by Jon Mills
After filling in the hole and zipping up the bag with all his belongings, he placed a call for a ride to take him to the Greyhound station in Telluride. He couldn’t fly to Santa Fe as that would have required getting his guns through security and since 9/11 security was tight. Besides it was easier to remain undetected using the bus system, as there were minimal CCTV cameras in the depot, less security and fewer people.
While waiting for his ride, Jack sat on the retaining wall outside his home and gazed back at it. It would be the last time he returned and the last time he would attempt to settle. Eddie had been right.
Trouble seemed to follow him like a plague.
He clenched his jaw. He should have listened.
An hour later, Jack climbed aboard the crowded Greyhound bus. The door hissed closed as he took a seat at the back against the window and looked out solemnly as it rolled out heading south for Santa Fe.
Chapter 5
One Day Earlier
The jeering of the crowd drowned the agonizing groan of a beaten man. It was midnight on a warm Saturday night when Tyson Miles took the last tickets from a group of three at the Railyard, an underground parking garage in Santa Fe. It was on lockdown for a few hours. Night security had been paid off, and multiple escape routes had been highlighted in case the police caught wind of the illegal event. A stream of exuberant people crammed into a wide space with concrete pillars. The air smelled of sweat and whimpers of pain could be heard. Next to Tyson, his girlfriend Carla Valencia snapped gum and casually thumbed through her phone. The glare lit up her almond-shaped face, and dyed red hair that was pulled up into a severe ponytail.
“That’s the last one, let’s go. Nicky is up next,” Tyson said, eager to speak to his friend before the next fight. He gave a nod to a security guard who brought down the gate to prevent anyone else from entering. As they squeezed their way through a knot of people, a look of glee lit up Carla’s face at the sight of the previous fighter being removed on a stretcher. Unlike most women, she got off on the gruesome nature of the fight game. The unknown man’s face was beaten to a pulp, and blood covered the front of his bare chest. He’d got off lightly.
“Tyson, when are you fighting?” she asked.
“Soon. I’m in negotiations with Jeremiah.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last year.”
“Carla, he’s trying to find me the right fight.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Would you stop nagging at me!”
She rolled her eyes as he guided her through the sweaty mob of men and women whose lust for blood was only matched by their thirst for the alcohol that was being handed out at a ridiculously low price. It was just one more way Jeremiah boosted the event’s earnings. The cage was made from crowd control barricades, and the garage’s concrete pillars. Surrounding that were close to two hundred people. Some had purchased tickets at various prices in order to claim a spot near the front with an unobstructed view. It was the eighteenth underground fight night that Tyson had attended and he hoped it would be the last one he was a spectator at. Every brawl was held at a secret location only made known online a few hours before the fight. The turnout varied each time but the fight game was always the same — five fights of the night, bare-knuckles and no rules. The fights lasted for five 5-minute rounds, and unless there was a knockout or submission, the crowd’s cheers determined the winner. If it was considered a draw, they would fight one more round. It was brutal but it offered up-and-coming amateur fighters a way to hone their skills, and a chance at landing a professional contract with MMA fight scouts who were hunting for the next champion.
That’s what Tyson had his eyes set on — to be a champion, and to have a career as a professional fighter in the UFC. The only hurdle was those kinds of contracts weren’t handed out like candy. It took time to make a name for yourself. It required the right contacts to land that first fight. And it meant plowing your way through an army of animals. But when it all came together the payoff was incredible. He’d seen many guys struggle for years in the sanctioned amateur circuit only to fight one time in the illegal underground scene and walk away with more money than they would get in three professional fights. That was the appeal. That and of course the bragging rights. Shaky footage of fights had shown up online, spurring interest and fueling the need for more fights. And like any savvy businessman, Jeremiah Pope had risen to the occasion.
Tyson spotted him through the crowd.
Pope was an intimidating man both in stature and reputation. With his six foot of solid muscle, his shirts looked one size too small. Slicked-back hair, and in his late thirties, he was rarely seen outside of a suit or without arm candy. Native to Santa Fe, he ran a seedy fitness and training facility next to an auto repair shop and was the brains behind Rage in a Cage, the largest no-holds-barred caged fighting event in New Mexico. As a major fight promoter, he’d already helped numerous amateurs make it into Bellator and the UFC and it was because of this that fighters trusted him. They saw him as their golden ticket to the big time and he saw them as his ticket to wealth even if it was their lives on the line.
“Hey Nicky,” Tyson said, raising two fingers as he shouldered his way to the front. Nicky Martinez was twenty-eight, nine years older than him. Hispanic, shaved head, lean and with years of experience in and out of the cage, he’d experienced all the highs and lows that came with professional fighting until multiple ACL injuries forced him out. For a time he was Jeremiah’s winning ticket, the poster boy for what could be achieved with skill, determination and the right promoter in his corner. After losing his contract with the UFC, burning his way through his earnings and having no other skills to fall back on, he’d returned to the underground slugfest to put food on the table, and so far it had paid off with zero defeats and a line of fighters challenging him every week.
And though many were jealous of his undefeated record, Tyson saw him like a big brother, an inspiration, and a role model. They came from the same streets. He’d grown up watching his fights and when others turned their back on him after he was cut from the sport, Tyson hadn’t. It was for that reason that Nicky took him under his wing, introduced him to Jeremiah and managed to get him a job collecting tickets and promoting the event online. It wasn’t ideal but it was a foot in the door. Pope was leery of anyone outside of his circle. Everyone was a potential threat that could bring law enforcement down on his head. And under state law, anyone that was involved in an unlicensed fight could be charged with a misdemeanor — that meant promoters, card girls, ticket collectors, fighters, all of them could be slapped with a fine and punished with up to a year behind bars. There was too much money to be made so Pope couldn’t take chances. However, he trusted Nicky so he’d given Tyson a shot. Since that day Tyson had been pestering him for a fight but the response was always the same — you don’t want this, kid, stick to promotion, doing runs for me and collecting tickets. Nicky had put in a good word, tried to land him a fight but it only fell on deaf ears. Pope was a hard man to convince. It was all about money and unless he was willing to take a fall, chances were Pope wouldn’t give him a fight without proving himself. But that was the catch-22. He couldn’t prove himself without a fight and since Pope called the shots around Santa Fe, he couldn’t do anything but be patient.
Nicky squatted on an overturned milk crate while his corner man slathered his face with Vaseline to minimize tearing. Tyson placed a hand on his shoulder. “Looking good, man. You know who you’re up against tonight?”
“Ah, yeah, some guy from Albuquerque. Doesn’t matter. It’s just another face and body. Put ’em front of me and I’ll knock ’em down, isn’t that right, Alejandro?” Alejandro shook his head. He was a long-time friend of Nicky’s. He’d been cornering him since his amateur days back when he was eighteen.
“Hey, uh, Nicky, I was thinking maybe you should consider sitting this one out.”
Nicky turned and frowned. “Are you kidding me?”
Tyson loo
ked around nervously. “It’s just I heard through the grapevine that this fighter isn’t a joke. He’s undefeated and rumor has it he’s put a few guys six foot under.”
“Huh. About time they put me in front of a real challenge. I’ve been getting tired of these choirboys who are all talk and no action.”
“I’m serious, Nicky.”
Nicky slapped Alejandro’s hands away from his face and gave Tyson a hard look. “Kid, I’ve been at this game for over ten years and I’ve never once backed down from a fight. Every time they put someone up against me, naysayers say that fight will be the one where I lose. If I believed that I wouldn’t be here now. This is easy money.”
“But…”
Nicky stood up and wrapped a hand around his head.
“No buts, Tyson. You talk the big game — wanting a shot, wanting to go pro and, kid, you’ve got some raw talent but that shit only gets you so far. If you want to run with the big dogs you’ve got to be willing to fight anyone, anytime, anywhere. That’s where the money is made. You hear me?”
He nodded.
“Now I’m gonna go out there and do what?”
Tyson offered back a thin smile. “Make this look easy.”
“Exactly.” He slammed a fist into the palm of his hand several times and rolled his head around. “Undefeated. Killed people.” Nicky laughed. “Whatever next?” He motioned for Tyson to take a spot while he limbered up. Tyson took Carla’s hand and got out of the way as Nicky made his way into the cage. The announcer’s nickname was Gimpy; he was a four-foot dwarf with a bowler hat and a cigar in his mouth. He slipped into the center of the octagon and yelled at the top of his voice while beating the ground with a metal walking stick. “Ladies and gentlemen, next up we have the fight of the night. This is what you’ve all been waiting for. The Duke against the Legend, Santa Fe against Albuquerque, two undefeated champions will go toe-to-toe for a filthy amount of money. And as you know, the odds are four to one for Santa Fe’s golden child. To my left we have our homeboy hero, thirty-one fights and zero losses, he’s KO’d the best, ended more careers, rearranged more faces and inspired more fighters than anyone else in the region. Give it up for Nicky ‘The Legend’ Martinez!”
Tyson surveyed the crowd as they let out a deafening roar and Nicky walked into the center of the cage and did his signature roundhouse kick followed by a back flip. He eyed Tyson with a smile and winked at him as he strolled back to his side of the cage.
“And to my right we have a monster of a man hailing from Albuquerque, the home of the Dukes. Twenty-six wins and zero losses, he needs no introduction as his reputation precedes him. We have the reigning, and undefeated champion, the beast from down under, the wrecking machine himself, ‘The Duke’!”
Heads turned as a section of the crowd parted like the Red Sea. A brawny, oversized man surged forward. Rarely ever seen outside of Albuquerque, he was an African American with a bald head and tattoos covering him from his belly to his cranium. Covering the lower portion of his face was a black-and-white skull bandanna. As he stepped into the octagon with a look of death in his eyes the crowd went wild. Around his neck were thick gold chains. He removed them and handed them to his corner man before pulling the bandanna away to reveal a terrible burn over his lower jaw.
Tyson glanced at Nicky and he smiled back but even he could tell that this fighter wasn’t of the caliber he usually went up against. Nicky had fought large guys but The Duke towered over Nicky as Gimpy brought them into the center of the cage.
“Tonight we are changing things up. There will be no five 5-minute rounds. Tonight these warriors will battle it out until only one man is left standing. No rules. No interference from the ref. There will be only one winner.”
Nicky glanced at Pope across the room and tossed his hands up but Pope just smiled back. Tyson frowned, a look of fear masking his face. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how they did it. As dangerous as these fights were, their corner men could stop the fight anytime if they wanted to, and fighters had a chance to catch a breath between rounds. This flew in the face of that.
“Remember, I want a dirty fight. If you want to touch fists, go ahead.”
Nicky raised his only to have The Duke shove him back. The sheer force sent him sailing into the steel barricade. It clattered and the crowd pushed him forward. No. This didn’t feel right. They needed to call this fight off. Tyson approached Alejandro but he said it was out of his control. Pope called the shots. Tyson elbowed his way over to him.
“Pope. What’s going on?”
“It’s a fight, kid. Watch and see.”
“Call it off.”
He scoffed. “Now why would I do that?” he asked without even looking at Tyson. His gaze was fixed on the fighters as Gimpy yelled, “FIGHT!”
“He’ll kill him. You’ll lose money.”
Pope’s eyebrow shot up. “Will I?”
Tyson stared. He made it sound as if he’d bet against Nicky.
“There are rules.”
“I make the rules.”
Tyson looked over his shoulder just in time to see Nicky do a roundhouse kick to The Duke’s face. The animal barely flinched. His jaw was like granite. Nicky fired off several of his best shots, striking him in the plexus and face, but had little impact. The Duke pressed forward putting pressure on Nicky, causing him to circle, and yet not once had The Duke taken a shot. Then it happened, like a double-barrel shotgun exploding faster than Nicky could react. Nicky hit the ground hard spitting blood.
Tyson jabbed his finger at the ground. “Pope. Please. Stop the fight.”
“Why, you want a shot?”
“Not like this.”
“Tyson, back away or you’re fired.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Tyson stared back with a blank expression as Pope ignored him, his eyes wild with excitement as he watched. He’d heard of how Pope dealt with anyone who tried to stand against him. Although he was hesitant to walk away, Tyson used common sense and melted back into the crowd. He returned to Carla who was pressed up against the steel barricade yelling at the top of her voice. She didn’t care. This was just another fight to her.
Inside the octagon Nicky was fighting for his life. The Duke was like a pit bull, when he latched on to him he wouldn’t let go. Despite every effort to escape his grasp Nicky couldn’t. In the short time Tyson had been speaking to Pope, The Duke rained down skull-crushing shots and caused huge welts on his face and a massive hematoma on his forehead. For a brief second The Duke pulled back and raised his arms, flexing and gnashing his teeth as he paced around. Tyson yelled for Alejandro to intervene but he shook his head. Tyson slipped into the cage and dropped down to where Nicky was coughing up blood. One eye was sealed shut, his nose had a huge gash in it and from the look of his swollen hand, it was broken.
“Get him out of there!” Someone yelled for Tyson to be removed.
“Nicky!”
Nicky raised a limp arm towards him. Before Tyson could do anything he was dragged back by a horde of spectators.
The crowd screamed, “Finish him! Finish him!”
Somehow Nicky managed to scramble to his feet, yelling and punching the air with one hand. Blood dripped down into his mouth. Unsatisfied, bloodthirsty spectators screamed and pushed against the barricade, their drinks spilling to the ground. Held back by several of Pope’s men, all Tyson could do was watch as The Duke continued his violent assault. Pulverizing him like a piece of steak. Finally a sharp sidekick to the head put Nicky on his back. The Duke landed on him and began his ground and pound techniques — a series of brain-damaging blows that would have usually been stopped by the ref but now no one was stepping in. Nicky was limp and clearly unconscious.
“Stop the fight!” Tyson yelled but his voice was lost in the hysteria.
Finally, Pope gave a nod and The Duke’s team rushed in to end the fight. It was like trying to restrain a lion. It took four of them to drag him off the bloody mess.
<
br /> “Get off. Get off!” Tyson screamed, managing to wiggle his way out from their grasp. He rushed in and dropped to his knees beside Nicky. “Call a medic!” There was so much blood — too much. Tyson lowered his head to listen to his breathing. It was shallow. A few wisps of air produced blood bubbles on his lips.
“Someone help!”
No one was paying attention. They were caught up in the thrill and agony of the event. Winners and losers reacted in cries and cheers; many who’d paid entry had placed big money on the fight, most on Nicky, as he’d never lost. Only then, when the fight had ended, did Alejandro come to his aid. “Move. I’ll take him to the medical center.” He pushed Tyson to one side and scooped up Nicky onto a stretcher, and he and one of their team carried him out.
Helpless, that’s how he felt.
All he could do was look on as it all played out in slow motion.
Rage boiled over as he saw Pope congratulate The Duke without a thought for Nicky.
Against his better judgment, Tyson got up and dashed over. One of The Duke’s team tried to cut him off but he wasn’t fast enough. Tyson cracked him on the chin, knocking him over. Before he could reach The Duke, several of Pope’s guys ran at him and dragged him away kicking and yelling.
“Get the fuck off!”
He felt someone jab him in the kidney before they tossed him down and kept him on the ground using their feet. He saw Pope approach through their legs as he continued to curse and struggle to get up. They parted and Pope loomed over him, his shadow darkening the ground.
“I told you to stop the fight,” Tyson yelled.
“And I did.”
“Yeah, too late.”
“Nicky knew what he was getting into.”
