by Teagan Kade
He points to a box up by the roof, the factory’s main office. “In the clouds, little one.” He stoops down low. “For your sake, let’s hope your boy comes through.”
He leaves.
I stand and look around. The rest of the arena is filling up. I spy the elderly man up the back to the right, in the standing room. He doesn’t see me.
I go to stand myself, but a heavy hand presses me back down into my seat. “Let’s stay seated, shall we?” smiles Ponytail, moving away to hover by the cage, snake eyes trained on me. There goes your escape plan.
The lights dim in the arena save for the cage, cast neon blue. Two porny women in thongs and nothing else hold up cards in the ring before a referee in black and white takes the stage, announcing the first fighters. I don’t hear Max’s name.
A buzzer sounds and the fighting starts.
It’s brutal.
The cage’s within arm’s reach. I can smell the sweat, the blood. The first fight lasts less than a minute, one fighter bringing the other to the ground in front of me and using his knee to hammer down on his opponents face until it’s a bloody mess. I close my eyes, unable to stomach it.
The crowd roars with approval, the Arab man beside me leaps up, applauding. The loser, limp, is dragged away. The blood is mopped up with a towel, but the stain remains, the iron stench heavy in the air.
The next fight starts and once more there is no sign of Max. This one is evenly matched. The two fighters are equally skilled. Five minutes pass, ten, the crowd growing restless, their hunger for blood and violence growing.
I want to be somewhere else. I don’t want to be witness to this, but I’m trapped.
I flinch as one of the fighters is crushed up against the cage, his mouth guard coming free, his teeth gnashing against the metal just feet away. His eyes open, wide, and look into mine. I see the fear there. He’s lost.
He goes down in less than a minute, one of his legs bent awkwardly away from his body.
God, let it end. Please.
Another fight and another pass. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour now. I’m nervous and on edge.
And then the call comes.
“And now for the main event,” calls the announcer. “Kurt ‘Crusher’ O’Neil against the Wild Horse wild card, Max Davis from New York City.”
There’s a murmur through the crowd, rumblings. No one seems to know who Max is.
I look around again. The elderly man is still there, watching intently.
I tighten in my seat.
O’Neil is the first into the cage, stripping away his robe. My throat closes, hands gripping the chair.
O’Neil’s a monster. I thought Dale back at the biker bar was big, but this guy’s a giant. He’s covered from head to foot in tattoos, more ink than skin. His face in particular is designed to look like a skull.
The crowd erupts. He’s clearly a favorite, slamming his hands against the cage, grabbing the ass of the closest ring girl.
There’s no such entrance for Max. He’s nothing compared to O’Neil. They look completely mismatched. It’s unfair! He’s going to kill him! I want to scream, but I hold my tongue.
Max told you to trust him.
It’s all I can do.
Max sees me and nods, wrapping tape around his fists and eyeing off his opponent.
The two separate. “Come on!” screams O’Neil.
The buzzer sounds.
It’s on.
In previous rounds, the fighters were slow to engage, feeling each other out before attacking, but O’Neil comes in full force from the start, roaring and lashing out at Max with a wide kick.
Max is ready for it, bringing his hands up for the block, but the force of it smashes him against the cage. He barely has enough time to get his hands up again before O’Neil is there, punching away like a man possessed, his hands moving like lightning.
Seconds into the fight and already Max is on the back foot.
Max ducks and manages to get away from the cage, landing a cutting blow down O’Neil’s side, but O’Neil whips around with another kick, forcing Max away.
Now the two dance.
“You’re fucking dead,” sneers O’Neil, smiling with golden fronts on. “I’m going send you to the fucking meat floor, Yankee.”
“So stop dancing around like a fucking fairy,” replies Max.
O’Neil bellows again, running forward and collecting Max around the waist, lifting him against the cage and squeezing.
The crowd roars with approval again, people starting to stand from their seats. They’re loving it.
Max’s face is twisted in agony, O’Neil adding more pressure to his ribs.
Come on, I start to chant internally, willing Max to break free. Come on.
I look up at the boxed office. Bobby is standing in the window. It’s dark save for the glowing tip of his cigarette.
Max cries out in pain, attempting to head-butt his opponent. O’Neil’s head splits, blood pouring down his face, but he simply laughs and continues to squeeze.
I don’t like where this is going.
Oh, god.
Max hammers at O’Neil’s back, but the blows fall uselessly.
“Kill that little cunt,” someone yells behind me. “Fuck him up.”
Just when I think Max is about to give in, he manages to get a knee up into O’Neil’s groin, sending him sprawling back.
O’Neil lets go, Max falling to the floor in a heap, staggering on his knees to get away.
O’Neil is crumpled in half, but he’s not down. His teeth, stained red, are gritted together. He growls, slowly stepping back to Max.
“Go!” I call out, but it’s too late.
O’Neil stands over Max, hard against cage. “You’re going to pay for that.”
He kicks him hard in the ribs, enough to force him up the side of the cage.
Max grimaces in pain and continues to crawl.
O’Neil kicks him again, and again, another into the side of Max’s head.
I look away, eyes wet.
Trust him.
I force my eyes back, but any hope I had is leaving fast. Max is in serious trouble.
Face bloody, crimson drops falling from his chin, Max manages to crawl around to the side of the cage until he’s only feet away. I want to reach out to him, tell him it’s going to be okay, but he’s pulled away by O’Neil into the center of the cage.
“Finish him,” the crowd begins to chant. “Finish him.”
The Arab beside me is jumping up and down, adding his voice.
Everyone thinks Max is going to lose.
I look around. They’re all smiling, chanting, everyone except the old man. He stands there watching silently.
O’Neil drops onto Max’s back, slamming his elbow down into his spine. Max flattens, and for a terrible second I think he’s been paralyzed, until he starts to peel himself from the floor. He’s driven back down by the same elbow.
A punch to the side of the head.
I force myself to watch, sick to the stomach.
“Finish him! Finish him!”
O’Neil’s nodding his head, straddling Max’s back, pandering to the crowd. He takes a fistful of Max’s hair and lifts his head up, holding his fist high for the final blow.
It’s over.
Suddenly, Max’s eyes snap open, his hands flattening out before him.
The crowd stops chanting, the expression on O’Neil’s face changing in an instant.
I remember Max’s words: It’s going to get worse before it gets better.
Using the leverage of his hands, Max kicks his head back into O’Neil’s nose. I hear the crunch of it, bone against bone, blood fanning out from O’Neil’s face as his hands come up to his nose. Max uses the opportunity to twist his body, throwing O’Neil off and standing in one smooth motion.
O’Neil’s getting to his feet, but he’s disorientated. Max is already there, energized, prepared. It was all a ruse.
Max works only on O’Ne
il’s head, unleashing blow after blow, holding his opponent in place until he can no longer defend himself.
The arena is dead silent save for the wet sound of flesh on flesh.
Finally, Max stands, lifting his foot and bringing it down hard on O’Neil’s head, knocking him out.
He stands there breathing hard, wiping blood from his mouth. I don’t know how, but he’s done it.
I look back to the elderly man. He’s smiling now. He knew all along Max was going to win. He sees me and winks.
Max turns to me and nods, once.
It’s done.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MAX
They’re still trying to slap some sense into O’Neil when I step out of the cage. Good luck, I think. He’s not dead, but he’s certainly not getting up any time soon.
Still, I’ve taken a beating. Pops always called this being ‘bagged.’ All I know is that it fucking hurts. There’s a ringing in my ears I can’t seem to shake. My ribs feel like they’ve been sandblasted, and my left eye’s glued over. It will all heal, but none of it matters because Dawn is waiting there.
Someone hands me a towel. I wipe the blood from my face as best I can, hand the towel back like it’s a bloody Shroud of Turin.
Before Dawn can get to me, Bobby cuts in front of her, extending his hand. I take it. He’s flanked by the guy with the ponytail. “Well done, my friend. You had me going for a while there.”
“I figured I’d give everyone a show,” I reply.
He smiles, but something’s not right. “That you did. I’ll see you, and your friend, back at the casino.”
He leaves. Dawn comes forward to embrace me. I wince.
“Sorry,” she says, pulling back. “You look…”
“Like I’ve been wrestling a tank?”
“Something like that. I didn’t think you were going to… you know.”
“Win? I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose. We’ve come too far for that.”
I nod to Sam in the crowd. He gives a small salute in return before hobbling away.
Dawn turns, spots him. “Friend of yours?”
“You could say that.”
Dawn brushes off my shoulder. “I put a bet down on you.”
“A what?”
She acts sheepish. “A bet, at the Wild Horse. The guy said you were four-to-one. Is that good?”
I laugh. “If you’re asking if they’re good odds, then no, they’re not. If you’re asking how much you’ve won, it depends how much you put down. What was it? Ten, fifty dollars?”
She bites her lip, taking a receipt from her pocket. “Five-thousand.”
“Five-thousand?” I repeat, stunned. I lower my voice. “Where the hell did you get five grand from?”
“I’m a natural at the game with the cards and the twenty-one thing, what’s it called? Blackcrack or something?”
“Blackjack?”
“Yeah.”
I blow air out through pursed lips. “Jesus. I’m glad you didn’t tell me about this before the fight.”
She sees the look on my face. “Are you mad?”
“That you’ve won twenty-five grand?”
“How much?”
“You heard me.”
She lets go of my arms. “Whoa.”
“Yeah, ‘whoa’.”
“I guess you’ll get your dream after all, if we can get our hands on Rick, because this is far from over.”
She nods. “You’re right, but twenty-five thousand! I mean, dayum.”
“Keep your voice down. The last thing we need is news like that getting out. Do not lose that receipt.”
She pats her jeans pocket. “Safe and sound.”
“Let’s go.” It’s the guy with the ponytail again. “It’s time.”
I take hold of Dawn. “We’re almost there. You good?”
She nods.
We follow ponytail guy out to the limo. I just hope it’s not heading deeper into the desert.
*
We arrive back at the Wild Horse, both of us escorted down to the counting room where Bobby is waiting, sitting at one of the tables, stacks of bills before him like the first time we met.
The door closes when we’re through, but three goons wait inside with us, standing at the rear. It’s not a good sign.
I push Dawn behind me and step forward to Bobby. “I won, you give up Rick. That was the agreement.”
Bobby stands. “Relax, superstar. I’m a man of my word.”
I’m keen to get the fuck out of here. I’m exhausted, tired. I can barely stand. “So, you’ll do it?”
He looks up at the ceiling, his face screwing up. “Nah. I don’t think I will.”
I run forward, almost making it to him before I’m restrained by the goons. Normally I could fight them off, but the match has sapped all my strength. I’m weak and Bobby’s taking advantage of it. “Saul will hear about this, you fucker.”
“Will he?” says Bobby. “Because dead men don’t talk, my friend, and your time’s up.”
I struggle harder, but I can’t do it, my arms are pinned behind me, a foot driven into my back bringing me to my knees.
Bobby stalks closer, Dawn off to the side.
“I don’t care what happens to me, but leave her out of this,” I shout.
Bobby stops before her, looking her up and down. “Oh, I’ve got something in mind for her, don’t you worry.”
I summon all my strength, managing to get free but easily reined back in. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
Bobby stops, crouching in front of me, inspecting the floor. “Enough chit-chat.” He speaks to the goons. “Deal with it.”
I cannot fucking believe I didn’t see this coming. I’m pissed. “I fucking won, and you’re doing this? What do you think’s going to happen when Saul hears about this?”
“Let him come,” laughs Bobby. “He’s been biting on that Big Apple of his for too long.
Bobby walks forward until I can smell the nicotine on his breath, the filthy, grimy stink of it. “You were supposed to drop like a good boy, but no, you had to be the hero, didn’t you?”
What the fuck? “You wanted me to lose?”
“Out,” he tells the goons. “No evidence.”
I struggle again, but it’s useless.
“Max?” asks Dawn. She’s shaking against the wall. Bobby walks over and takes her by the arm. “Come on, green eyes. We’ve got business of our own.”
“Touch her and I’ll fucking kill you!” I scream, but the door closes. They’re gone.
I’m done.
She’s done.
It’s all gone to hell.
*
I’ve been out to the desert before. God knows how many bodies are out here, how many deals have gone down, lives broken.
I sit next to a goon in the back of a Hummer, another driving, the slick black of the road turning into a dusty trail and then no trail at all as we head deep into the hills.
I don’t speak. I don’t react. I try to think my way out of this, use my head, but I keep returning to Bobby, my mind conjuring up what Bobby’s going to do with Dawn. He won’t kill her. No, a pretty girl like that is too valuable, so there’s that, but the alternative might be worse. Whatever it is, it’s not going to be a cocktail party by the pool. I’ve got to get back to her, whatever it takes. That is my number-one priority.
You’re outnumbered, outgunned. You’re going to shout these pricks to death?
But I can’t give up.
I won’t.
By the time we arrive in a shallow depression, bordered on all sides by sand and rock, the sun’s low. The goons’ shadows are long as they pull me from the car. They wrench me down, gripping me by the cuffs keeping my hands locked behind my back.
The heat lingers out here, but it’s cooling fast. People have frozen to death in the desert.
“Where?” says one goon to the other.
The other wipes his brow. They’re both in suits. They haven’t bothered to take off
their jackets, which probably means they don’t expect this to take very long. Goon Two points at a group of cacti. “There.”
“Isn’t that where he buried the last one?” Goon One asks.
“So fucking what?” says the other. He gestures down to the ground. “You want to put him here, with the others? We’re running out of fucking room. Over there, and let’s be quick about it. I’ve got a date tonight.”
“With your hand?” I suggest. “Or your mother?”
The punch connects right on the edge of my jaw, kicking me down onto one knee. I spit out a wad of blood. “I know little girls who hit harder than that.”
I cop a boot in the side for that one, but it’s distraction enough.
You see, the benefit of being celled up with a contortionist for three months is the education. I grimace as I dislocate my thumb, keeping the cuffs out of sight, one cuff now dangling free. I grip the loose cuff, fist it up like a knuckle duster… and wait. The timing’s got to be perfect.
“On your fucking feet, pretty boy.”
I’m led across the depression to the grove of cacti. Arriving, I see the ground has recently been disturbed. How many bodies are here? Hundreds? Thousands? It’s a big area, and Bobby has a lot of enemies. They all do.
I’m not about to become part of the landscape.
Goon One gets out his gun, a Desert Eagle, funnily enough. He holds it up.
“What?” I ask. “You’re not going to make me get down on my knees?”
“What’s the fucking difference?” says Goon Two.
I shrug. “Thought you might like me to suck your cock. I know how you guys love that gay shit.”
The second goon looks at the first on the other side of me. “Can you believe this guy?”
It’s all the distraction I need.
I snap backwards, out of the line of fire, grabbing Goon One’s arm, wrapping my own around it and directing his gun to the second goon’s leg. I fire.
Goon Two goes down, his knee cap blown out. He reaches for his own weapon, but I fire again, half of his fingers gone.
He cries out as I use my cuffed hand to strike down on Goon One’s wrist, dislodging the Desert Eagle. It falls to the ground and I go to work on his face, metal meeting flesh. He goes down hard, a crosshatch of bloody cuts on his face.
I turn to the second goon, busy trying to use his only five-fingered hand to pull his gun free.
