by Holly Hart
How does he do that?
"Hey, little man. How about you go check out them gloves over there," he said, pointing out his fighting gloves. "And I'll come play with you in a bit. Deal?"
Eamon's face wrinkled with a frown again, but this time it was a frown of concentration, and it disappeared in seconds. He held out his clenched hand for a fist bump. "Deal." He said decisively.
He ran off, and his father and I were left alone. Neither of us said a word for a couple of seconds. I don't think either of us knew what to say. Conor was the first to break the silence.
"So…"
"So," I agreed.
He laughed. "Shit, I feel like a teenager, all over again."
"You and me both."
Conor cut to the chase, asking the question I'd been dreading all along. "Why didn't you tell me, lass?" He said quietly, his accent coming to the fore and illustrating his pain more powerfully than anything he could have said. "How could you hide me own son from me?"
This time, it was my turn to slump forward. Hearing him say it, asked the question that had kept me up for so many nights finally brought home the pain that I'd caused him. I'd understood it before, but this was different. It felt real, aching, raw.
"You don't have to have any part in his life if you don't want to," I said honestly. "But I need your help."
He looked at me strangely. "No part in his life?" He said in a strangled tone of voice. "What makes you think I'd want that?"
"You mean," I stammered. "You mean you want to help raise him?"
I had a vision of us, together.
It was everything I'd ever wanted.
Don't torture yourself, Maya.
His face was full of angst. "I don't know. But I know I can't let him grow up like this. Not here. I can't just abandon him like my da’ did me, I know that much."
"So you'll help me get him out?" I asked desperately. Even if Conor and I didn't have a future together after what I'd done, at least Eamon could have him in his life. I could live with that no matter how much it hurt.
He nodded. "Yeah. I will. But we need to do it properly. We need a plan."
23
Conor
I saw it the second I pushed open the dressing room door: the familiar green and gold glint of a brand-new, unopened bottle of Jameson's Irish whiskey standing proudly on my dressing room table.
I smiled. Well played, Shannon.
As I walked over, I saw a note tucked underneath the glass bottle. It was short and to the point. It read: "does this mean you'll behave this time?"
I couldn't help but laugh. Maybe I hadn't given the gal enough credit: if she had enough moxie to write something like that to someone like me, then maybe she did have what it takes to make it in this world.
Yes and no, Shannon, I thought. Yes and no.
The Alexandria arena was alive. I could feel it in the floor, the ceiling, the walls. There was a buzz I didn't remember from last time: a palpable sense of excitement, like tonight was the night.
I should have felt proud. After all, thousands of people were here to see me. I'd seen the banners, and the painted bedsheets attached to the arena's fencing. Every single sign had the exact same message: Conor, do it for us. Of course, what none of them knew was that it was all supposed to be a stitch up, that I was supposed to throw the fight they'd all paid so much to come see.
I should have felt proud, because tonight was the night my entire career had been building toward. I was the first name on the ticket. I was the title holder. I was the man to beat.
But instead of pride, I just felt nervous.
I hadn't felt like this since the very first time I stepped into the octagon, four years ago, a tough but skinny flame-head Irish kid burning up with angst and grief. And even then, the nervousness had disappeared the second I bumped gloves with my opponent, instantly replaced with an exhilaration, a feeling that I was alive, more alive than I'd ever been: that this was my real home, where I was always meant to be.
Not tonight.
"Five minute warning, Mr. Regan," I heard Shannon say. By the time I could turn my head, the tiny crack she'd opened in the doorway had already closed.
Time to wrap up.
I pulled a roll of cotton knuckle bandages off the table and slowly began wrapping it around my hands. Whatever was going to happen, I had a good feeling that I'd end up punching someone…
Tonight I actually had something riding on the result. Not the result of what happened in the octagon, but something far more important: the woman I loved, the son I wanted so desperately to raise, and the rest of my life.
That's why tonight was different, why I felt so on edge.
If you don't pull this off, Conor, then I hope you're ready to end up in a wooden box, because that's where you're heading. If you're lucky…
Whatever happened, I knew that tonight was the last time I'd ever step into the octagon. Either this was it, my last night on the planet, or tomorrow I'd be on the run. Either way, I'd never fight again.
The door clicked open.
"Time to go, Mr. Regan." Shannon said. I didn't plan on giving her a hard time, not this time. With her little note, she'd more than proved herself to me. Anyway, I had more important things on my mind.
"Sure thing," I said. "Just give me a second, will ya?"
She looked at me reproachfully. "Conor…"
"I'll be good this time, I promise. Just a sec."
She nodded doubtfully and closed the door behind her.
I was more than man enough to admit that one thing terrified me more than anything else in the world. It wasn't the fact that I was calling time on my fighting career. It wasn't even knowing that if I couldn't pull our risky plan off, I might never see Maya again, though that thought hurt more than I could ever have imagined.
I pulled a tiny copy both Eamon's passport photo from its hiding place in my shoe. The little scrap of laminated photo paper was small enough to hide from prying eyes, or to swallow, if it came to it. It was the only reason that I'd even allowed myself to have it. I needed to look at him, I needed to remind myself why I was doing this.
Its for you, Eamon. It's so that I'll never regret that there was something more I could have done.
24
Maya
Five guards. Exactly as I'd hoped. Exactly as we'd planned for.
I smoothed away an oval lump that was poking against the outer leather of my handbag. If they checked to see what it was, then the game was up before it had even begun. I just had to hope.
I took a deep breath.
You've got this, Maya.
What went unsaid was that if I failed, the consequences of failure would be fatal. If I didn't play the role of a lifetime and convince the whole lot of them that I was telling the truth, then all of this was for nothing. I'd have failed myself, my son, and most of all – in this moment at least, the man putting his life on the line two stories above me.
I freaked as I saw the identity of the man guarding the door. His face was battered and bruised, and his forehead was swaddled in a big, thick white bandage, almost like a movie character.
I couldn't hide the surprise from my voice. "Boris, what are you doing here?"
The big bruiser flicked the ash off the cigarette in his mouth before he replied. His chest was puffed out, and if it wasn't for the bandage hiding most of his face, I'd have said he looked proud. It probably had a lot to do with the black AR-15 rifle cradled in between his big, sausage-like hands. "Miss Antonov, what you do down here?"
English, guys. I thought. Would it hurt that much to practice, just a little?
I thought about pointing out the no smoking sign by Boris' head as I waded through the nicotine laced cloud of smoke in front of him, but thought better of saying anything about it.
"Dad sent me down to give you guys an urgent message. I need to get inside."
Please don't ask me what it is.
I hoped that my first impression of Boris was correct and that he was
terrified of my father. I figured it was. Most people were terrified of him, not because they were cowards, but just because it was a sensible thing to do. If so, then dropping dad's name would be all I'd need to do.
I held my breath.
I hadn't needed to. There was a reason that Boris was stationed outside the door, and not in the room itself: he was a pawn. He stepped aside, folding as though he was made of jelly, and motioned me inside.
This is where the going gets tough, I realized. It's time for the tough to get going.
I pushed open the door quickly and burst through, like I was in a hurry. The second I did I was assaulted by the proceeds of rampant criminality. There must have been a couple of hundred thousand dollars in cash spread out on just the counting table directly in front of the door.
All four men in the room looked up in surprise. Like Boris, two of them had cigarettes dangling loosely out of their mouths, and the room was filled with a thick, pungent cloud of smoke that made it hard to see, let alone speak.
"What are you doing down here?" Sergei asked gruffly.
My heart sank. The last person I'd expected to be down here was my father's right-hand man. You didn't get to a position like that in my father's organization without being unspeakably brutal, and I realized that my chances of succeeding had just plummeted from slim to almost none.
You've got to try.
"Dad," I croaked. I cleared my throat. "Dad sent me to tell you –."
He cut me off brusquely. "Why didn't he call?"
I gambled. "Check your phone," I said quickly, improvising. "He can't get through."
I crossed my fingers behind my back. It had seemed plausible, in my head at least, that deep in the bowels of this massive arena, under hundreds of thousands of tons of concrete, Sergei might not have any signal. If he did, then it didn't matter anyway, and all this would have been for nothing. My fingers drummed nervously against my leg as I waited for him to check.
He looked down, his fat fingers fumbling against the thin black slate in his hands.
Your luck's got to turn at some point, doesn't it?
" What did he want to tell me? Spit it out, girl." Sergei barked.
This was it.
I started speaking quickly, hurriedly, as if I was in a panic. I needed to sell it, not just say it, for Sergei to have even the slightest chance of believing me.
"The Irishman," I panted. "He's just knocked out two of dad's bodyguards. It's carnage up there. He said he needs everyone, can't use guns, there are too many people watching."
Sergei barked orders in fast-paced Russian, and all three of them stormed headlong out of the door, amped up and ready to do battle.
All three of them – but not Sergei.
"Aren't." I stammered. "Aren't you going to go with them?"
He looked at me like I was stupid. Fair enough.
"And leave all of this money lying around for someone to just take?" He scoffed. "Your father would kill me, and he'd be right to."
Shit.
This was the worst case scenario. I had no doubt that Conor could have gone toe to toe in a street fight with Sergei, but I had no such confidence in myself. It was no exaggeration to say he was at least twice my size, and unlike me, he definitely knew how to fight.
"Tell me," Sergei asked slyly, with a searching glint in his beady black eyes. "How did this fight start?"
"Fight?" I squeaked. "What fight?"
Keep it together, for God's sake.
I sat down on a chair in front of one of the counting room tables. I needed to hide what my fingers were doing, just for a second.
The big Russian gangster glared at me, unblinking, his black pupils dilated with anticipation.
He knows you're lying, my brain screamed. I thought he probably did, but I couldn't be sure. I had to play it cool.
"The Irishman," he growled. "What else?”
I felt cold metal in the depths of my handbag, and my fingers glided over two concentric steel rings.
Not them.
"He said he wouldn't do it," I said, improvising again. "Throw the fight, I mean."
I my fingers brushed against a hard, oblong piece of plastic. I had what I needed. I just needed to stall for a few more seconds.
Sergei walked over to me, until he was stood less than an arm's length away and cracked his knuckles menacingly in front of me.
"I don't believe you, little girl." He snarled.
My blood ran cold.
It's now or never.
I flicked the catch, and heard a faint crackle of electricity, smelled the scent of singed leather rising through the air. I didn't have a choice – Sergei knew a liar when he saw one.
I whipped the Taser out of my bag and jammed it into Sergei's leg.
25
Conor
"So you're the Irishman." The Hispanic fighter jeered.
His side of the gray concrete maintenance tunnel was packed with members of a ten strong entourage. They were all big, muscular dudes, and I reckon they didn't share ten whole brain cells between them.
I looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion on my thoughts. Shannon looked at me warily, as if she was worried I might pick a fight with my opponent right then and there instead of waiting until the octagon.
She unclipped the radio from her belt, lifted it to her lips and stepped slightly away from the main group to get some privacy. She was louder than she thought, and her nervousness was palpable.
"Shannon here, get me the complex manager. Now."
The radio crackled, and a few seconds went by before a voice came on the line. "Mike here, what's the deal Shannon? I'm a bit busy."
"I fucking know, Mike," she said in a voice that was clipped with anger. "But why the fuck's my guy in a tunnel rubbing shoulders with the guy he's supposed to be fighting? Someone screwed up, Mike, and they need to fix it – now!"
I shot her a questioning look, checking she was okay. She raised her thumb and forefinger and gave me an A-OK sign. I could tell she wasn't, but hey, it wasn't my problem.
If you knew what was going on, love, you'd know I've got bigger fish to fry.
"Yeah buddy," I finally replied to my amped up opponent. I stuck my hand out and put a friendly smile on my face. "Nice to meetcha."
He stared at me, confused. I knew why. I had a prickly reputation. Hell, I could call it what it was. I was arrogant, cocky, and I wasn't afraid to tell people all about it.
But not tonight.
Tonight was different. Tonight, everything was different. All of the pageantry, and all of the rituals of an MMA fight, they barely mattered to me. Usually I would've been amped up, with enough adrenaline running through my veins to kill a dozen smaller men.
But like I said – not tonight.
I had no doubt that, whoever my opponent was, when we finally got in the cage together, I'd wipe the floor with him. So why bother with trash talking, and puffing out my chest, and all the rest of that macho shit I'd once loved so much.
Who cares?
Mike's manner changed noticeably, even over the radio. "Sorry, Shannon," the black rectangular radio chattered. I didn't catch the next few words, but then he said. "Get your boy down to the cage, now."
I understood his urgency. A pregame fight would play well in the Herald's writeup the next day – but there were thirty thousand fans waiting for us out in the arena, and each had paid hundreds of dollars for the privilege.
"You got it, boss," Shannon said into the radio before clipping it back onto her belt. She walked back over to me, seeming relieved that I hadn't launched a punch at my opponent in her absence.
"Ready?"
"Born ready." I nodded grimly.
This is it.
"Then let's go." She said, sounding relieved that I hadn't decided to pick a fight, and strode forward into the light.
The roar of the crowd hit me the second we passed through the heavy doors that opened up into the arena. Like last time, it was an intense, electric buzz, an in
toxicating blend of alcohol-fueled aggression and the seductive allure of unarmed combat, all roaring from thousands upon thousands of throats, all begging to be satisfied.
And the only thing they want to see is blood.
But unlike last time, I didn't feel a thing. Even the knowledge that I was about to do battle, to test my body and wits against a man looking to make his mark by putting me down didn't stir me. Because this time, this was only a sideshow.
The real game was happening two floors below me, and Maya was the star of that show, not me. I was just running defense, I was the distraction no one realized what was actually going on. My job was simple: to draw out the fight long enough for her to do her job.
Make it last, Conor.
I slowed my breathing and blocked the noise of the crowd out, until all that I could hear was the dull thunder of blood roaring in my ears. It was almost meditative, except I wasn't doing it to relax. I was becoming the predator I was born to be: cold-blooded, efficient. Getting in the zone.
There was one thing, though, that was enough to throw me. Mikhail Antonov.
He walked out on stage to the adulation of the crowd. They went wild for the gangster in a way I would never have imagined, cheering, fist pumping, and chanting his name.
Who is he to them?
Deep down, I knew.
In a town like Alexandria, where the good jobs had withered away decades before, when the factories closed, and the only people who were left were the people who couldn't afford to get out.
And to them, a man like Mikhail must have seemed a hero. He was a self-made man in a town where half the population was on benefits and the other half was just flat broke. He drove a nice car, wore expensive suits and had another hot piece of ass glued to his arm 24/7.
I shuddered with disgust. But I couldn't blame them, not really. In a desperate city devoid of hope or aspiration, he was a man they could look up to, something they could aim for.
Will they cheer when he falls?
Because I knew one thing: he was going to fall.
Shannon gave me a gentle push as we reached cage side. "Good luck," she said, smiling shyly. "And thanks."
