And then, lurching forward, he grabbed his boss’ wrist, and yanked the gun right of his hand. It landed with a clatter in the corner of the room.
Next, like a WWE wrestler during prime-time, the enormous black fighter grabbed Red with both hands, raised him up high above his head, and hissed: “I fucking quit.”
And then he threw Red hard onto the rickety desk.
It splintered beneath him, and Red lay stunned in the pile of kindling and scrapwood that was left.
“I might have lost that fight,” Rashaan pointed an accusing finger at his stunned boss, “but at least I lost it fair and square.”
Looming over Red, Rashaan narrowed his eyes. “I used to stand there and think that ‘undefeated thirteen times’ meant something. But all it meant was that I was a fucking fraud.”
He kicked dirt at Red’s sprawled body. “Well, I’m done faking. And I’m done with you.”
There was silence in the office.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Hannibal
Eventually, inevitably, the silence was broken.
“Aww, shit.”
As Red lay there, he coughed up dirt and dust.
Wincing in pain, the fight promoter sat up, and looked at the four angry faces peering down at him.
He laughed bitterly.
“So, now what, y’all?”
Spitting a mouthful of bloody mucus into the corner, Red sneered: “What are you gonna do? Call the police?” He laughed bitterly. “I already told you; I fucking own ‘em in this part of town.”
Clambering to his feet, the bruised southerner dusted himself down.
“They’re gonna be mighty pissed, no doubt about that.” In the quiet of the office, it was possible to hear the screams and roars from the main body of the warehouse, just a few doors down. “Sounds like there’s a fucking riot going on out there. Wouldn’t be surprised if they show up any time now.”
But Red didn’t seem to be remotely upset by the idea.
“Pretty sure I can talk ‘em into leading you assholes off in handcuffs, rather than anybody else.” He looked at Rashaan. “Even you, you backstabbing bastard.”
But that’s when Manfred stepped forward.
The German shook his head, and tutted disapprovingly.
“Mein klein freund,” he warned. “You’re not, as you say, playing in the ‘little leagues’ anymore.”
Red blinked in confusion.
Manfred jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards Hannibal.
The German growled: “Baller and are part of the official MMA league – and when I called them up this afternoon to tell them about your little operation – let’s just say they were less than pleased.”
Red’s brow wrinkled.
“The fuck do those assholes in Vegas care about my fucking fight league?”
“Copyright, man,” Hannibal grinned. “They don’t care about the gambling, or fixing the fights. But you try to run an MMA circuit without their approval?” He shook his head. “You’re messing with the wrong people.”
“They made some calls,” Manfred shrugged. “And while you might own the local cops, the feds are something else entirely.”
Red gulped as he heard this.
“Illegal gaming, firearms offences,” Hannibal’s eyes flashed. “The FBI said they’ve got a lot they want to talk to you about.”
Red staggered back, almost as if he’d been physically hit.
“And that’s if they even get their hands on you,” Hannibal added. “There’s a crowd of hundreds out there wondering where their winnings are.” He pointed at the canvas bag on the floor. “Have you got enough in there to cover all the bets people made on your fixed fight? Shit, they’ll tear you apart if you don’t.”
Red gulped.
As the kicker, Hannibal warned: “Strikes me you’ll last longer with the feds than you would with that crowd.”
There was an awkward silence.
Finally, Red blurted out: “O-okay. Okay, you got me. What’s it gonna take to let me go?”
Manfred and Hannibal exchanged glances.
“I mean it,” Red pleased. “Just as far as the street. I’ll make my own way from there.”
Hannibal snorted: “Just give me my winnings, man.”
Red nodded.
“Twenty grand? You got it, friend.” He started rummaging around in the canvas bag for one of the envelopes of money.
“Naww, man,” Hannibal hissed. “The twenty grand was for throwing the fight – and you can see for yourself I didn’t do that.”
He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a stubby paper receipt.
“These winnings. Manfred here put a bet on me this evening, with one of your bookies out there.” Baller passed the betting slip over. “Fifty fifty odds, man.”
Red narrowed his eyes and examined it.
“This is for eighty thousand dollars,” the fight promoter’s face went white. “Where the fuck did you get eighty thousand dollars from? I checked – your ass is broke.”
“I pawned my car,” Hannibal explained. “It’s the only thing I own, but you can still get a hell of a lot of green for a Bentley.”
Red staggered back, sinking into the chair that stood in front of what remained of the splintered desk.
Down the corridor, the shouts and screams were getting louder. Police sirens could be heard in the distance.
“We ain’t got long,” Baller warned. “You ready to pay up, Red?”
Stunned – utterly defeated – Red Callahan looked up and shook his head.
He tossed the canvas bag over.
“I’ve got maybe a hundred and twenty five grand in there,” he said blankly. “If you want any more than that, you’ll have to join the line out there.”
From the screams and yells coming from the warehouse floor, it appeared that line would be anything but orderly.
Hannibal peered into the bag. Satisfied, he nodded at Red: “Works for me. Now get your ass up.”
A moment later, they were dragging a stumbling Red down the corridor, away from the screaming crowd and towards an old, boarded up fire escape.
Rashaan shouldered it open effortlessly.
Waiting outside in the street, with Sally Fox’s face peering impatiently out of the passenger window, was a gleaming black town car.
“Do you lot have any idea how long we’ve been waiting?” The English girl complained.
Shoving Red off down the street, the five of them clambered into the back of the limo.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Hannibal
It was midnight on 7th Avenue when the town car rolled to a halt.
Outside the gleaming lights of Madison Square Garden, Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson clambered out of the car and looked up at the bright lights advertising that night’s Rangers game.
Hannibal followed him out of the car, and they stood together on the sidewalk.
“You gonna be okay, bro?” Hannibal asked.
Rashaan looked at him, stunned.
“Fucked if I know,” he admitted. “I-I don’t even know what happened tonight.”
“Your boss got shit-canned,” Hannibal explained. “He’s on the run from the FBI at the moment and I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be a while before any of us hear from him again.”
Rashaan blinked.
“And you?” Hannibal punched him gently in the arm. “You quit working for that loser, and you became a real fighter.”
“A real fighter? I fucking lost.”
“You lost fair and square.” Hannibal looked Rashaan in the eye. “And that makes you a real fighter in my eyes.”
“And yo,” he continued. “I meant what I said: I’ll talk to my manager, Delwood. He’s always looking for talent, and the way you hit…”
Hannibal left the rest of that sentence unsaid.
“B-but…” Rashaan blinked. “But I’m a felon, man. And I’ve been knee-deep in Red’s fighting circuit for years. Ain’t no way a legit MMA league’s g
onna even look at me.”
“Hey,” Hannibal snapped his fingers in front of the bigger man’s eyes. “Quit worrying. Listen, you cooperate with the feds and they ain’t gonna press any charges. And don’t you worry about the rest of it.” He sniffed. “If there’s one thing the MMA league likes, it’s an underdog story. I reckon when they see you fight, they’re gonna quit worrying about your past.”
Rashaan snorted, unconvinced.
“B-but what now? Where do I go, man? What do I do?”
“You stay in touch with us,” Hannibal nodded. “I’ll talk to Delwood and we’ll figure something out.”
“Oh, and wait.” Hannibal reached into the canvas bag they’d taken from Red. From inside, he pulled out two big stacks of twenties. “This is twenty grand. That’s what Red promised me for throwing the fight tonight.”
He stuffed the money into Rashaan’s hands.
“You lost fair and square, bro, so I figure you earned what he promised me.” Baller patted his arm. “Should tide you over for a while, at least.”
Rashaan stared at the cash.
“B-but this is your money… From the gambling.”
“With that, and after I pay my brother back,” Hannibal snorted, “brother, I’m barely breaking even.” He looked up at Rashaan, and said: “But if you want, you can consider it a loan. When Delwood signs you, and you start making real money, you can pay me back.”
Rashaan looked at Hannibal with wide, incredulous eyes.
“I dunno what to say.”
“You say ‘thank you’,” Hannibal slapped him on the shoulder. “You say ‘thank you’ and ‘see you soon’ – ‘cos I meant it about the fighting. You were always worth so much more than Red’s fixed fights.”
Rashaan nodded.
Tucking the wad of cash into his jacket pocket, the lumbering fighter looked over at the entrance to Penn Station and murmured: “I wonder if there’s a train back home tonight. My mom’s only out in Morristown.” He shrugged. “Guess I can start by seeing her.”
Hannibal nodded.
“Good luck with that,” he smirked. “Going back home ain’t always as easy as you imagine it might be.” He snorted derisively. “I sure learned that these last couple of weeks.”
And then he patted Rashaan on the shoulder, and watched the huge fighter shamble off towards the station.
A moment later, Hannibal was back in the town car, and the driver headed off towards the Lincoln Tunnel.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Hannibal
There was a chink and a hiss, as Manfred popped off the cap of a bottle of Heineken, and slid it across the counter to Hannibal.
The grateful fighter picked it up, and swallowed half the bottle of crisp, refreshing beer in three long swallows.
The four of them – Manfred, Hannibal, Kristen and Sally – were back at the German’s apartment, sitting at the kitchen counter.
Laid out in front of Hannibal were piles and piles of cash, which he was carefully arranging into piles.
“That’s for my brother,” he slid one pile over. “And this is to get my car back from the pawnbroker.” That was a much larger pile. “And after all of that…”
A handful of twenty dollar bills were left.
“Shit,” Hannibal laughed.
Manfred popped the top of his own beer, and slapped his friend on the shoulder.
“Don’t, as you Americans say, ‘sweat it.’ I’m still paying you for training me – and you’ll be back in the fight circuit before you know it.” Manfred took a long swallow of beer. “The MMA league was pretty happy that you helped break up Callahan’s illegal operation. They won’t have any objections to having you back.”
Baller snorted. Those sorts of brownie points would go a long way towards easing his transition back into fighting, once his suspension was up.
“So now what?” Kristen was sipping her own beer, looking relaxed and beautiful in a loose-fitting t-shirt. “Is this… is this over?”
Hannibal stared at the pile of money in front of him.
“It ain’t over,” he admitted. “Tomorrow, we have to drive back to Connecticut, and I have to see if I can square things off with my parents.”
He stared at the twenty thousand dollars, which would replenish Jules’ college fund.
“That’s gonna go a long way to helping, right there,” he admitted.
“And then what?” Kristen asked. “What about you?” She looked back and forth, between Manfred and Sally, and then locked Hannibal’s gaze: “What about us?”
And Baller’s lips curled. Sliding off his stool, he crossed the kitchen counter, wrapped his big arms around his curvy stepsister, and kissed her wetly on the mouth.
“We’re gonna do just fine,” he promised her. “Because if there’s one good thing to come out these past few weeks of crazy shit, it’s making this happen.”
And then he kissed her again, and Kristen squeezed shut her eyes and lost herself in the softness of his lips.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Kristen
“You’re joking, right?”
Two weeks later, Hannibal Alexander stood, drenched in sweat, in the boxing ring at Fire & Iron.
“Nope,” Kristen called up, from the floor below him. She’d just popped in after her shift at Chili’s, and was still dressed in her striped uniform, “Mom just called me to let me know herself.”
Hannibal turned to Manfred Schumacher, who he’d been sparring with. They were now three weeks away from the German’s match-up with rival James MacDonald, and the two of them were pulling out all the stops to prepare.
“You mind, bro?”
“By all means,” Schumacher nodded. “It sounds important.”
And it was. As Hannibal slithered between the ropes of the boxing ring, Kristen was anxious to drag him away to the privacy of Mike Siro’s empty office.
“You’re serious?” Hannibal repeated, as she kicked shut the door. “Your mom and my dad broke up?”
“She’s packing her stuff now,” Kristen nodded. “Apparently, she came home and caught Cornell in bed with your mom, the same way Trudy did with my mom.”
“Holy shit,” Hannibal slumped into Mike’s desk chair. “My old man – caught cheating with his own wife.” He shook his head. “It takes all kinds, man.”
“Yeah, well, mom’s pretty beat up about it,” Kristen pursed her lips, “but she’ll bounce back. It never seemed right, your mom and dad breaking up like that…”
Kristen left the last part of that sentence unsaid; but Hannibal knew what she was referring to.
Trudy and Cornell’s separation had torn their family apart. He had a feeling them coming together would be the start of repairing that rift.
He could hardly believe the irony of it – his parents had been at each other’s throats for over a year, but as they’d gathered by Jules’ bedside to watch their youngest son recover from his injuries, a connection had re-sparked – and neither of them had been able to resist it.
What with Jules giving up his MMA dreams and throwing himself back into college – it was like all the damage that had been done was healing.
And maybe that meant his own relationship with his parents had hope.
As if reading his mind, Kristen murmured: “Give it time. Your dad’s coming around. He even said the other day that you did him a favor – that Jules getting put into hospital,” she did an impression of Hannibal’s dad, “knocked some sense into his dumb ass.”
Hannibal laughed at her impersonation, and swept his beautiful stepsister – soon to be former stepsister – up into his arms.
“Eww,” she squirmed, “get off me. You’re all sweaty.”
“I thought you liked me sweaty.”
“Only when I’m the one getting you that way,” Kristen pouted, and Hannibal laughed as she wriggled out of his grasp.
She stood there, brushing down the front of her Chili’s uniform, and asked: “So what about you? When are you and Manfred heading
to Vegas?”
“Next week. He’s gonna let me stay at his place until my suspension’s lifted. Then it looks like they’re already lining up a fight for me. Some redneck called Travis Oates.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of him.” She winked. “He’s kinda cute.”
Hannibal raised his fists, and pretended to punch.
“He won’t be when I’m done with him.”
Kristen laughed.
Hannibal looked at her, and then reached over the press his sweaty palm against her cheeks.
“So what about you?”
Kristen’s lips curled.
“Well, I’ve got a few weeks off from school coming up.” And then she stepped forward, and twirled her fingers in the hair on Hannibal’s chest. “Maybe I could come down and…” she bit her bottom lip. “…keep you company?”
Hannibal’s smiled widened.
He kissed her wetly on the mouth.
“I’d like that,” he murmured, squeezing her tight. This time, she didn’t try to escape his sweaty embrace. “I’d like that a lot.”
And then, peeling himself off her, Hannibal looked down into Kristen’s eyes and smiled mischievously.
“And, y’know, if what you said in Hoboken was true – about ‘not ruling anything out’? Well, I’m pretty sure Manny and his girlfriend would like you to keep them company as well.”
And Kristen shuddered deliciously when she considered that.
Standing up on tiptoes, she kissed her soon-to-be-former stepbrother on the lips, and started imagining all the exciting new adventures that awaited them both.
The End
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