somehow, he’d managed to rein in his volatile emotions. Somehow he’d managed to avoid killing the fucker. “We’ll finish this in Vegas,” he promised.