Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin)

by Lori Jean Grace

  “Yeah, and what’s more,” Nikky added, “she’s letting you see her here, in this place. She’ll be sweaty and junky from her bout with some ninja bitch in the Muay Thai ring.”

  “Well then, I’m honored to see her all messed up,” he teased.

  “You bet your ass you’re honored,” Deja said. “I don’t care how many times I’ve been with a man. He’ll never see me looking crazy from fighting in a gym.”

  “Michelle takes this stuff super seriously,” Nikky said. “For the past couple weeks, she’s studied videos of the other woman’s fighting style. I didn’t realize how much preparation it took, but apparently she always worked or trained on some part of it for the full three years she lived overseas.”

  “Is this the same thing as kickboxing?” Deja asked.

  “No,” Trevon said. “Muay Thai is not as flashy, and is often more vicious. They can use their elbows and knees. It’s a lot more like street fighting, with rules.”

  “Oh. That sounds dangerous.”

  “It can be,” Trevon said. “Do you know anything about her opponent?”

  “Michelle said her name is—now get this: Sumanwan Upananchai,” Nikky said. “No wonder she goes by Kim. Apparently, she’s some high‑ranking fighter in Thailand.”

  “How high?” Trevon asked.

  “Top twenty? Yeah, that’s what Michelle said. This Kim is a top‑twenty ranked professional.”

  “No shit!” Trevon let out a low whistle. “And they’re fighting here, in what, a sparring match?”

  “Uh‑huh. Something about Michelle not wanting people to know about it,” Nikky explained. “The other woman agreed because apparently it’s some inside pride thing their trainers set up.”

  “That’s probably an understatement,” Trevon said. “The Muay Thai thing is a huge national pride issue with the fighters. Everyone involved in the sport is extremely serious. When a boxer here in the US loses, he loses a fight, maybe some ranking and money. For a Thai fighter, losing a Muay Thai match to a foreigner is to lose face, for him, his trainers, his club, and even the whole country.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” Deja said.

  “Yeah, when Michelle invited me, I read up on it, watched some of the more famous fights on YouTube . . .” Through the entire time they talked, Trevon kept an eye on Michelle, who perched in apparent quiet contemplation, though her posture virtually screamed of tightly wound energy looking for release.

  At the opening bell, Michelle moved forward much faster than any professional fighter. No testing, no sizing up her opponent; in the first few seconds, Michelle made a quick feint right, then left, then a feint with the left foot, lean back on the right, a twist of the hips, and a solid snap‑kick to Kim’s right ribs. Kim’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Michelle danced out and with excitement in her eyes, dove back in, landing two of five punches.

  Wham, wham, BAM, wham, BAM . . .

  Kim, lips compressed, eyes narrowed, countered with an attempted swing and head kick. She found air.

  Michelle found Kim. She landed a low kick to the back of Kim’s knee, knocking her slightly off balance. Equally out of balance, Michelle landed a right haymaker, slamming her right fist into the side of Kim’s head.

  It was awkward and ugly. It was very effective.

  “Holy shit!” Trevon yelled and jumped out of his chair.

  The war was on. Both fighters attacked with a ferocity Trevon had never seen.

  When the bell rang, a visibly shaken Kim went to her corner.

  Michelle bounced to her own, where the petite Asian woman from earlier waited for her. She made Michelle lean against the corner pole while she worked on some swelling below her left eye.

  In the second round, Kim landed a huge right kick to the side of Michelle’s head. Michelle’s legs wobbled, her guard dropped, and she fell back against the ropes, stunned.

  “No!” Deja screamed, launching to her feet, and in one, long step, she reached the edge of the ring. She started to climb up but Trevon grabbed Deja’s jean’s waistband and yanked her back.

  Kim moved in for the kill and it looked like the fight would end. But coming in, she met a strong jab to her nose that snapped her head back. Michelle got her legs under herself and danced away.

  Michelle took two steps away, then snap reversed and charged in with a brutal combination—a low kick, step in, two punches, and a knee kick. None of them did any damage, but the message was clear. Kim needed to either break bones or knock Michelle out to stop her. That killer kick had only been a short‑lived inconvenience.

  The bell rang for the end of round two, and both fighters dropped their arms, ignored each other, and headed toward their corners. This time, Michelle relaxed on the offered stool. Breathing hard, shoulders back, head up, eyes on her opponent, she exuded confidence, telling the world she was focused and in charge.

  Again Trevon pulled Deja back by her waistband when she tried to crowd up to Michelle’s corner. “Not now, Deja. Any interruption could break her concentration. Sit down and watch.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Deja said. “I mean, my God! I knew it would be a fight, but not this. This is, it’s, it’s . . . I don’t fucking know what it is. This is vicious!”

  Over the next three rounds, Michelle hit, kicked high, kicked low, and spun using the backs of her elbows, faster and more frequently than in even the most broadcasted professional fights. Kim matched her, if not quite blow‑for‑blow and kick‑for‑kick, then certainly in heart.

  Early in the fourth round, both fighters were knocked down. Kim’s left eye became a small, swollen slit, while her nose continued to drip blood. Michelle spun, landing a solid blow with the back of her left elbow, and Kim dropped a second time in the round. The referee stepped in. Kim barely struggled to her feet. Hands propped on her knees, she hung her head.

  “That’s gotta be it,” Nikky said.

  Kim shook her head, then straightened up. The ref asked her a question. She nodded, then nodded again, and the ref stepped back. He motioned for the fight to continue.

  Kim bounced on her toes, rolled her neck, nodded, hunched, then relaxed, set her shoulders, and moved in. Michelle landed a low kick to Kim’s calf, then danced back. The bell rang.

  In the fifth round the punishment really showed with determination and grit marking the fight. Breathing through their mouths, both opponents wore the effects of the exhausting pounding they gave and received in the first four rounds. But there was no clenching or holding. From the first bell to the end, the rivals fought with a constant barrage of kicks and blows, dancing back and pressing forward. The sheer brutality of it eclipsed anything Trevon had ever seen, in or out of the ring.

  At the end, even though both fighters bled from several cuts, when the bell rang, they hugged and found their corners where their trainers waited.

  Had the match been sanctioned, the victory could have gone either way. Michelle led some rounds, while Kim took some; overall, on points, the fight was too close to call. Between the two women, though, fighter against fighter, the fight was not as close.

  Deja, Nikky, and Trevon all climbed into the ring, getting in the way and congratulating Michelle.

  A moment later, Kim approached and bowed deeply. “Honorable Michelle, thank you for teaching me so much humility. Never before did I feel my life could be forfeit in a fight.”

  Michelle bowed in return, showing respect for her opponent’s skill. “Honorable Sumanwan. Your talent, style, and training have made you into the champion you are. Between us, you’re the better boxer. I’m happy we met in the ring, where I could learn from you.”

  Michelle’s bow was not quite as deep as Kim’s had been and the shorter bow told the story Trevon suspected.

  “Michelle,” he said, “if the fight had been on the streets, no ref, would Kim have been able to walk away?”

  Michelle paused, eyes looking up left, then right, then she shook
her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Holy shit, girl!” Deja said. “How are you acting all casual‑like as if that wasn’t just the baddest fight of the whole damned century? Jesus Christ, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed what you did.”

  “Yeah, it was a tough fight,” Michelle replied, “and I won. To still be standing feels good—real good. What else can I say?”

  “We know what to say,” Deja said. “You’re badass. Probably the badassest woman ever.”

  Trevon stood back while the women jumped around and talked.

  Mr. Kobayashi, the owner of the gym, stepped up to Michelle. She bowed to him, then turned to her friends. “Hey, guys, I need to talk with my sensei a bit, then I’ll get cleaned up. How about we meet for lunch at Scott’s in, say, an hour?”

  “Sounds good,” Trevon said. “Or, we can wait here for you.”

  “No, I’m good to drive; you guys go ahead. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  *

  “Hey, Scott!” Deja boomed when the three of them walked into Scott’s Diner. “Michelle’s on her way to join us for lunch in a while. This is Trevon, one of her friends. It is okay if we hang out here to wait for her?”

  Scott waved. “Hi, Deja. Hey, Nikky. Hello, Trevon. No problem, if you don’t mind sitting at the counter until a table opens.”

  “Hey, Scott.” Trevon gave him a nod.

  Deja lifted her brow. “You guys act like you’ve met before,” she said. “Do you know each other?”

  Nikky cut her eyes to her friend. “Think about it, Deja. Of course they know each other. Trevon’s been in here getting takeout. Isn’t that right, Trevon?”

  Trevon winked at Deja.

  “Oh, silly me,” Deja said, laughing. “I’m always missing those things.”

  “And, girl, that’s one of the many reasons we all love you so much,” Nikky said. “You’re always a hoot.”

  “Can I get you anything while you wait?” Scott asked.

  “Just drinks, for now,” Trevon replied. “We’ll wait for Michelle to order lunch.”

  About forty‑five minutes later, when Michelle walked into Scott’s, Trevon, Deja, and Nikky stood up from their newly acquired table to clap. The diner patrons stopped and stared, and Michelle responded with a huge grin.

  Deja addressed the lunch crowd. “Everybody, this is Michelle, and she just kicked ass this morning in a monster boxing match. Give it up for my good friend and champion, Michelle!” Everyone joined in the second round of applause.

  Michelle smiled at the crowd. “Thanks, everyone.”

  Nikky gave her a hug, then pulled her over to their table. “Girl, you’re the shit! I didn’t know anyone could fight that hard. That was some kind of something.”

  Scott came over. “Big day?” he asked.

  “Man, you shoulda seen her,” Nikky said. “Our girl raised the roof. She kicked ass in the ring today.”

  “Oh, Scott,” Deja said, “she was like, what, fucking Jason Bourne and the energizer bunny!”

  “No you didn’t!” Nikky cried. “Did you just call Michelle a funny, furry bunny toy?”

  “No, you know I didn’t mean it that way.” Deja cocked her head as her eyebrows tried to crawl up into her hair. “I meant, she didn’t stop for nothing, like the Terminator. Yeah, like the Terminator.” She laughed at her screw up. “What, you want me to have words when I’m this excited? Oh, Michelle, you were awesome!”

  Scott raised an eyebrow at Trevon, who lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I know when I’m outclassed. Good thing when it comes to women, I’m a lover, not a fighter. I’d be real embarrassed to get my ass kicked by my date.”

  “So I’m your date now, eh?” Michelle said.

  “If you and the ladies don’t have big plans after lunch . . .”

  “What do you say, ladies. . . . any big plans?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Nikky said. “This was exactly the break I needed. I’m going back to sit with Lil Taye.”

  “How is she?” Scott asked.

  “I checked with my mom on the drive over and she said there was no change. The docs say it’s good to be in the room and talk to her. When I leave here, I’ll spend the afternoon reading to her.”

  “Don’t look at me, either,” Deja said. “I start my rotation on the evening shift today, and I have a bunch of errands to take care of before I get to work, so I’m out of here after we eat.”

  “Oh, you guys waited to eat,” Michelle said. “You’re so sweet. Thanks.”

  After lunch, Nikky and Deja headed over to Anglewatts, while Michelle and Trevon headed up the hill to Michelle’s cottage.

  Trevon walked into Michelle’s living room and gently picked up the sleeping kitten. “Look at this,” he said, “you got a little pussy.”

  “Careful what you say about my pussy.”

  He exaggerated his examination of the kitten. “Well, you have the best‑looking pussy I’ve ever seen. Why, I’d bet it’s the best pussy ever.”

  “You’re so full of shit, you know that?” She pulled her top over her head and kicked off her shoes. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll let you play with my pussy.”

  “Promise?”

  “I sure do.” Her pants hit the floor. “Now put down my tom cat and let’s focus on a little kitty.”

  Thirteen: Back To Work

  MICHELLE LIKED ATLANTA. She flew in early to give her extra time to check the Fountain of Rings at Centennial Olympic Park before her scheduled meeting with Mr. Jones.

  Two security men arrived. Both stood a bit taller than average, and they approached from different directions, were dressed in different yet unobtrusive styles and they gave off the same vibe of being far more than bouncers or bar brawlers. Probably experts in multiple mixed martial arts; quiet muscle able to handle themselves. On one of the guards, a loose‑fitting bomber‑style jacket covered a shoulder rig, while on the other, a well‑tailored sport coat hid his.

  After the men checked the area, Mr. Sport Coat nodded once, and from behind him, Mr. Jones strolled over and sat down on one of the benches facing the fountain. He was two minutes early for their appointment. Michelle purposefully walked over to him.

  “Hello, Ms. Angelique. Please sit down.” The average‑sized White man appeared to be in his late forties; a light sprinkling of gray through his dark brown hair matched the creases around his eyes, and his clothes, while expensive, allowed him to blend in. The only thing that stood out were his eyes. A common brown, they penetrated with the flat, reptilian stare of remorseless death.

  Michelle took the offered seat. Calm, relaxed, and alert, she looked him in the eye as she waited.

  “You arrived seventeen minutes ago by foot, coming from the backside of the fountain. Did you enjoy your stroll through the park?” His question was neither a challenge nor a real question. It was one professional telling another he took appropriate precautions.

  “Yes, thank you for asking.” Michelle didn’t tell him she’d monitored the street for an hour before he arrived. She watched his Lincoln Town Car pull up and let his guards out. They stood in position twenty minutes before she allowed them to spot her. She also didn’t say, before moving to the street, she’d observed the area for two hours from an upstairs café window.

  To tell him she’d watched his men set up security for any of their previous meetings would be a professional insult. Both understood the other reconned the meetings; how much or how long remained the only questions. Michelle enjoyed their small game of preparation in this busy public place; pitting her wits against him kept her sharp.

  “Your target is a woman: Ms. Gavrikov in the Russian Mafia. She’ll be in Acapulco, Mexico for three to six days as the guest of a security‑minded organization. You can expect her to be heavily guarded the entire time. The host organization is expanding. Their normal business is drugs, but Ms. Gavrikov will be bringing them Russian and
Ukrainian women.”

  A Mexican drug cartel was making a move into prostitution and they planned to use the slave trade to bring in the women. The hit probably came from the competition, who’d typically be the locals wanting to remain the big dog in the prostitution business. Often, they used local girls, but slave prostitutes would tip the balance in favor of those who could pay for them. Funny how it pissed some people off.

  “Our client’s trademark is to hang the bodies by the heels in a semi‑public place,” he said. “They do not wish to leave a signature with this particular intervention, so they have requested you do not trademark this job. The security of both our target and her host are reputed to be substantial and effective. Also, Gavrikov’s host enjoys close ties with the police and port authorities. Will you need any assistance from us on this project?”

  “Is this a preliminary business meeting, or a delivery?” Michelle asked.

  “It’s a delivery. The cargo is scheduled to arrive via shipping container at the Port of Acapulco.”

  “By ‘cargo,’ you mean slave prostitutes?”

  “Yes. Women are the cargo. You will be provided with a car and weapons within certain limits. Due to the expected high level of security, we required the client to pay a premium. The payment to you is seventy‑five thousand, plus eight for expenses. They want to maintain a distance, so they won’t provide you with hotel or other accommodations. All of the details are in this folder.” Mr. Jones offered Michelle a large envelope.

  Top‑level criminals were the most difficult to assassinate. They never relaxed; they always kept their guard up, always knew what to be on the alert for. This looked to be one of the most dangerous contracts she’d ever taken.

  So why am I taking the damned thing?

  It wasn’t the money. Her job as a citizen paid okay and her stash in several banks and gold depositories in Asia totaled over a million dollars. She could retire and, with relative ease, slide into a regular life. Had she become an adrenaline junkie, like so many people in her business? She didn’t think so.