by Scott Blade
The apologetic approach wasn’t going to work either; Widow could see that.
Widow said, “Look. I apologized. Admitted fault. What else do you want? I don’t have any money, guys.”
Either Big John or Little John smirked. Widow wasn’t sure which was which.
Geoffrey said, “I think that it’s only fair that you take a beating. Like the one you gave Vinnie here.”
Widow stared at him, blankly.
“I’m sorry. But I can’t have word getting back to my boss that we just let you go with anything less.”
Widow smiled and said, “There’s four of you. And you’re all bigger than Vinnie. How am I supposed to fight four of you and call that even?”
“Fight? Oh, no, Mr. Tyson. I’m not saying that you have to fight all four of us.”
Widow shrugged, said, “What then? Just Laurie?”
“No. You’re not fighting here. I said ‘take a beating.’ I mean exactly that. You’re going to stand still and let Laurie break your face. Like Vinnie’s.”
Widow smiled back at Geoffrey.
“I’m not letting anyone do anything like that. You can all come at me. At the same time. I’m not the type of guy to stand still.”
Geoffrey said nothing.
Widow said, “And I’ve gotta warn you, fellas. You come at me, you’re gonna lose a lot more than ears. You’re gonna end up with broken bones and shattered faces. Maybe a couple of you will go blind when I mash your eye sockets to mush.”
Right then, Geoffrey looked straight at Laurie and then he looked around the empty street in a quick, scanning motion. He didn’t look behind him, just in front, which was behind Widow.
Widow guessed that one of the Johns signaled to him that there were no witnesses on the street in the other direction because Geoffrey did the one thing that he’d need a street with no witnesses on to do.
He pulled out a Glock 19 and jammed it in Widow’s face.
He said, “It’s not up for debate. You’re taking the beating or you’re taking a bullet.”
CHAPTER 6
“NOT HERE,” Geoffrey said, “Around the back. In the alley.”
He was speaking to Widow with a Glock 19 pointed at his face. Widow could have taken it away. Easy enough. A twist from the hips. Pivot on the left foot and a hand clamped down tight on the slide and trigger hand. Followed by a fast swipe down and away, jerking Geoffrey off his feet. Maybe he would manage to break Widow’s powerful grip and fire a round, but by that time he would be aiming at the guy behind him. One of the Johns.
Widow thought about it. But in the end, he decided not to because Geoffrey seemed to be experienced enough to know to quickly show off the gun, by pointing it in Widow’s face, but then he knew to back away far enough so Widow wasn’t tempted to try a disarm move against him.
Smart guy. Well, smart enough, Widow thought.
Widow turned and looked in the direction of a small street that led into the dimness of a small alley between the buildings.
Before he moved on, he looked left, looked right. Widow surveyed the street, to double check Geoffrey’s assessment that there were no witnesses. And there weren’t, not at that exact moment.
But just then a blue-and-white police cruiser rolled around the corner and slowed. The two cops in the front stared at Widow.
The car was a Nissan Altima model. It was a hybrid. Some kind of move by the NYPD to seem more eco-friendly.
Widow wondered if they had to sacrifice speed and maneuverability and power for the PR stunt. Then again, New York traffic was usually too thick to worry about car chases.
Widow said, “Looks like you boys won’t get the chance to follow through after all.”
Geoffrey said, “Just wait.”
Wait for what? Widow thought.
The cops rolled closer and studied Widow’s face. They stopped about fifty yards away. Then Widow watched as they brought the car to a full stop and switched on their left turn signal and cut across the road and vanished down another street.
What the hell?
“The cops aren’t going to help you. They won’t be bothering us. I’m afraid that you’re taking that beating whether you like it or not.”
These guys were powerful enough to have the cops in their pocket. At least they had the local boys in their pocket.
Widow did not even realize that the Irish mob had that kind of status in New York.
“Move it!” Geoffrey barked.
Widow moved on. He walked past one of the Johns and then turned the corner.
One of the Johns stepped out in front of him and motioned for him to follow closer. Which he did.
They led him halfway down the alley, past the garbage cans, to the back entrance of the pub.
The air smelled of disposed food and coffee filters and half-empty beer bottles.
Steam drifted up from a grate on the sidewalk. There was one overhead outside light in the alley. It hung from a pole, high above them. It buzzed and flickered.
The four guys stopped inside the yellow cone of light.
Vinnie came around the corner with Holyfield holding him up. He was awake.
Like he had done to his girlfriend, Irene, he was muttering expletives, only now they were about Widow. He tried to cut through his babysitters and march over to Widow. Only this didn’t happen.
Holyfield picked him up from under his armpits and set him back where he was, like a ragdoll.
Geoffrey said, “Shut up, Vinnie!”
Vinnie scuffed and grunted and mumbled, but he stayed where he was.
“Now, Mr. Tyson. This isn’t a fight. You raise a fist. I’ll kneecap you. Got it?”
Widow stood in the center of the cone of light. The backdoor to the pub was directly behind him, about five feet away. The two Johns stepped into the light. One to his right. One to his left.
Holyfield moved away from Vinnie and stepped up to the center. Geoffrey moved just behind him, so he could have a clear line of sight to Widow.
Vinnie was in the back, still sniveling.
Widow said, “You boys are making a mistake.”
“Oh yeah, how’s that?” Geoffrey asked.
“I told you I was sorry. I admitted fault. You don’t want to make this worse.”
“Worse for you. Not us.”
“I beg to differ.”
“How’s that?”
Widow stayed quiet.
“You know what? Never mind. I don’t care. Enough of the tough guy act,” Geoffrey said and then he looked at Holyfield. He said, “Do it.”
Holyfield stepped closer. The crookedest smile that Widow had ever seen in his life flashed across Holyfield’s map face. It was crooked and rigid, like a jagged knife wound had been used to open his mouth at birth.
Widow said, “I’ve been all over the world. And without a doubt, you’re the ugliest person I’ve ever seen.”
Holyfield’s smile changed to an unrecognizable expression because of how uneven his face was.
But Widow did recognize the giant fist that swung straight at him.
Don’t fight back or you’ll take a bullet, had been the basic warning from Geoffrey.
And he didn’t fight back, not at first.
He took the fist straight on the chin. It was hard.
Widow felt his jaw loosen and his head whipped down in a violent jerk that could’ve sprained his neck for months. The punch was so powerful that it might’ve dislocated four of his vertebrae if he had taken it the wrong way.
CHAPTER 7
THE SECOND AFTER THE PUNCH LANDED, Widow felt dazed to the point that he actually forgot things. His mind wondered about the official title of New York City and other things that did not matter at that moment.
His jaw switched to feeling intense pain from the impact to feeling like his bones were on fire.
Widow had been rocked to the core.
Luckily, his vision was fine and his mouth seemed to work with no problems because he made a remark back to the map-face g
uy about being ugly or about hearing women’s laughter. His mouth moved and the words were coherent. But then he noticed that he couldn’t quite remember the map-face guy’s name. Not off the bat.
After he made a smart-ass comment about the map-face guy he saw another huge fist barreling down on him. He reacted. Fast. He moved his face back and looked right. He took a second punch on the cheek. This one wasn’t as bad as the first because Map Face’s knuckles only brushed against his cheek. They didn’t quite connect. A combination of a misfire and self-defensive maneuvers.
Although Widow was forgetting details, he remembered that he was not supposed to fight back. However, that strategy was not working for him. He had had enough.
Widow stayed where he was.
He shut his conscious brain off and let his instincts take over.
A crackle of his eyes to the right. A crackle of his eyes to the left and a quick glance at Geoffrey. No look at Vinnie.
Widow’s only two concerns were Map Face and Geoffrey’s Glock 19.
He knew that the other guys were not armed, not with guns. They would’ve taken them out already. When your squad leader draws his gun, you draw yours. Basic tribal gang practice. Widow knew that.
Geoffrey’s Glock was the only one.
Map Face didn’t have a weapon either. Why would he? He was probably designated by the state of New York as a weapon.
Widow was ordered not to fight back. He was ordered to take a beating or he would be shot.
So far, he had been doing just that. It looked like he was taking a beating.
But Geoffrey never told him not to move. If a two-hundred-fifty-pound ex-kickboxer punches you, you move. That’s a given. Naturally.
Map Face came in at him for a third time. This time he came at Widow from the left, which was what Widow had expected. Only natural that after two rights, a boxer is going to come in with a left. Mixing it up is a major component of boxing. Any sports fan knows that.
When Geoffrey ordered Widow not to fight back, he meant with fists and kicks. He probably wasn’t thinking about the forehead.
The forehead is another weapon that opponents often overlook.
Widow didn’t have a forehead made out of stone or anything, but he did have a thick skull. A lot thicker than most. He had known this because of emergency room visits and numerous field medics and nurses over the years who always gasped at his x-rays and medical charts.
What’s one of the things that bones have in common with skin?
Bones heal and learn. Skin will heal and scar. Scar tissue is one of the strongest organic external tissues known on humans. Scar tissue can stop a sharp knife if it’s bunched up and strong enough.
Widow’s bones had built up many, many extra layers of calluses. His bones were different than most of the rest of the human population because he had beaten up a lot of opponents. And he had been hit in the head. A lot.
This had forced his skull to grow thicker and more rigid and tougher.
Widow couldn’t remember how good a boxer Map Face had been, but he supposed that the guy’s massive fists probably had never punched a forehead like Widow’s before.
No one punches the forehead. No point. But Widow had head-butted enough people and been hit in the head enough times to know that his forehead was like rock.
As Map Face came at him, aiming for his right eye, Widow reared back in a fast, arching motion and catapulted his head straight down.
Map Face was fast and powerful. But he had not tried to be fast. He had thought that Widow was standing still, like he had been ordered. He hadn’t expected that he needed to move fast. This wasn’t a fight.
Widow’s head moved faster than Map Face’s fist and he broke the arc of the punch.
Widow’s cement forehead whipped down and crushed Map Face’s left hook. There was no crushing sound, not like Vinnie’s face, but Widow felt the fingers dislocate and break and snap under the power and viciousness of his head.
Map Face’s expression changed to one that he did recognize—panic.
Widow’s head wasn’t the only thing working overtime. His feet moved and his body twisted.
As Map Face’s knuckles were crushed, Widow used the boxer’s momentum to shift him between Widow’s body and the line of fire from Geoffrey’s Glock.
Widow’s right foot stopped and planted hard on the concrete and he shoved the big kickboxer as hard as he could, straight into Geoffrey, straight into the gun.
Widow didn’t stay in one place to confirm that his plan worked. He simply reacted as it had worked.
Move. Shoot. Communicate. That was a SEAL mantra that he knew well.
Widow moved. Shoved. And now was communicating that he wasn’t going down. They were. He followed behind Map Face as he tumbled into Geoffrey and the two of them went down. He wanted to stay out of the line of fire. And to control it.
Geoffrey didn’t fire the gun. Not out of reflex, as Widow had suspected that he might. Instead, he was taken totally by surprise and he tumbled backward.
The Glock was the only thing that mattered at this point.
Like a football player losing the ball during a tackle, the Glock was out of Geoffrey’s hand and sliding across the concrete, open to interception.
Widow wasn’t the closest man to it. One of the Johns was.
Widow shifted priorities and ignored the Glock. He ran at John, who was so slow he didn’t even go for the gun until Widow was three feet from him, which Widow had anticipated.
The Glock had slid behind John and he had to bend over to scoop it up.
Before his hand could get around the grip, Widow leapt in like a cat and swiped his boot up, hard, and kicked John right in the ear.
The John toppled over. When the eardrum is busted, or shattered, no sound can be heard. Not like a breaking bone.
But Widow heard something come out of the guy’s ear. There was a low CRACK! And thick red blood gushed out like a burst hose.
The guy screamed and toppled over and rolled onto his back, which was a mistake.
Widow didn’t want to kill anyone, but these guys threatened his life. He didn’t have any mercy for them. Not now. Maybe ten minutes ago, he could’ve let things go. But not now. No way.
He moved over the guy, fast, and stomped a massive boot down onto the John’s throat. He slowed it at the last second, realizing that death wasn’t necessary. No reason to murder the guy. But if he died, no worries there either.
The guy forgot about his ear and started gasping and whishing. Which was good, in Widow’s opinion because if he was whishing then some kind of air was getting in. He wasn’t suffocating. He would need emergency surgery. But he would live, if his pals took him to the emergency room fast enough.
Widow forgot about John and reached down for the Glock. But the remaining John intervened and wrapped two big, muscular arms around him. He jerked Widow back in a reverse bear hug. Which Widow thought was just insane. This was not a good tactical move, not in a fight against a guy like him.
Then he saw why John was doing that. The map-face guy was getting up.
Geoffrey was still down. He was dazed. Looked like his head had hit the cement when he went down.
He probably had blurred vision, Widow presumed.
Widow’s toes touched the ground and he folded them in and pushed off as hard as he could. He launched up into the air a few feet, but a few were enough. He pulled his knees up and used his weight to make himself heavy.
The other John had no choice; he lost balance and they both fell forward.
Widow tucked in and braced for the impact. It had little effect on him. The other John was mostly just stunned and not harmed.
With his right boot, Widow cracked him right in the face. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to make the point.
John rolled in the other direction and held his face.
Widow didn’t wait. He bounced to his feet. He wanted to go for the Glock, but he found that there was no time because Map Fa
ce was on him now. Making his way to his feet, staying steady, standing enough to rush Widow.
Behind Map Face, Widow got another look at Geoffrey. He was scrambling to his feet behind the kickboxer. But stumbling. Blood seeped over his left eye from a huge superficial gash across his brow. He clenched that eye closed and gazed around.
Widow ignored him and braced himself for Map Face, who stood up hunched like a linebacker and charged at Widow.
The common weakness of many professional athletes, especially boxers, is their egos. Often, they think because they are paid to play a sport they can do anything. They think that because they’ve won a belt, have a crown, wear a gold medal, or hold the title of champion, that they are champions in real life, in the streets.
If Widow had been using his voluntary brain, that is if it had been working properly, at that moment, he would’ve recalled recently watching a program on a TV in a sports bar, down the road from a bus station in New Haven, Connecticut, where the Discovery channel and ESPN were both covering a story about the famous swimmer Michael Phelps who was racing a great white shark in open waters.
To Widow, the whole idea was a ridiculous premise. A cash grab. And a perfect example of champion athletes thinking that they were the best at something just because they had won a competition in a safe, controlled environment.
Of course, the event was staged and a computer graphic was used instead of a real shark. A real shark wouldn’t have raced Phelps to the end. He would’ve taken a bite out of him instead.
Cage MMA fighting is a little better because at least Map Face had really been in some danger of bodily injury. But even in a cage match, there are rules and a referee and judges and commentators and both fighters were evenly matched in terms of weight and class and they had teams of people behind them.
In the street, there are no rules. No referees. Nothing is balanced, unless by accident.
Plus, in the streets, Widow was fighting for his life, not for a trophy. Whereas, Map Face wasn’t fighting for his life.
He roared toward Widow, who didn’t step right, didn’t step left. He figured that Map Face might anticipate a sidestep. Instead, he stayed completely still until the last moment and he flogged up his right foot and hurtled it out.
