I turned, rolling my shoulders forward and back as I continued stretching my neck.
Lights flooded the canvas, making it more difficult to search the crowd – not impossible, just more difficult.
Vlasi sat in front of the crowd gathered to the west of the ring. He sat in the chair with his hands steepled and his elbows resting on the armrests of his chair. Beyond him, his son sat four or five rows back, watching the ring and me with a confused twist to his lips.
Confused until I smiled at him and two Ivanovs moved into place on either side of him. They jerked their hands in an upward motion and he slowly stood, his eyes narrowing as he followed them toward the ring.
I bounced around in a circle, warming up my calves and quads, punching my hands into each other.
Sergio approached the ring, his chin high and his shoulders back. He glanced over, spying his father and smirking while reaching down and unraveling his belt from the loops. He’d have to fight me in his pants. I wasn’t sure if he’d keep a shirt on or not. I wasn’t even certain what style of fighting we’d be in.
Vlasi didn’t react to Sergio’s display. He continued to stare at me, his expectations evident in the resolute set to his jaw and brow.
“Hey, kid.” Bruce’s voice pulled my attention from the corner opposite me. I turned to face him, looking down through the ropes. At least he was still alive. For now.
He rested a large hand on the black rope, glancing between me and Sergio and back again. “It’s set up for street fighting, but the ref is being paid to ignore fouls and dirty shots. He’s pretty much just there as a trophy ref.” He stared at Sergio while muttering the last part. “Don’t expect fair. He doesn’t work that way. Do what you have to do. Do you understand?”
I nodded, punching my gloves together as I turned around again to face the man who had set his sister up to die and Gray to lose everything.
He didn’t have to have anything to do with the direction things had gone, but he didn’t care as he’d moved into a position to take over the family business after killing his own sister.
Gray wouldn’t have had to do endure the pain she’d gone through since Saturday or the mind-screwing she’d undergone after Sonya died on her card.There was no reason for it, except the man in front of me had acted like a child. It was now my job to take care of it.
I took a deep breath and let my rage well inside me. Gray’s bruises that I could see, the ones I could only imagine, the potential assaults she’d undergone by who knew how many guys, all of it messed with me. All of it contributed to my rage.
Clashing my gloves together, I strained against my own muscles and couldn’t help the anger coming out of me in a snarl.
Sergio yanked his gray silk shirt off, the buttons popping to reveal a white wife beater tank tucked into the top of his black dress pants.
He kicked off his shoes, bending to remove his socks and tucking them into the open mouths of his patent leather loafers. He turned back, one of his own men reaching out and handing him gloves similar to mine.
Bruce had said to watch for foul play. Expect it. I had no doubt there was something wrong with his gloves. Mine probably hadn’t been inspected either.
I suddenly glanced at my gloves and then yanked at the Velcro straps. I wasn’t going to chance anything – if they’d tampered with mine, that could harm me.
I tossed the gloves to the side of the mat and stretched my hands, challenging Sergio to match me with a quirk of an eyebrow. He held the gloves in his hands and considered me, a slow, shark-like smile spreading his lips from side to side.
After a drawn-out moment, Sergio reached up and smoothed his greased hair back from his face and then tossed the gloves out of the ring toward his man. He inclined his head and popped his knuckles.
The referee glanced toward Vlasi and Jedediah, first one and then the other before moving into the middle of the ring. The crowd grew more restless, their shifting and shuffling intermixed with catcalls and whistles.
We didn’t bother meeting in the center. I think the ref worried about collateral damage to himself, if he started with us out. The man blew his whistle and stepped to the side of the ring, out of our way.
Street fighting was open in a way even MMA wasn’t. Even rabbit punches were tolerated where a fighter got in tight with his opponent and then pummeled the back of his head. Highly illegal in most arenas, not so much in street fighting.
Sergio stepped forward, his grin turning into a more menacing twist.
I curled my upper lip. Two people were going to enjoy this fight very much. Both were in the ring and both couldn’t wait to get started.
I stepped forward, flexing my back muscles as I tucked my chin. Whoever got the first knuckle crack in was going to have a distinct advantage.
I intended that to be me.
Gray
“You have to get me back in there. Guys, please.” I moved toward the doors and Gunner and Brock blocked me, moving to head me off.
They were bigger than me by a solid sixty pounds each. No matter what I did, they would be able to stop me. What I had to do was convince them to let me do what I needed to.
Brock ducked down, his eyes hard to make out with his back to the lights of the club and the night sky covered with clouds. He spoke calmly. “Look, Gray, you can’t go in there. They want your blood. They think Sonya’s killer is the girl who fought her last week – that’s the people who know she’s dead. The ones who don’t care if they hurt you in revenge, who want to hurt you.” He knitted his eyebrows. “Do you understand that?”
I inhaled, my nostrils widening with my breath. “I get more than you think I do. I’m not an idiot. But do you understand what’s going to happen in there? Stryker is going to fight to the death. We can’t allow that. Either he is going to die or he’s going to kill someone else.” Why weren’t they panicking like I was? Was I the only sane person left in the world? Why was a death match even okay? I knew it was illegal, but it wouldn’t be talked about outside of the Russian circles or those of us who were present.
For Stryker’s fight, I had to be there. I needed to see it. He needed me to see it, whether he knew it or not.
Was I broken or something? Since when did I need permission to do anything? I lifted my gaze from where it had fallen unseeingly to the ground and I squinted at the two Jamesons. “I don’t need your permission. You can’t stop me from going in there.” I knew they could, but I hoped they wouldn’t.
Gunner glanced at Brock, shaking his head. “We can’t be seen.”
“We can go in the back. There’s a place above the offices we can watch from a window.” I pointed toward a hidden ladder to the top that I’d used when I first found The Pike and watched the fights before I’d gotten in on my own.
Bruce had once told me the ladder was in place for when stray cats got stuck up there or in case Jedediah needed to escape a bad gambling shark or something. He always had Plan Bs and other things in the background.
Brock and Gunner followed my finger with their gazes. They glanced at each other and then reached for my arms as if I needed to be dragged between them.
I shook them off, making myself walk to the ladder behind the bushes in the rocks without help. I would never get them to let me do things on my own, if I couldn’t walk or climb a ladder on my own.
A surge in the crowd’s applause and screaming pushed through the walls. I glanced at Gunner as I reached for the first rung, my fingers aching with the cold. A renewed sense of urgency powered through me, giving me the strength to climb the metal pipe rungs.
If the crowd was cheering, then someone was fighting and someone else was getting beaten.
At the top of the roof, I glanced down. Wincing at the sudden cloud of dizziness, I swayed to the side and Brock pushed me straight. We were only up about twelve feet, but it might as well have been thirty.
“Come on, you can do this.” Brock pushed on my back, egging me forward.
I could do it. He was right. I
needed to get my head straight. I tucked my chin and nodded, pulling myself fully onto the flat roof. I strode forward, bracing both hands on the sturdy wall beside the dirty windows that faced inward. Gunner came up beside me and spit on the glass, wiping at it with his sleeve.
We crowded around, staring intently through the small circle of clarity Gunner had provided.
The lights were bright and centered on the dirty gray canvas. I’d never really noticed how seedy and back-alley the club fights were.
Stryker and Sergio Ivanovs circled each other in the center of the ring like bantam roosters getting ready to spur. Sergio laughed, the tendons in his neck straining as he yelled something at Stryker.
Stryker didn’t react, keeping his guard up and his steps measured.
A split second passed and then Sergio lunged forward, striking out with a left jab and following with a right hook. Stryker side-stepped the attack, bringing his foot to step behind Sergio’s rear heel and slamming the older man in the chest.
Sergio moved backward as if to absorb the hit, but he tripped on Stryker’s foot and he stumbled.
Stryker pulled back, waiting to attack again until Sergio regained his footing. Standing, Sergio motioned with his bare hands for Stryker to come at him again.
“Bare hands? They’re bare knuckle fighting?” That was even rougher than street fighting. We hadn’t yet embraced it in eastern Washington yet, but it was there, everywhere you looked to watch fights on television or the internet.
I tried to control my breathing but Stryker’s controlled fighting just might lose to Sergio’s chaotic wailing. He threw more haymakers than I’d ever seen and long red lines stretched across Stryker’s arms after Sergio blatantly scratched him.
Stryker never flinched, as if he didn’t feel what was being done to him.
“He’s getting pissed.” Brock breathed, the sentence only adding to the tension on the roof.
I swallowed, never looking away from the fight. “How can you tell? He looks completely calm to me.” There was a fire in his eyes that I could see from where I stood.
Gunner pointed a finger as if we dissected a fighter on the television. “See how he drops his left leg back into more of a cross than an L?” I nodded and he continued. “He’s gearing up for an uppercut. He’ll pivot in, do a cut, and then swing back around and slam the guy in the kidney. More than once. Stryker won’t attack a head with dirty punches, but kidney shots are fair game.”
I held my breath and watched as Stryker did exactly as Gunner described.
The power rippling through his muscles mesmerized me. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers over his skin. He twisted and delivered one, two, three punches to Sergio’s kidney while the man tried to recover from the jaw attack. He shook to the side, pushing Stryker from him.
As Stryker moved into position for another attack a cracking sound split through the milieu of the crowd. The onlookers paused, looking around in confusion.
Sergio fell to the ground, his arm bouncing as his weight forced the ring floor to spring him back. I blinked. What was happening?
Stryker spun around, looking for something I couldn’t see. I scanned the room as well, unable to identify what it was he wanted to find.
Another crack followed the first and Stryker fell to the canvas on top of Sergio in a slump.
My scream broke through the spell of the mass of fighting fans. Gasps and cries thundered with yelling as people pushed and shoved from their seats to get to the exits.
I slammed my hands on the glass. “Stryker! Gunner, Brock, help him! Stryker! Oh, my hell, no!” I hit the glass again and again, not noticing as the single pane gave way under my palm and splintered into a hundred pieces.
A jagged corner scraped across my palm and Brock pulled me back. He held my hand up, shaking his head as he dropped a sympathetic gaze down to my face. “Gray, you have to stop.”
I sagged back into his and Gunner’s arms. They willingly supported me, cradling me as my body refused to do anything worthwhile. My sobs ripped from me, having nothing to do with my own injuries or the slight amount of blood dripping from my hand. “He’s shot. He… Is he dead?” My words ended on a whisper as I cried, sharp demanding gasps pulling from deep inside me.
Both of them had been shot. It couldn’t have been at just Sergio or just Stryker. Why wasn’t it me? It was supposed to be me.
I gasped again, trying to drag in enough oxygen to keep me from passing out. Or enough to make me pass out.
“Come on, we need to get out of here.” Brock seemed to only want to run. I needed to be down there with Stryker. He needed someone. He needed me.
Why did I care so much? Why was it such a big deal? He was probably dead. I had to distance myself from the situation or I wouldn’t be able to function normally ever again.
I numbly followed Gunner to the ladder while Brock brought up the rear. Gunner seemed lost in thought as he turned to climb down the rungs. He glanced at me, opening his mouth slightly before shutting it and going down.
I reached out, stopping his descent as I studied his expression. “What? What are you thinking?” Something was there and he didn’t seem worried. I was willing to cling to anything for hope that Stryker was okay, even if it was a quizzical expression of his cousin’s.
Gunner kept his voice down, glancing at Brock behind me and to the side and then back at me. He leaned up and his forehead wrinkled with thought. “A death match is usually fast with both fighters moving in aggressively, agreed?” He waited for us to nod. “Stryker looked almost bored, like he was pushing Sergio around, trying to get him into position for something. Then…” Gunner trailed off, staring at me and Brock as if he wasn’t sure he sounded crazy or not.
“Go on. What’s the then?” I tilted my head down, anxious to hear more. These guys knew each other. What someone else didn’t notice, they would pick up without a second thought.
“He didn’t dive to the floor after the first shot. Isn’t that what we were trained to do when he heard the sound of an unsilenced .22?” He was speaking to Brock who I saw nod from my peripheral vision.
“So, he was trying to get shot?” That didn’t make sense. Why did Stryker want to die?
“Shot… yes. But I don’t think he was trying to get killed. I think he was waiting for his turn.” Gunner inhaled and shook his head. “Come on. The pieces will come together. We just need to figure it out.”
I could feel the pain in my palm starting to burn. The longer I stood there, the less likely it was I would be able to get down on my own.
I turned, noticing half-distractedly the dark red blood drops shining on the roof. Was I bleeding that badly? It all seemed abstract compared to what I’d just seen. Nothing was real. How could it be?
How could Stryker have just been shot?
How would they cover this up?
The Pike wouldn’t be considered a safe spot again and I didn’t want that for Jedediah. I didn’t what that for anyone. I climbed down the ladder; certain things were about to get worse before they could possibly get better.
Chapter 14
Stryker
Someone grabbed me, rolling my body to the side. I kept my eyes closed as my shoulder blades hit the canvas.
When Vlasi had offered the shooting as a way out of the death match which would guarantee Sergio’s death and clear me from any recourse, I’d wanted to balk. But my rational side understood it was the only way to guarantee my survival. That was if Vlasi’s guy was a good shot.
Burning in my upper shoulder confirmed I wasn’t dying, but the wound hurt like a bitch. I kept my teeth clenched tight to muffle any groans that might try to escape.
My head flopped to the side when someone nudged me to get across to Sergio. I opened my eyes enough to peek through my lashes, finding Sergio staring at me from dead eyes. There was no reflection in them, like dull glass. His mouth was partially open and a small circle above his left eye left no doubt where he’d been shot.
The shoo
ter really had been a crack shot to get Sergio in the head and me in the shoulder – the very top at that.
Someone said something in Russian. Hands reached past me, tugging and pulling on Sergio’s inert body. A low voice moved beside me, murmuring in my direction as they pulled at my arm. “Come on, Jameson. We gotta get you outta here.”
The number of EMTs grew from three to about ten, all of them focused on Sergio and all of them speaking some form of Russian I couldn’t understand. Something in my gut said they weren’t EMTs, at least not in the traditional sense.
Bruce hooked his hands under my armpits. “This might hurt. Sorry.” He slid me across the floor, out from under the ministering medics.
Cameras flashed and people still screamed as the last few stragglers worked their way free from the club.
I bit my tongue, tasting copper as I drew blood to keep my pain internally locked away.
“Hey, we need to stabilize his neck. Stop moving him.” A guttural accent accompanied the words.
Bruce grunted, motioning toward me, a soft breeze waving over me with his movements. “This one’s dead. I have to get him off the canvas before more blood spreads. He’ll be right here, if you need him.”
From behind my lashes, I held my breath, watching as the man seemed to want to check me for himself.
Bruce looked past him and pointed. “Is the other guy still alive? Maybe I should check on him instead of this one.” Bruce moved as if to pass by me.
The man held up his hands, shaking his head as he backed away. “No need. We’ve got him under control. Move that one to the side of the mat and we’ll grab him on our way out.” His voice faded as he turned back to the fallen Russian. They would do whatever they could to contain the shooting.
Disposing of my body was just one service they would offer free of charge.
Her Brawlers: A high school bully romance (Bad Boys of Jameson High Book 2) Page 12
