Hook and Shoot (25 page)

Eddie paused. “Only one of you was a complete idiot. That's a good ratio; keep it up. And don't be here when I come out.”

Burch followed him into the room and shut the door. Eyeballed Vince and Robbie. “Private chat, lads.”

Vince checked with Gil, who nodded. “Thanks, guys. Give us a few.”

Eddie pulled a roll of bills, held a twenty out. “Grab some food. On me.”

“Ought to get us a hot dog,” Vince said.

“This ain't a customer survey.”

Vince snatched the money and followed Robbie out the door.

Eddie took a deep breath. “Woody, man. This is huge. I need you to focus.”

“I was.”

“Don't worry about Shuko,” Burch said.

“I wasn't.”

“Event security is scouring the gates, the crowd, the hallways. I'd let the Queen Mum sit front row.”

“Shit,” Eddie said, “right next to Brandenberg,
out there tapping his watch every time I look at him. Argo's sitting with a bunch of Japanese assholes. I guarantee you they got tattoos under those suits.”

My precious bubble was long gone. “Vanessa is safe?”

“Don't worry about that,” Eddie said.

“Tell me she's safe and I won't.”

Burch nodded. “She is.”

“What's the drill if Shuko rolls in?”

“Concentrate on your fight, mate.”

“Give me a goddamn answer.”

Eddie slapped his chest, made a dull thud. “I'm armored up. So's Burch. We'd give you one, but the ref might take points away. They'll stop bullets, but we aren't sure about swords or arrows. Can't hurt.”

“What about darts?”

“Fuck.”

“You spot Shuko,” Burch said, “let me know, then get down. I'll be one seat behind Eddie.”

Somebody rapped on the door.

Burch opened it enough for Hollywood the cutman to peek in. “Gotta wrap this boy up and let the doc check him.”

“Thank Christ,” Gil said.

Burch said, “One minute.” Closed the door.

Eddie grabbed my shoulders. “You have to win. You
will
win. I know you can handle this.”

That made one of us.

I walked in to music I didn't hear, past hands and faces I didn't see, scanning it all for the flash of a blade. The cameras didn't help, and jet-engine decibels made sure I wouldn't hear anybody coming up on me.

I fought the urge to look over my shoulder. Gil and Vince and Robbie were back there, along with six security guards. If Shuko pounced I'd maybe hear the screams before he got to me.

I was caught up in it, breathing too fast and fighting to get the bubble back, didn't see the blowgun come out of the crowd until it was an inch from my face.

I grabbed, twisted, yanked it out of Shuko's hands, and crumpled it. Turned to crush his head and saw a kid with eyes bigger than his face.

He started to cry, pointing at the rolled-up poster I'd destroyed.

Some guy put an arm around the kid's shoulders. “Nice job, asshole.”

I handed him the poster. “Sorry.”

Gil moved me along, stayed close so he could yell at me. “You get a paper cut?”

“Man, I'm all fucked up.”

“Nope.”

“I'm not ready.”

“Of course you are.”

“I need to relax.”

“Calmest I've ever seen you is in the cage.”

We got to the bottom of the steps. Everybody waiting there to check me out before I could ascend. I looked at their faces, made sure nobody was Japanese or screaming for my decapitation.

I tried a deep breath, hit the shallow bottom too soon. “This isn't gonna work.”

Gil pointed through the black fence.

Zombi.

“Your work is waiting for you.”

My work stood across the cage and stared at me with no expression while one of his cornermen leaned over the cage and talked in his ear. My work looked solid, strong, square from shoulders to hips, a block of muscle.

My job was to shatter it.

From the moment Eddie dangled the fight at me in the back of his limo, all I'd wanted was to get in the cage and do my job.

Now it was time, Jim Lincoln belting out the details for people still wandering around finding their seats, and I felt my suit of armor cinching tight. It was old. Dented and stained from twenty-eight professional fights, countless very unprofessional ones. It was comfortable.

I was not.

Zombi looked like a pool of deep, dark water. I felt an undertow sliding under my feet, tugging me off-balance. I fought it, burning fuel just to stand still.

You're not ready for this.

I'm ready for anything.

He's better than you.

Lots of guys are. Some are stacked up in my win column.

His mission is to beat you.

He's not willing to do what it takes to beat me.

When are you going to calm the fuck down and stop listening to me?

The referee stepped forward. His name was Brubaker and he was dressed like a mortician. “Fighter, are you ready?”

Zombi nodded.

“Fighter, are you ready?”

When?

I stomped the mat.

“Fight!”

Right now.

The crowd may have cheered. Everything outside the cage fell away, dim and distant. I moved to the middle of the cage and met Zombi there.

We did not touch gloves.

“He's gonna feel you out,” Gil shouted.

Zombi dove toward my legs, tried to scoop an ankle and drag me down. I sprang and danced away, keeping my distance while he stayed on one knee and watched me.

“Never mind,” Gil said.

Zombi stood and walked forward, hands up near his shoulders with the palms facing me. Wide stance on his toes, light and quick, economical. He wasn't worried about me shooting in to take him down. Maybe wanted me to.

I cracked a left kick into the inside of his left thigh.

There, how you like that?

From his expression, he thought it was somewhere between pinkeye and peanut butter cups.

I kicked him again in the same spot, rolled my hip over, and felt a solid impact.

“Careful,” Vince said through the fence, “don't let him catch those.”

Zombi stuck his left leg forward, dangling that meat out there.

Interpreter my ass.

I lifted my foot for another kick, shot it back, and lunged at him with a Superman punch that grazed his forehead.

If he blinked, I missed it.

“Good,” Gil said, “make him worry about something else.”

I liked the idea of making him worry, knitting that smooth brow with concern. I bounced on my toes and flicked a right jab in front of a left hook into his stomach. Moved my feet, head, connected with a solid jab. He countered with a hook that started at the concession stands. By the time it went past my face its hot dog was half gone. Not a natural striker, this guy.

I bounced some more, switched leads a few times and threw a right jab, a lazy piece of shit, and paid for it.

Zombi turned inside the punch and came around with a wild spinning backfist that went past my head, but his forearm smashed into my ear. I lost my balance and looked at the mat to make sure it was still down there. Zombi piled me against the cage and hooked his left arm over my head, got that forearm around my neck in a guillotine.

“Wrist!” Vince said from somewhere.

I grabbed Zombi's left wrist with my right hand and tried to pull it away from my throat. It was welded in place.

“Get some space,” Gil yelled.

Air was hissing in and out of my mouth, and a buzz in my ear got louder. The blood trapped in my head flooded into my face.

Fights can be won or lost in the gym, the prep
room, the stare down. Sometimes the decision is made the first time you lock up with a guy, swap strength, and see what you're dealing with.

Toss him around or shrug him off, you think,
All mine.

He thinks,
Uh-oh.

I pried on Zombi's arm as hard as I could.

Uh-fucking-oh.

Turned my chin toward his ribs so he couldn't cut off both arteries, hooked my left arm over his right shoulder, and pulled. That took another millimeter of pressure off my throat and made Zombi hold me up.

He seemed okay with that, started to back up so he could drag me face-first onto the mat and probably gator roll me or spin to take my back if he didn't just bear down and pop my head off. I worked my legs around, got my left knee behind his right, and pushed my weight over it.

When he started to fold I took a chance, let go of his wrist and dropped my right hand to catch his left knee and pick him up. In the fraction of a second it took to lift and slam him, Zombi squeezed hard enough to crack something in my throat. I planted him, my body perpendicular to Zombi's and my knees against the right side of his rib cage. Sank some weight down and made sure I could still breathe. No good. My trachea was too busy fighting the back of
my tongue. I tried for wheezing, got something close. When I swallowed there was a massive rebellion—ended up spitting a glob onto the canvas near Brubaker's feet and saw blood in it.

Zombi abandoned the choke and put his left forearm against my face to push me away. The stretch on my throat felt like it was getting flossed with barbed wire. I held on, stupid, determined to stay there just because he didn't want me to.

“Get up,” Gil said. An angelic voice of reason.

I shoved off Zombi and got to my feet, registered a cheer from the growing crowd; nobody wants to watch three rounds of lay-and-pray.

Zombi rolled to a knee, his face a stone mask. He studied me for a moment.

What did he see? Weakness?

He stood and walked forward. Hands raised, eyes dead. I pulled air in, flicked a jab, and whipped a left kick into his ribs, going for that juicy liver. The bastard was waiting for it—probably scouted the Burbank fight. He turned away and caught it against his belly, stepped in and snaked his left leg around my right, snagged me with an inside trip. My back scraped along the cage. I flailed, trying to stay up.

“Don't grab the fence,” Brubaker said.

I quit fighting it, let Zombi take me down. Soon as my back hit the mat I exploded for a reverse, rolled
and tried to keep his momentum going over so I could end up on top, but the cage was there. He bounced off it and landed in my half guard, his left leg trapped between mine.

Gil and Vince were inches away, leaning on the apron.

“Easy,” Gil said. “Breathe.”

He could have made it easier and tried, “Levitate.”

Zombi wedged me into the cage and sank his weight down. He was a lead blanket dipped in quicksand. He put an elbow into my diaphragm and a forearm across my throat, driving the air out and keeping it there. Black spots grew and burst halfway between us. I looked into his shark eyes and saw nothing. If I could have talked, I'd have thanked him. He was making me fight for my life.

For survival.

I winked and elbowed him in the face.

Again, left elbow slicing across his temple. He eased off my diaphragm to raise his right arm to block. I elbowed that, thumped him sideways into the cage.

He tried to pull back, put some punches in my face to keep me busy. I clamped my right hand behind his neck and kept him close. He leaned into my throat and I ignored it. Changed the angle of attack, tucked my wrist next to my ear, and brought an elbow straight down on his face again and again.

Eyebrow, nose, mouth.

Blood fell on me. He was cut.

Blink now, motherfucker.

He shook his head, sending a drape of blood onto the canvas. I shoved my right palm under his chin and pushed him away. He latched onto it and started to spin to my right for an armbar, but the fence was too close, no room.

His weight shifted. I shoved him into the cage and pulled my feet back, got them under me. Stood up. He rose with his bloody face hidden behind forearms.

I pummeled all of it. Hooks, uppercuts, power.

Zombi covered and weathered and sprayed blood.

Brubaker hovered, watching.

I kneed Zombi in the stomach, tried to get those arms down. Again. He caught the second one, hooked an arm under it, and shot forward. I hopped backward and battered him with right elbows, slicing him once more over the left ear.

We traveled across the cage. I hit the fence again, and he dropped to scoop me up for another takedown when the bell rang.

He let go. Straightened up and looked me in the eye, no expression behind a veil of blood.

“Looking good.” Gil knelt in front of my stool, holding my mouthguard and a water bottle.

Hollywood wiped me down to see if any of the blood was mine. It wasn't.

Gil dumped some water on me. “Good pace, good explosions, fantastic elbows, I want more. More punches too but watch the kicks. When he turns to the side like he did to catch a kick, switch stances and attack the lead leg.”

“Be ready for him to shoot on that,” Vince said. “Soon as you switch, bring a knee up, see if his face is there to meet it. At least make him think about it.”

“Okay.” It was a ragged whisper, ended with a click.

Gil whistled. “That guillotine was tight, huh? You're fine. You can breathe? Good. Knock this asshole out, we'll go get ice cream and talk like the Godfather. Elbows.” He stuck the mouthguard in, patted my cheek, and followed Vince and Hollywood out.

All positive, nothing about how strong and balanced Zombi was, how I got smacked by the backfist and let him get an arm around my neck while we were both still fresh and dry, no sweat to help me slip out.

Brubaker walked to the middle of the cage.

“Woody,” Gil said.

I looked at him through the cage.

“Who the fuck does this guy think he is? You're smashing him.”

I smiled, was turning away when I saw a red tuft sprouting from the pad along the top rail of the cage.
The blow dart had missed me by about a foot.