Underground Fighters Trilogy Boxed Set

by Aislinn Kearns

Diego’s hand froze on the door. He turned to her, trying to express with his gaze how utterly serious his next words would be. “You don’t. Ask too many questions around here and you might get disappeared or killed. It’s not worth the risk. Go back to your own life and leave whatever you’ve got going on behind you. Trust me.”

  With that—his first virtuous move in a good long while—Diego slammed the truck door shut and turned on the engine. Red—Rosalyn—stared after him, but didn’t try to stop him as he backed out of the parking lot.

  As he drove away, he couldn’t help hoping she’d take his advice to get far away from this place, and its misery. It had a way of sucking people into its orbit so they could never leave. Not alive, anyway. Diego had a plan to escape, but in the meantime, he couldn’t let someone like that near those fights. Not unless he wanted to see all that fire extinguished.

  Permanently.

  Chapter 2

  Rosalyn twisted her pen as her boss, Anthony Rogers, considered her. She’d managed to stop the bouncing leg before it started, but she needed something to help dispel the nervous energy running through her veins.

  Anthony’s office consisted of two chairs, one desk laden with an out-of-date computer and piles of grey files and folders, and two over-stuffed filing cabinets. Rosalyn’s right foot currently rested on another stack of files that had migrated to the floor.

  “So, you’re saying you actually went there? You found the fights?” Anthony asked, eyebrows raised in surprised.

  Rosalyn grinned, a little smug. “Yup.”

  “How’d you find them?”

  “The event you sent me to cover last week. I eavesdropped on a conversation between two guys that knew about the fights. So I followed them until they led me to the warehouse on Saturday.”

  Anthony sat back in chair and exhaled. “I was sure this was only a little fantasy of yours. But it’s real.”

  She nodded. “Better yet, there were a bunch of recognisable people in the crowds. The same people I’ve been writing about for the last year.”

  Anthony looked a little impressed. “So your time writing for the society pages really paid off, huh?” he asked with bite. Rosalyn had made it more than clear at her time at the Journal that she hadn’t wanted to be writing society puff pieces, much to Anthony’s disappointment. She’d wanted to write proper articles that required real investigative journalism—it’s what she fought so hard to get into and graduate college for.

  And this would be her chance.

  “So where’s my article? No guarantees I’ll print it, obviously, but I’d like to have a look.”

  Rosalyn cleared her throat, her heart sinking. “Well, I haven’t written it yet.”

  Anthony scowled. “Why not?”

  “I’ve only recently found the place. Hardly enough to build an article on. And no one would talk to me.”

  Anthony sighed. “So you want me to authorise more work time for you to go on this personal expedition of yours?”

  Rosalyn tapped her pen against her knee. “I’m close, aren’t I? A few more visits, a few interviews—on the record and off—maybe some photographs…”

  “Look, I don’t think this will be as big of a story as you make it out to be. Will anyone really care that people go to watch guys beat on each other? How does this differ from any other unsanctioned MMA fight out there?”

  Rosalyn leaned forward. “It’s worse—so much worse. You ought to see these guys. It’s brutal. Apparently guys die in the ring pretty regularly.”

  Anthony shrugged, still not convinced.

  “Okay, so I won’t play that angle,” Rosalyn pressed. “I’ll play the society angle. Rich people watching men beat each other up—gambling on it, even? That’s primal.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite scandalous enough to sell papers, though. Give me some real gossip. If those same guys are having affairs with the ring card girls, then that’s different. People eat that shit up.”

  Rosalyn sat back with an annoyed sound. “There were no ring card girls I could see, because they didn’t do rounds. They did have girls in skimpy gold hotpants serving champagne, though, so I’ll give you that.”

  Anthony dismissed her with a wave. “Whatever.” He paused, then pinned her with a glance. “Look. I can’t allocate anymore company time to this. Stick to the society pages.”

  Rosalyn hesitated. She didn’t want to beg, but… “Please?”

  Anthony squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “Why does this matter so much to you? Why can’t you be happy on the society beat and earning your pay check like everyone else?”

  Rosalyn pressed her lips together. “I didn’t have many dreams growing up. In fact, this might be the only one. To become a real reporter, making a difference in the world. Telling the stories of people that are forgotten, and have fallen through the cracks.” People like her.

  “That kind of journalism doesn’t exist anymore,” he told her, not kindly, exactly, but not harsh, either. A simple fact of life.

  Her jaw jutted out, revealing her stubbornness. “But it can. It can make a difference.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “By talking about guys fighting each other for money?”

  Rosalyn shook her head. “By exposing the ways rich people exploit the desperate.”

  Anthony considered her for a moment, but didn’t say anything.

  She plowed on. “I told you how I first heard about these fights, right? From the homeless guys I spoke to for that story I did on their missing friends. I have no doubt some of those missing guys ended up in this ring and were never found again.”

  Lost in a system you couldn’t get out of—where no one cared if you lived or died. Where you were used and spat out and were lucky if you survived. Rosalyn had been in her own personal hell and had crawled her way out of it. She wouldn’t go back. She would prove to herself and everyone else that all her years of pain, and the following years of sacrifice, were worth the misery. She would become someone—make a difference—and Anthony couldn’t stand in her way.

  “It means a lot to you, huh?”

  She took a deep breath and squeezed her fist to stop it shaking. Memories of the past always affected her, and never for the better.

  “Maybe this story won’t be the life-changing one I’m looking for, but it could be. I just need a chance to try.” The one she’d been working on with the homeless men had fizzled out because of a lack of information. No one knew about homeless people, and no one cared except their friends on the street. It was a vicious cycle. Maybe by exposing this underground fight club she could help them in some small way, too.

  Anthony sighed. “You won’t put yourself in danger will you?”

  Rosalyn suppressed a smile, knowing he was about to give in. She shook her head. “I’ll be careful.”

  “These men sound really violent,” he muttered doubtfully.

  Rosalyn’s mind flashed to the fighter she’d spoken to—how he’d warned her away. But she hadn’t been frightened of him. Her heart had beat faster when she was near him for another reason entirely.

  “I won’t be in any danger,” she promised, not certain it was one she could keep, but not willing to let this opportunity pass when Anthony was so close to agreeing.

  He sighed in capitulation. “If you turn in an article and I like it—fine. But you’re officially freelance on it now, okay?”

  Rosalyn nodded and resisted doing a fist pump. She got to her feet, careful not to step on any files. “Understood.” It was the best she could’ve hoped for, really. Without even a sample to give her boss he was flying blind, trusting her.

  Rosalyn left the office and made it over to her desk in the bullpen. Anthony wasn’t a bad guy, really. She understood his dilemma in the age of citizen journalism. He had to fight for every paper sold, every online view, every advertising dollar. Journalism wasn’t the same profession it had been once upon a time.

  “How’d it go?” Carrie asked as Rosalyn slid into the seat across from her. Carrie
was adorable and round. Round body, round face, round eyes—the last mostly from her enthusiasm about the world. They’d been cubicle mates since Rosalyn arrived at the Journal two years ago and had become work besties. Though they rarely seemed to spend time together outside of the office. Both were part time; Rosalyn doing the society pages, and Carrie covering crime.

  Rosalyn shrugged. “He didn’t try to forbid me from pursuing it—not that it would have worked—but I can’t do it on work time anymore. It’s an after-hours thing now.”

  “Huh.” Carrie made a face that implied it was a better outcome than she’d expected. Frankly, it was for Rosalyn, too.

  “So, what was it like?” Carrie asked, dropping her voice to a whisper, her eyes alight with excitement.

  Rosalyn frowned in confusion. “The meeting?”

  “No, the fight. Was it scary?”

  Rosalyn considered the night before, tapping her pen against her lips. “I was definitely nervous going in, since I had no idea what to expect. I half expected the crowd to be super rowdy and as violent as the bouts themselves.”

  “But they weren’t?” Carrie pressed.

  Rosalyn shook her head. “No, it was almost weirdly polite. Like, the audience watched silently and didn’t get into it at all.”

  “That is weird.”

  “Agreed. And let me tell you, it made the whole thing more uncomfortable. Because you could hear every punch and kick land on the fighters. It’s very different seeing and hearing it in real life and knowing those guys are really hurting each other. Not like watching a fight scene in an action movie, you know?”

  Carrie nodded enthusiastically, hanging on every word. “Were any of the fighters hot?” she asked.

  Rosalyn rolled her eyes. Carrie was chronically single and always wanted to know the hottie ratio at any given event.

  “A few,” she muttered, her cheeks heating. Her mind went immediately to the fighter she’d cornered in the parking lot. She hadn’t caught his name—it wasn’t like they’d announced them at the fight—but she’d taken to calling him The Sexy One in her head. Not that she’d tell Carrie that.

  She didn’t know why she’d chosen to approach him, of all the fighters there. It hadn’t been his looks. She wasn’t stupid enough to trust a guy purely because he had a bunch of muscles, a warrior’s body, and a brooding, sexy stare. It was something about the way his eyes had widened when he’d met her gaze for the first time. Some shared spark, some instinct that called to her.

  And she hadn’t been lying to Anthony when she’d said she would need primary sources like interviews. So she’d approached someone and hoped for the best.

  Unfortunately, he’d been kind of a jerk, but you can’t win them all.

  “No one worth writing home about. You could tell most of them had had their noses broken more times than I’ve been to my kickboxing class.”

  Carrie deflated. “Shame. There’s something so…manly about those fights, isn’t there? It plays into that heart of a woman who wants the caveman to drag her away and do naughty things to her.” Carrie stared wistfully into the distance.

  Rosalyn snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

  “You don’t secretly crave a dominant man to…take over? For a little while?”

  Rosalyn wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly.” Though she wouldn’t mind a good round in the sack or two. It had been a long time she’d been to bed with a man, and even longer since one had satisfied her. And, yes, those two facts were related. Men so often weren’t worth the time even getting them to her apartment, let alone what happened when she got them there.

  That fighter, though, The Sexy One with the dark eyes…something told her he’d be worth the effort.

  Carrie waved a hand in front of her face, pulling Rosalyn’s mind back from where it had sunk. “Where’d you go just now?”

  “I was thinking about the angle I need to take on this story,” Rosalyn lied. “Anthony didn’t seem impressed with any of my options.”

  Carrie made a face. “Well, good luck. I’m still working on that story about the Ruthless Rock Thieves.”

  Rosalyn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

  Carrie huffed. “Still no good?”

  “It makes them sound like rogue geologists.”

  Carrie laughed. “Okay, but they need a proper name. So says Anthony. ‘Make them into misunderstood heroes. Robin Hood types.’” Carrie imitated Anthony’s voice to mock him. She dropped the impression and continued. “Those guys have put people in hospital while carrying out these heists. They aren’t heroes.”

  Rosalyn nodded. “I feel you. Next we’ll be selling papers by doing hot takes on how the Nazis were the good guys after all. It sucks.”

  Carrie gave a sage nod of shared misery. “Still, at least we’ve got jobs, right. Part time, but you know.”

  Rosalyn reluctantly nodded. She did know. Though she earned more money selling articles online than she did here, working for the Journal gave her the cachet she needed to charge extra for her services. It also brought her closer to the prestigious title of ‘Real Journalist’ she so desperately craved.

  “Dangerous Diamond Defalcators?” she suggested.

  Carrie looked confused. “Defa—what?”

  “It’s a legal term. Never mind.”

  “I thought you said something else for a minute.” She shook her head. “No wonder you’re so good at crosswords. You know so many obscure words.”

  Rosalyn grinned. “Ruby Robbers?” she suggested.

  Carrie’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re talking.” She swivelled around back to her computer and began typing furiously.

  Rosalyn got back to her own work writing about rich people doing rich people things, but her mind kept getting drawn back to a certain fighter with dark eyes.

  Chapter 3

  Diego arrived at Golan’s Gym before dawn. Three cars were in the lot, so a few of the other guys had obviously arrived. The back door was left open as always, so Diego slipped through.

  The gym was old and worn. Though Diego only ever trained in the early hours of the morning—it was the time they were allocated to have free range of the equipment—he suspected the gym had no regular customers. Golan, the owner, was never there, either, though he’d met the older man once or twice. Photographs from his glory days as a boxer decorated the wall, along with old gloves and other paraphernalia. His absence made Diego suspect that McCready paid him under the table to look the other way like he did with Doc and all the fighters. It would explain why the gym’s doors were still open despite the disrepair of the place.

  The equipment looked like Rocky might have used it in the seventies. The punching bag had a number of tears in it. The weights were often missing their pair. Even the boxing ring—the pride and joy of the place, located at the centre of the room—was tired and sagging.

  Diego never complained. At least they got somewhere they could keep in shape for free. And since earning—and not spending—money was his main goal in life, it was something he could appreciate. Besides, the ring, shitty as it was, had to be better than the concrete floor of the cage McCready set up for them to fight in.

  Alexei was already there, slamming his fists into the nearest punching bag. He was sporting a nasty black eye, probably from his fight a few days back, the one he’d had after Diego had left the cage. Diego nodded to him as he passed, and Alexei nodded back. That was all their communication for the day.

  Diego got to work, largely ignoring Chen and Weston, the other two guys that were there. Chen shot him one sour glance when he arrived, but then pretended he didn’t exist. Diego was more than fine with that arrangement.

  Weston, on the other hand, was eyeing him a little too closely. Weston was Spider’s lackey, doing whatever the man asked of him. Weston was huge, but dumb. He wasn’t a smart fighter, but that didn’t always matter if you could knock someone out with a single punch. Alexei still had a good few inches on him, but then Alexei was a beast.

  Di
ego whipped off his shirt and moved over to the bench. He went through his routine, starting slow and building into it. He was still stiff from his fight against Chen and needed to warm up and stretch it all out.

  He also tried to disregard Weston’s too-interested gaze. The guy wasn’t hitting on him—there was something else, something about to go down.

  He ignored it, knowing whatever it was would happen without him worrying about it. Instead, he tried to work himself so hard he could finally forget a certain redhead who’d been in his thoughts since fight night. He didn’t know what it was about her. The fearlessness, maybe, of approaching a guy like him in the darkness. Challenging him, even.

  Either way, he’d thought of little else, both hoping and fearing he’d one day see her again. The part of his soul that hadn’t been corrupted hoped like hell she stayed away from these fights—this life. The selfish, tarnished part wanted her to come to the next fight. He wanted to see her again, talk to her, run his fingers through her fiery hair and—

  He ruthlessly cut off that line of thinking.

  Weston caught his eye again and Diego paused, lungs heaving from the workout. He’d barely noticed he’d been pushing himself so hard, so distracted by thoughts of Rosalyn. Diego’s gaze flicked to the door as Spider walked in. The hackles raised on the back of his neck.

  He kept Spider in his peripheral vision and edged towards the weights in case he needed a weapon. Spider looked too pleased to be here for his own workout.

  “Diego,” Spider greeted him, coming to stand a hair too close. Weston pulled in behind him, grinning. It was unnerving.

  “What do you want, Spider?” Diego asked wearily. He could take the guy in a fight, but he really didn’t want to unless he was getting paid. And if Spider injured him too badly now, he couldn’t get in the cage for the next fight, and he’d lose that pay day, too.

  That, he couldn’t allow.

  “I have a little business proposition for you.” Spider grinned at him, but the effect was somewhat lost in the black holes where his teeth should be. The guy really should wear a mouthguard.