Fight to the Finish

by Shannon Greenland

  I heard the door open and then close, signaling Harry had left Mystic’s room.

  “That guy’s something else,” Mystic said.

  “Hm.” TL agreed.

  A few seconds later, Bruiser appeared from the PRIVATE archway. Wearing an innocent, flowery sundress, sandals, and her red hair in a long braid, she grinned up at Harry as he escorted her to a seat.

  She looked all of her sixteen years, and definitely not any older. And yet Harry seemed entranced by her, hanging on her every word. Hypnotized, mesmerized, spellbound.

  Then it occurred to me . . . ick. What a pervert, all in to a sixteen-year-old.

  Harry touched the tip of her nose. “You sit right here. I’ll get you a virgin daiquiri,” he told her, almost as if he was relishing the fact she was so young and sweet and innocent.

  “Gag,” Bruiser mumbled after Harry had walked off. “What a pedophile.”

  More time went by and Harry escorted other fighters’ girlfriends and wives out. None of them looked as innocent as Bruiser, and none of them garnered the attention Bruiser received. Harry, literally, was waiting on her hand and foot.

  A few minutes later someone turned on music, filling the club with hard rock.

  More time ticked by and the room slowly filled up. Nalani greeted the men and their dates as they entered through the stairwell. I imagined the patrons probably enjoyed entering that way. It added to the underground, secretive, fight club aura.

  As I sat beside Chapling at our table, I surveyed the people milling about. They ranged in age from twenties to eighties. Strange enough, some of the men wore suits and others dressed as if they were going clubbing, yet others wore jeans. The women, too. Pants, skirts, dresses, high heels. Some wore their hair up, others loose and down. From what I could tell, all nationalities were represented, everyone from African American to Hispanic to Caucasian to Asian.

  And everyone came across like they were on their best behavior. I didn’t know what I had expected in an underground fight club, but manners weren’t it.

  Harry appeared some time later dressed in jeans with holes and a fashionable shirt. I glanced at my watch. 9:00 p.m. The fights would start promptly at 10:00 p.m.

  Harry Noor had no date on his arm as he worked the crowd. He shook hands with the men, politely pecked the women on the cheek, laughed, and talked. Unfortunately, our Warriors mikes hadn’t been activated, so I had no idea what he was saying.

  He gave every appearance of the perfect gentleman. Just watching him, one would never guess he ran Demise Chain.

  Through our mole earpieces, Nalani made sure she repeated back everyone’s names. And when people weren’t looking, she’d describe what was going on. I knew she was doing the narration for the benefit of our team back in the locker rooms.

  9:45 p.m. Almost show time.

  Harry and Nalani led certain patrons to reserved seating, and the rest remained standing around the octagon.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Noor,” I heard Bruiser greet through our earpieces.

  I leaned to the left to see through the crowd. Harry had come to stand behind her.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you doing okay, my sweet dear?”

  With a big dimpled grin, she held up her half empty, daiquiri glass. “Just swell.”

  I almost laughed.

  Harry tapped her shoulder. “It’s about to get gruesome. Should you want to hide your eyes, you come find me.”

  Bruiser batted her lashes. “’kay.”

  “She does that too well,” Chapling mumbled.

  Harry climbed the few steps to the octagon. The hard rock music slowly muted in time with the club’s lights dimming.

  Everyone quieted.

  I glanced around the club and up the walls to the ceiling, curious where the sound and light technician was hidden.

  “What are you looking for?” Chapling asked.

  “The sound and light person.”

  “Harry’s a techy guy. I’d say there isn’t one. I’d say it’s all controlled by a remote in his pocket.”

  I looked up to see Harry’s hand in his pocket as he fiddled with something, and a spotlight gradually grew to illuminate him.

  I glanced over at Chapling. “You’re too good.”

  Smiling, he shrugged. “I try.”

  “Welcome,” Harry greeted the crowd through a mike attached to his shirt. “Welcome to Demise Chain.”

  A scurry of excited conversation floated across the crowd.

  “Many of you are return spectators, and others are first timers. No matter your seniority, everyone is treated the same at Demise Chain. As you know, there are no rules, there are no rounds. The fighters compete until one goes down.”

  Someone in the crowd grunted a yell.

  “You will see every competitor tonight. There will be time to place bets before each battle. And the last remaining fighter will go up against . . .” Harry paused, I was sure to build suspense. “Utotiz, the world MMA title holder.”

  A whispered, eager bustle danced through the crowd.

  “The winning purse is the biggest one we’ve had yet . . .” Harry paused again. “Ten. Million. Dollars.”

  Someone sucked in a breath. And then someone else. Then the whole crowd erupted in buzzy chatter. I imagined all the high rollers cha-chinging money in their brains.

  Harry Noor held his hands up to quiet the crowd. “Without further ado, I bring you a Warrior up against a visiting fighter from Yugoslavia.”

  The crowd erupted in a roaring cheer as the spotlight turned to the PRIVATE archway.

  The mike in my ear that Harry had given me crackled, signifying it had been turned on. Chapling rechecked our frequency, assuring the adjustments he’d made were still there.

  I turned my attention to the archway, hoping beyond hopes it wouldn’t be David or Mystic first.

  A tall, lanky competitor jogged through the archway. I recognized him from the footage we’d compiled as a visiting fighter from Yugoslavia. A short, pudgy man followed behind and I assumed he was the Yugoslavian’s trainer.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Chapling’s fingers race across the keyboard as he pulled up all information on the Yugoslavian fighter.

  The spotlight followed the Yugoslavian as he jogged through the crowd, weaving his way to the octagon. He trotted up onto the octagon, and the spotlight left him to illuminate the archway again. One of the Warriors walked through. With a hard expression, and an even harder body, he strode with purpose through the crowd. Not once did he take his gaze off the Yugoslavian in the octagon.

  People parted, slapping his back as he passed them. This Warrior must be a popular one.

  He stepped up onto the octagon, the spotlight faded, and the entire fighting area became illuminated.

  I looked from the Warrior’s lethal expression over to the Yugoslavian. Although he hid it well, I definitely picked up on a hint of oh-my-God-this-guy’s-huge.

  In the middle of the octagon stood Harry Noor. He pointed to the Yugoslavian. “Patrons of Demise Chain, I’d like to introduce you to our Yugoslavian competitor.”

  The Yugoslavian raised his arms, but no one cheered.

  I kind of felt bad for him.

  Harry Noor pointed to the Warrior. “And one of our Warriors, fighter Sean.”

  The crowd erupted in yells and screams, and Harry made his way off the octagon. The crowd continued yelling, and the club filled with hard rock music. The two fighters stood on opposite sides, glaring at each other. As soon as Harry gave the go ahead they would charge.

  Chapling tugged my shirt, bringing my attention down to the computer screen. The Combat Thrash Program had picked up a medical file from last week on the Yugoslavian. He’d been to a surgeon regarding a bulging disc in C4 and C5. Quickly, I scanned the file before reviewing the program’s suggestion. It recommended the Yugoslavian’s neck as the target area to begin.

  Chapling and I exchanged a look. I didn’t want to tell the Warrior to go after the Yugoslavian
’s neck. He could permanently paralyze the guy.

  “Why aren’t you giving fighter Sean that information?” Harry said from behind us, and we jumped.

  “B-b-because . . .” Chapling’s voice nervously trailed off.

  With an agitated sigh, Harry said into his earpiece. “Sean, go after the neck.” And then he turned to us, and his whole face morphed into an evil that seemed rooted in his soul. “Don’t screw me over. You will regret it if you do.”

  Quickly, we both nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  One more threatening look and Harry walked off.

  Chapling and I didn’t say anything to each other, just turned our attention back to the octagon. I had this sick feeling deep in my gut that something bad was about to happen.

  The hard rock music continued screaming while the fighters glared at each other. The buildup made the crowd go wild. Exactly what Harry wanted, I was sure.

  Then the music stopped. A loud horn went off. And the fighters charged.

  The Warrior grabbed the Yugoslavian’s head on both sides, gave it a yanking twist, and the Yugoslavian fell limply to the ground.

  I sucked in a breath. “Oh my God.”

  “D-d-did he just break his neck?” Chapling stuttered.

  The crowd jumped to their feet, roaring, possessed by the graphic show they’d just seen.

  “Good job,” I heard Harry congratulate Warrior Sean.

  Wide eyed, heart thundering, I stared at the Yugoslavian’s lifeless body. And the realization struck me hard. That could have been David or Mystic.

  Shaking my head, I turned to Chapling. No, I mouthed, aware of our earpieces. David and Mystic can’t do this.

  Someone grabbed my arm and turned me around, and I found myself staring into Nalani’s calm, focused eyes. Yes. They. Can. She mouthed back.

  “Report in,” I heard David request.

  Nalani turned her back to us and the crowd and calmly recounted everything that had just happened. While I listened to her speak in monotone, I searched for Bruiser through the still cheering crowd.

  Completely in role, she stood by her chair clapping right along with everyone else. I drug my gaze off of her and over to the Yugoslavian who was being dragged away by two club workers. I looked back at Bruiser to find she had stopped clapping and was staring through the crowd right at me.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” she softly mumbled.

  Slowly, I nodded, although I didn’t mean it. How could everything be okay? I’d just watched a man uselessly die, and it was highly probable I would see more. And Chapling and I were here to help that happen.

  Glancing behind me, I noticed Nalani had walked off. I click, click, clicked on the laptop, disengaging our earpieces, and turned to Chapling.

  “I’m not doing this,” I told him. “I’m not giving advice that will lead to someone else dying. The Combat Thrash Program isn’t about that. This mission isn’t about that. This is about finding Zandra.”

  Chapling nodded, looking more serious than I could recall him ever looking. “We’re in control back here. No one knows what our computers are churning out. We give whatever advice we want to give and leave it up to the fighters to battle it out. That’s the way it should be anyway. Unless it’s Mystic or David, of course. We’ll give them whatever they need to survive this ridiculous show.”

  “And if Harry comes back here again?” I asked, already knowing what I would do.

  “We’ll have two versions of the program.” Chapling click, click, clicked, creating another version. “The real one for us, and the fake one should Harry come back. There’s no way he’s going to be privy to the real data.”

  “And our team? We’re making this decision without them.”

  Chapling continued clicking. “I’ve known TL a long time. This is what he would want. And I’m going to tell him right now.” Chapling reengaged our earpieces, leaving Harry’s frequency turned off.

  I listened as he told our team what he and I were going to do. He sounded more authoritative than he had since I’d known him, leaving no room for discussion or questions. He’d made up his mind and no one was going to tell him otherwise.

  I was proud of Chapling.

  “Affirmative,” David agreed after Chapling had finished.

  “Affirmative,” TL backed him up.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  The hard rock music cranked up again, and we reengaged Harry’s frequency. The Yugoslavian had been taken away, and the spotlight shown bright on the archway. I held my breath, hoping it would not be David or Mystic.

  “I’m up,” David said into our earpieces, and my heart paused a beat.

  A guy the height and weight of David stepped through. I recognized him as a competitor from England and immediately brought up his data. He made very little show as he trotted up to the octagon.

  The spotlight switched over to pick up David as he came through with his trainer, Jonathan, close behind. Shirtless and dressed only in kickboxing shorts, David jogged across the floor and up to the fighting area. His face looked hard and mean. Definitely a face I wouldn’t want to see staring back at me at the start of a fight.

  “This guy likes to stand up,” I told David, repeating back what the Combat Thrash Program was giving me. “His ground skills are poor. So take him down quick. He’s also never gotten out of a leg lock. If you can get him in that, you’ll submit him. He always starts out with a kick. And he’s never thrown the first offensive move. He’s a defensive guy. He waits for you to come to him.”

  “Turn it around on him,” Bruiser added. “Wait for him to go first. He’ll throw that kick. Take him down with that, and dislocate his hip.”

  I looked at my computer screen, and sure enough, that was exactly what the Combat Thrash Program had recommended. But dislocate his hip? Was that really necessary? Yes, I reminded myself. This was a battle to the end. We had to get rid of as many fighters as possible. Dislocating a hip paled in comparison to death.

  I repeated the things Bruiser had said for the benefit of Harry listening. He’d thrive on the dislocated hip thing.

  The hard rock music faded away. Harry Noor did the introductions as both fighters lightly bounced from foot-to-foot. Harry left the octagon, the horn sounded, and neither fighter moved.

  My gaze bounced between the two of them as they continued volleying from foot-to-foot, staring at each other across the octagon. The crowd yelled, cursed, wanted them to move, but neither one of them did anything.

  Finally, the English fighter moved forward, slowly making his way across the matt to David. David continued bouncing, watching the guy approach. I looked at the guy’s face and picked up on a hint of hesitancy and confusion. Probably because no one had ever waited for him to do the approaching.

  As expected he threw a kick. David grabbed his lower leg in mid air, leapt up, snaked both his legs around the English guy’s one, and fell straight back, bringing them both to the ground. With the English guy’s foot tucked under David’s armpit, he used his hands and legs to twist the English guy’s leg.

  He squirmed and clenched his jaw, trying his hardest to wiggle out.

  I brought my concentration down to my laptop and read off what the Combat Thrash Program was recommending. “Yank his leg and twist back the other way, and you’ll dislocate his hip.”

  David gave a hard yank, followed by an immediate jerk in the other direction, and the English guy let out a yell. David released him and boinged to his feet, completely unharmed from the match.

  The crowd cheered, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Good job” Harry complimented into our earpieces.

  Still in role, David threw his arms up in victory and then turned away from the injured man and jogged off the octagon. A couple of club workers helped the guy down and the hard rock music cranked up again.

  Two more fighters came out, bloodied each other up, and one got knocked unconscious. The night continued with the same routine. Fighter after fighter. Hard r
ock music. Harry. Loud horn. For the competitors that were Warriors, Chapling and I gave them a cleaned up version of Combat Thrash Program strategy. Enough to allow them to win, but not enough to do real damage to other fighters.

  In between it all, Nalani was giving up-to-date verbal reports for the benefit of our team members back in the locker room.

  David didn’t make another appearance. And Mystic hadn’t come out yet. But with over twenty competitors, this night would definitely be a long one as fighters were dwindled down to the remaining two. There seemed to be no set schedule as Harry picked and chose who would fight who.

  Chapling and I continued updating the Combat Thrash Program as it collected information from all the fights going on. When it finally was time for Mystic or David, we’d have even more data to assist them with.

  “I’m coming out,” Mystic said into our earpieces.

  I watched the archway, and into the spotlight stepped a Warrior. The same Warrior that Mystic had gone up against during tryouts. The one he’d made ‘friends’ with. In fact, this was the first time all night that two Warriors were fighting each other.

  Chapling muted our mikes. “Not good. This guy knows Mystic’s technique.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “I want Michael to win,” Harry said into our earpieces. “I’ve turned off the other Warrior’s communication. As of seconds ago, he’ll hear nothing from us.”

  What a double crosser. “And I bet he didn’t tell the other Warrior of his plans.”

  Chapling shook his head. “I can’t stand this guy.”

  “Let’s hope all the Warriors gang up on him afterwards.”

  Chapling turned our mikes back on while I studied the Combat Thrash Program. It pulled up medical records, past fights, preliminary strategies. This guy had a wife and five kids. Sheesh. What the heck was he doing involved in all this?

  The money, I reminded myself. Bad pays good.

  The spotlight illuminated Mystic as he stepped through the archway. Unlike the other fighters, his expression held peace, confidence, and a hint of secretiveness, like he knew something no one else did. Strange enough, his calm facade came across more menacing than the others.