Текст книги "Uncaged"

Автор книги: Emilia Kincade

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Thirty

She’s not here!

It’s midway through the fight, and I’m bleeding from a cut above my brow. There’s a doctor on site, and he dabs away at it.

“I can see your bone,” he says. “I need to close this cut.”

“Fine. No shots.” My voice is hoarse. I took an upper cut that missed my jaw, but got me in the throat. My vocal chords feel bruised.

“You hung over, Pierce?”

I stare at the doctor. “No.”

“You sure? You coming down? You pop some pills last night?”

“No. I don’t do fucking pills.”

“If you have, I’m going to have to disqualify you. Fallon and that Russian gave me specific instructions. I can’t let the fight go on if it’s not a fair fight. If you’re not all there—”

“I’m all there,” I tell him frostily.

“You’re lucky they’re letting me patch you up. You wouldn’t be able to see otherwise.”

I glare at the doc and bark, “Close the fucking cut!”

Breath comes rushing out of my mouth, a frustrated exhale. She didn’t come!

I look around the stands again, scan the faces. I recognize a lot of people, but I can’t find Penny anywhere. I honestly thought she’d come to this fight. I honestly believed she’d fucking come.

The crowd is silent, a far cry from the usual atmosphere of one of my fights. They’re silent because I’m getting beat. They’ve never seen Pierce motherfucking Fletcher bleed like this before.

And I can’t even feel the pain in my head, nor do I even notice the worried or even disappointed looks of the people who came here to see me win.

All I can think about is whether or not Penny will turn up.

God fucking damn it, she’s shaken me.

“You’re not doing too well tonight, Pierce.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Then why am I looking at a cut that will need eight stitches, a half-dozen bad bruises, and a busted lip?”

“Just off my game.”

“Off your game? I’ve watched you fight two dozen times, mate. Off is an understatement.”

“Great,” I say. “A fucking fan.”

“Never seen you like this. Talk to me, son. What’s up?”

I glare into the forty-something man’s eyes. Son. That’s when I notice his body; wiry-thin. That’s when I notice his hair; all-white. That’s when I notice his nose; he looks like a fucking toucan.

“What are you?” I spit. “My fucking therapist?”

“You’re getting your arse kicked out there, buddy, and you don’t even realize it.”

“I realize it.”

“So if you don’t want to talk to me about it, then you better damn well sort it the fuck out. If you agreed to this fight, then you better belt up and fucking fight!”

“Save your shitty speech,” I tell him. “And do your fucking job.”

He sighs, lifts up the surgical suture needle, and presses it against my skin. “This will hurt. Are you sure you don’t want a shot? Listen, I can’t stick this closed. I have to sew it.”

“Just hurry the fuck up,” I growl at him.

He pushes it through my skin. It’s like I feel it, but I don’t. The skin tightens, each prick pulls. But it’s not painful. It’s the adrenaline… it’s… my distraction.

The pain is delayed, comes when he’s nearly finished. But my body kick-starts its own internal process to numb the pain. Soon it no longer stings. Soon, it’s just a dull ache that throbs to my heartbeat.

“All done.”

“Good,” I say, getting up off the stool. “Don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”

I step into the cage. The crowd grows tense, electric. They’re not used to seeing me struggle. They are not used to seeing blood on my face.

But I’m going to win this fucking fight. Sure, I took a punch, a knee, and a kick, but I’m still standing, still ready to fight, still ready to dance until this motherfucking Russian beast goes down.

Anton Vasilev has been walking around the steel cage while I got stitched up. The fucking beefcake of a man trod in my blood, smeared it all over the mat. Now he watches with a grin as two men run in quickly and wipe the floor down. Red turns to pink, and then all my blood is gone, staining white, fluffy towels instead.

A bell dings, we tap taped fists, and then I’m dancing around him, bouncing forward and backward. The fucker’s got thighs like thunder, he wants to leg lock me, get me down onto the mat. He’s going to kick, try to get me retreating, off-balance. He knows I’ll dodge it; the kick is a feint. I anticipate he’ll spin into me, try to lock my arm, get on my back.

The kick comes, aimed at my ribs. I side-step out of its path, slapping his leg away. I see his spin before he starts. He spins on his heel, brings his arms out to catch my still-outstretched hand. For such a huge man, he’s deceptively fast.

But I know what he’s going to do, maybe even before he does. I grab his leading arm, and punch his elbow. It doesn’t dislocate, but his body jolts, and he retreats a little, shaking his hand. I’ve probably numbed it.

The noise-level rises. Girls begin chanting my name. Everybody who has money on me suddenly looks a little less worried. They start seeing dollar signs.

I grin at Anton, sucking on my mouth guard. “Come on,” I say, beckoning him with my fingers. “Use your fucking fists.”

He doesn’t take the bait; but I don’t expect him to, either. I want him to think I’m a talker. I’ve been nattering at him all night. People usually talk when they’re scared. I want him to think I’m scared, to think that I don’t believe I can win this fight.

The worst thing that can happen to a fighter – to any athlete – is to lose confidence. The second worst thing? To get overconfident.

“Come on,” I say, spreading my arms, taunting him as he misses another kick. “You afraid to get a little closer?”

Sweat-diluted blood drips down into my eyes. The bright white lights turn pink for a moment. I blink it out, feel the sting of salt.

“Let’s go, motherfucker,” I say. He bends down, sweeps a leg toward me, but I hop over it easily enough.

I shake my head, tut at him. “Don’t worry, Anton, I won’t fucking kiss you.”

His face goes red, and he makes his move, a righty-feint, a low kick to my shin, followed by a lightning-fast lefty-hook. I ignore the feint, skip the kick, bend backward for the hook, ready to throw my weight forward into a counter.

But not quick enough.

The hook grazes my chin. My mouth is all crimson metal. Damn it. I really am slow tonight.

My turn!

I jab with my right; he dodges left, but I know he will. I lean forward, try to grab his neck and spin him into a hold, but he catches me off balance on one leg. He grabs my arm, pulls it into his, closes the distance between us, ready to hold me. But I spin at the last moment, pivot around so my back is to him, and land an elbow right between his second and third ribs.

He lets go of me and backs up, wincing and winded, rubbing his side.

I fake a kick, hop forward twice on my left leg, kick him with my heel right on the front of his thigh. He clutches at it; I swear I see his knee wobble. His quadriceps must be numb. I can already see the dark bruise forming.

My heel tingles with pain.

Sweat pours from my body.

The crowd chants my name. Over and over again.

I’m feeling it now. This shitheel is going down.

I take three quick skips toward him, spin around him like I’m holding a football. I expect him to turn and follow me, but he doesn’t. He pivots the other way, and throws a kick right into my side. I don’t block it in time, and I fall backward, wheezing.

I didn’t expect that.

I climb to my feet, hand on my side, and grin at him. Then my eyes focus on something familiar, just above his right shoulder. It’s the face of a beautiful girl, a face I recognize, a face that makes my heart surge.

Penny looks pissed.

I laugh. I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life.

A new energy thrills through me, ignites me. I take two quick steps toward him, wait for his kick. It comes, I sidestep it, grab his leg mid-kick, twist him around, and throw him down. He lands face first, palms out. The sweaty wet slap is so loud it echoes. I turn him over again, grip his leg in between my thighs, and hold onto his ankle, and twist.

He’s in a leg lock, and each time he throws a punch toward my leg I twist his body so he misses, so his hits lose strength.

I stare into his eyes. Penny’s watching, and this fucker isn’t going to beat me.

I pull the leg, twist the leg, and I feel the stress in his knee. It’s going to pop at any moment. I’m going to tear his anterior cruciate ligament, his medial cruciate ligament.

I’m going to dislocate his fucking knee cap.

Tap out, I think to myself. The ref is circling us, waiting for that moment.

But Anton’s got a reserve of strength. The fucking bear of a man screams, sits up, and lands a hit square on my thigh, sending it immediately limp and numb. Dull, blunted pins and needles shoot through it. He wriggles his leg out from me, gets up, but I get up faster.

I hit him hard in the jaw. He stumbles backward.

I jump toward him, hit him again, and again, and again. Each crack seems to echo. I’m sure I’ve broken a knuckle. He falls backward, failing to block every hit.

I hit him again in the temple, again in the neck, again in the jaw. My fist hurts to hell, but I have to keep hitting.

He’s still standing, but he won’t be soon. This fucker is tough, but soon it’ll be lights-out, the body’s automatic reaction to head trauma.

Just one more hit. I feint, he moves to block, and I wind up an upper-cut.

Time slows. The crowd is now exploding. The sound is now deafening. I’m going to win. He’s mistimed his block; I’ll get him in the gap between his two closing, protective forearms.

I glance up at the last moment, go to meet Penny’s eyes. I’m going to fucking win, and she’s going to see me do it.

But she’s not there.

I don’t hit Anton. My fist stops inches from his jaw. I back up, scanning the crowd. I look toward the exits, see a fire-escape door shutting.

Anton charges for me, but I duck him, run for the door to the cage and kick it open. The metal hook-latch breaks easily.

“Where you going?” Anton bellows behind me, arms spread. I ignore him, and head straight for the fire door.

“Pierce!” Fallon calls to me as I pass him. “You can’t leave. You haven’t won.”

“Fuck you,” I shout back.

I’m going to get my girl.

Chapter Thirty One

“Wait!”

I turn around, and see Pierce jogging out of the building. He’s in nothing but his fighting shorts. There’s a trickle of blood running down the side of his face, and as he approaches me, passing beneath a street lamp, I see that the stitches above his eye have split.

“What, Pierce?”

“Why are you leaving?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I told you not to do this fight.”

“I had to.”

“I knew you would,” I say, venom in my voice. “I knew you wouldn’t fucking listen to me.”

“Then why did you come? If you knew I’d be here, but you didn’t want to be here?”

“I don’t know!”

We stand in silence for a moment.

“Well, you sure got fucked up tonight,” I say.

“I couldn’t concentrate.”

“Why?”

“I’m falling for you, Pen.”

He just says it, and it catches me off-guard. I can’t say that it’s not what I wanted to hear. But still…

Sensing that I’m on higher ground, I ask him, “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“Pen,” he says, and he steps toward me, grabs my arm.

“Hey! Don’t hold me like that.”

“Come with me,” he growls, yanking me with him. There’s a plane taking off nearby; the fight was held in a private hangar at the airport.

Pierce walks me quickly toward the gate in the fencing that lines the hangar. I can see him shivering.

“Damn it, Pierce,” I say, taking off my cardigan. I go to wrap it around his neck but he holds his hand out.

“I’m not cold. It’s just the adrenaline wearing off.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where’s your car?”

“I came here by taxi.”

“Fuck, I’m parked a mile from here. Can you run?”

I blink. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Can you run?”

“Yes, of course I can fucking run!” I cry, exasperated.

“Run with me,” he says.

We begin jogging toward the fence in the distance. Red lights blink intermittently on top of it. The access gate is unlocked.

“Fuck,” he says, and I follow his eyes. There’s somebody walking toward the gate. It’s hard to tell if he’s airport security or not.

We duck into the shadow between two hangars, and he turns me to face him. “We need to get out of here, Pen.”

“What the hell is going on?”

He puts his finger to his lips, and cranes his neck behind us. Blood is dripping down his face, mixed with sweat, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“What are you looking for?”

“Fallon’s goons.”

That’s when it clicks for me. Fuck. He ducked out of the fight, didn’t complete his end of the deal. They’re going to be after him now.

“You idiot!” I hiss. “Why didn’t you finish the fight?”

“Because you left!” he whispers angrily. Then his expression softens. “I wasn’t going to let you get away.”

I shake my head, wondering just what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into. But something feels off. He’s acting too skittish.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He looks me dead in the eye. “They didn’t threaten me. They threatened you.”

The sound of that plane taking off fades into nothingness. All I hear is a dull metallic sound, like a bomb has just gone off. I struggle to wrap my mind around it.

“They said they’d hurt me?”

“They implied it.”

“If you didn’t fight.”

“Yes.”

“You fucking idiot!” I say again, slapping his arm. “I can’t believe you left the fight!”

He puts a finger in front of his lips. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

“They’re looking for you,” I say. I point to the man now standing guard by the gate. “Is there another way out of here?”

“No.” He takes a deep breath. “Just stay behind me.”

He goes running off into the night, and I struggle to keep up. He’s keeping low, sticking to shadows formed by the enormous hanger, by parked airport vehicles.

In his tiny fighting shorts, he looks a bit ridiculous.

Without any warning to me he speeds up into a sprint, charges at the man by the gate and lands a punch so hard I swear I hear bone break. The man’s body goes limp immediately. He’s out cold.

“Hurry the fuck up!” he says, beckoning me urgently. I run through the gate, and he follows behind me.

“We need to get to my car, Pen.”

He takes me hand and we run next to the road. There are potted trees and tall plants, as well as a hedge that obscure us from passing traffic.

I hear the crunch of stones and twigs beneath my shoes, and know that he must be feeling it on his bare feet.

Some minutes later, I’m panting, holding onto my side. I’ve got a stitch, and I’m regretting eating that lasagna before coming.

We get to his car, and he throws the door open, pushes me inside. He climbs in after me, guns the engine, and we scream off down the road, racing for the on-ramp to the highway.

“I don’t think they’re following us,” I say, laughing with relief. “Holy shit.” I pull my hair to the side, follow it with my gaze, and that’s when I see the headlights.

All I hear is thunderous, screeching metal.

All I feel is my body being thrown into Pierce, his arms wrapping around me.

All I see is sprinkles of shattered glass glimmering.

Our car flips, rolls, hits a tree. Pierce is beneath me, calling my name, but his words are only a blur, a smudge in my brain.

The passenger door above me is yanked open, and two hands reach in and pull me out. My hair catches on the seatbelt, rips out of my head.

I’m too stunned to feel pain.

I’m being held from behind. Some man is lifting me up. My legs don’t touch the ground.

A man walks up to me with a roll of silver tape. He snaps out a length, tapes my mouth. The smell of plastic and pungent adhesive floods my nostrils.

A bag is shoved over my head. Everything goes black.

I’m forced into a car, and there feel a zip tie tightened around my wrists, binding them together.

“Take her to the chemical plant,” I hear. The voice is familiar. I’ve heard it before. “We’ll finish this there.”

Chapter Thirty Two

The black bag smells like sweat and saliva.

It grosses me out to think that this bag has been over someone else’s head before.

It terrifies me to think that that person, in all likelihood, is no longer alive. Swimming with the fishes. Sleeping with the daisies. Whatever the hell it is they say.

The car slows, and I hear a metal shutter gate pulled up and open. It’s rusty and squeaky… and that man’s words ring through my head again.

Chemical plant.

What are they going to do to me?

All I can think is that they’re going to kill us, but not before they torture us. Pierce ducked out of the fight, the Russian won by forfeit, and all these people who bet on Pierce lost their money.

They want their payback now, and if they can’t get it in greenbacks, they’ll get it in red blood.

I want to hate him, want to call him a fucking idiot, want to blame it all on him, but it’s not all his fault. I know it’s not all his fault.

God damn it, why didn’t he just tell me they’d threatened me? Would I have left? I think about it for a moment before coming to my senses.

Of course I would have fucking left!

I would never risk my life for a boy I just met. Even one I might be falling for… even one about to become my stepbrother.

I hear the car door open, and cool night air floods in. I shiver, and then one of the men grabs me by the wrists and pulls me out of the car. I keep my head low. I’ve got that image in my head where a policeman is pushing someone he’s arrested into a cop car, and he’s got his hand on top of the perp’s head.

I don’t want to hit my head. It’s so absurd to be worrying about this, but I can’t help myself.

“Over ’ere, darlin’,” one of the men says.

I feel his arms around my shoulders as he guides me, and I shiver again. I shake him off me.

“Suit yourself, love,” he says. He gives me a small push in the back. I feel my blood begin to boil. God, I wish I could punch this asshole.

“Stop,” he says. I do, and turn around, heaving a sigh. He pulls the bag from my head, and I’m blinded momentarily by a single bright light hanging from the ceiling.

As my vision adjusts, I notice that I’m in some kind of office. There’s supposed to be glass in the window in front of us, but the panes have long since been broken. Controls, buttons, knobs, and levers all lie rusty and dead. Everything is old-iron-brown and filthy, covered with a layer of dust.

Out of the glassless window I can see massive vats, and on top of them are what appear to me to be gigantic whisks. They mix chemicals in those vats.

I swallow. I’m trying my best not to acknowledge how scared I am. I don’t want to start panicking.

“Turn around,” the man says. He sneers at me. I stare angrily at him.

“Turn around, love,” he says, this time stepping closer. I shake my head at him.

“Darlin’, behind you there’s a chair where you can sit. Either sit in it or don’t, I don’t care. But no matter what, you’re stuck in ’ere.”

Fuck you, I think to him. I flash a quick glance behind me and do see a chair, but I don’t sit. Instead, I wait for him to leave the small office. I can hear him locking the door with a deadbolt from the outside.

I immediately go to the window, and look down. It’s a long drop into some kind of pit. Maybe they used to keep a neutralizing agent in there, or maybe just water. All I know is that I’d never make it without breaking my leg.

Damn it!

I’m not even thinking about what they’re going to do to me. I’m wondering what they’re doing to Pierce.

I hear a gunshot, and my whole body jolts. The bang was so loud, my ears hurt, and I’m in a closed room. It came from somewhere nearby, somewhere in the same building I’m in.

Following the gunshot is a cry of pain.

I recognize the voice.

It’s Pierce.

Chapter Thirty Three

“Fuck you!” I bellow. “Fuck all of you!”

I wince, stare down at my foot. It’s bubbling blood out of a gunshot wound. I move my foot to the side, see the bullet lodged in the ground, the concrete all around it cracked. It went straight through me.

“That’s a handicap,” Fallon says. “Because you fucking walked out of that fight, the only bloody way I could get that Russian cunt to agree to a rematch – double or nothing – is to handicap you. This is your fault, you stupid American cunt.”

“Fuck you,” I growl. “I swear to God, Fallon, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Listen to yourself, you idiot,” Fallon barks, pointing a finger at me. “You still think there’s a way out of this? If that Anton gets you, he’s under instructions to break you. You embarrassed us back there. You know how many people bet big money on you? You embarrassed me back there by walking out. I vouched for you. In my world, there’s this thing called face.”

“Fuck your face.”

“So if you can’t win, you’ll be broken, Pierce, and we will leave you here to die. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. There’s no working phones. You will die.”

“Fuck you, you old motherfucker.”

“Well let me tell you something. I’ve got your pretty little thing locked up in the office. If you don’t fight, we… encourage you to.” He grins nastily at me. I imagine myself cracking his skull with a rusty pipe.

But I know I’ve got no choice. It fucking kills me that they’ve got Pen, that they’re using her, that it’s my fault she’s in this position.

“You better bandage up my fucking foot, then,” I tell him. “Because I can’t fight if I lose all my blood.”

I look down, and see a puddle of crimson beneath my foot. It hurts like hell, but damn if I’m going to show it.

“Micky,” Fallon says to his goon. “You got some medical training, right?”

“Served in the army as a medic, boss.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Fallon says, clicking his fingers.

Micky leaves and comes back with a first aid bag, and says, “This might hurt a little.”

He lifts my foot. I grit my teeth together, but otherwise don’t show my pain.

“Through-and-through,” he says to himself. “Small fracture of the third metatarsal. Surprisingly, the ligament is still attached, I think. Bullet slipped straight through. Basically a flesh wound.”

“Thanks for the medical,” I growl.

“Boss?” Micky says, turning around.

“What is it?”

“Give him some morphine?”

“No!” I say, pulling his attention back to me. “Don’t give me anything.”

“It’ll hurt when you put pressure on it.”

“Fuck off.”

He grins. “Tough cunt, are ya?”

“Tougher than you.”

“That right?”

“Why don’t you untie me and find out?”

Micky the medic laughs. “Alright, alright. You’ll get your chance to show off soon.”

He pours iodine on my foot, and then begins to bandage it up. I do my best not to show that it hurts, but fuck if it doesn’t burn to hell and back. Fuck if it isn’t a shock to see the orange iodine fall through a hole in my foot.

When he’s done, he looks to Fallon, who gives him a nod, and then he cuts my binds. I stand up, test the foot. I can barely put any weight on it.

“I’ll fight that Russian fucker,” I say at Fallon. “On one condition.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making—”

“Fuck you!” I shout. “You put a fucking hole in my foot.”

“And you lost me fifty million dollars! And it might be more if you don’t fucking win tonight.”

“Take it or leave it,” I tell him.

Fallon pauses, considers it. “What condition?”

“Bring Penny out. Let her watch.”

“You want her to watch?”

“Damn right I do.”

He grins. “You bloody showoff. Fine.”

“And when I win—”

“If you win.”

“She leaves here with me… unharmed.”

“That was always part of the agreement.”

“Well you make sure none of your fucking boys get their grubby hands on her.”

I’m breathing quick now, rage-filled at the thought.

“Don’t worry, Pierce. We’re professionals. But you get one thing straight. The only reason we’re here is because you didn’t finish the fight. The only reason, and I mean the only fucking reason, that Mogilovich is even considering doing a second round, is because he’s a greedy little fucking bastard, and double-or-nothing on a handicapped fighter was too good to pass up.

“Now, I have to front the extra fifty mil out of my own pocket for the little group of partners we’ve got. If you don’t win, you will die. Anton will break your fucking back and leave you here to rot. Nobody will ever find your stinking carcass until it’s nothing but bones after the rats are done with you. They won’t even be able to tell your identity by your dental records because I’ll have Micky here stomp your teeth out of your lifeless fucking mouth, and I will fucking keep them on a necklace, and then I’ll go find your mother, Penny’s father, and whoever the fuck else you have that you care about, and I’ll show them your teeth before I do the same to them. You fucking got that, you fucking cunt?”

I give Fallon a bland look. “Done barking yet?”

Fallon grows flustered. His face goes beet-red. “And your little fucking girlfriend? If you lose, she goes to work for Mogilovich. I’m sure you know what that means.”

I clench my jaw.

He just shrugs. “You reap what you sow. Maybe next time you’ll be a little smarter before crossing somebody like me.”

I spit on the floor, and wipe my nose with a finger. “Where’s the fucking tape?”

He grins, and claps at Micky the medic. He pulls out a roll of tape from his jacket pocket and chucks it at me.

“You got her into this, mate,” Fallon says. “It’s up to you to get her out.”

I start taping up my wrists, making sure they are tight, making sure I minimize all risk to sprain them.

“I’ll get her out,” I say quietly. “And then I’ll fucking break your leg.”

“What’s that, mate?” Fallon says, stepping closer. “Didn’t quite hear you.”

“I’ll… break… your… leg,” I tell him.

“Will you, boy?”

“Bet on it.”

“Come on, mate,” Fallon says, gesturing for me to get up. “It’s time.”

“I need water.”

“You need water?”

“You want a good fight?” I growl. “Hydrate me. Give me something salty to eat, and get me something sweet to drink. If you don’t I’ll cramp up. I’ve been sweating all night.”

“Something salty?” he echoes dumbly.

“Water retention!” I bark. “Gradients… Glucose and sodium. Didn’t you go to fucking school?”

“We’re not exactly near a corner shop, Pierce.”

“We came here in a fucking limousine!” I yell. “You dumb fuck, there’s a bar in the limo!”

Fallon grins, and looks at Micky who promptly runs off. He returns with a pack of peanuts, some candy, an energy drink, and a bottle of water.

“Drink the energy drink,” Fallon says.

“Fuck that,” I tell him. “I don’t need caffeine or yohimbine or whatever the fuck is in there messing with my timing.”

“He’s right, boss,” Micky says. “Might not actually be the best idea.”

“But it’s got, what are they called, electrolytes, right?”

“No fucking caffeine!” I shout, glaring at him. He puts up his hands, as if to say, ‘alright’.

I tear open the pack of peanuts and shove them all into my mouth. I suck the salt off them before spitting the peanuts out, one by one, until the last few that I chew up and eat.

“What a waste,” Fallon grumbles.

Next it’s the candy. They’re the cola-bottle type with sugar stuck on the outside. Perfect. I do the same, suck the sugar off, and then take a big gulp of water and swish it around my mouth. It’ll absorb into my blood stream quicker if it’s dissolved in water.

I drain the rest of the bottle, and hope that it’s enough. The salt and sugar should help me keep water in my tissue, rather than my bladder. The water will regulate my body temperature, lubricate my joints, keep me from cramping.

“So where are we?” I ask. “Judging by the drive, and the roads, I’d say we went west.”

“You’ll find out after you win this fight.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith in me, Fallon, and I’m injured. You might just lose twice as much.”

“Well, then I’ll kill you and give your girlfriend to Mogilovich, and we’ll be even.”

“But you still won’t have your money.”

“This isn’t about the money,” Fallon says, and he puts the tips of his fingers together. “I’m like you. I want to win, and I’ll do it one way or another. Whether that means beating Mogilovich, or beating you, I don’t give a shit.”

“You’re pathetic.”

He laughs, winks at me. “So are you, mate. Now let’s go.”