Talon: Combat Tracking Team (A Breed Apart) (7 page)

C
an I help you?”

Distrust and disgust stared back from a face that said trouble was best left outside. If Cardinal were the guessing kind, he’d peg this guy as the Amadore whose name stretched across the painted-black window gracing the storefront. Built like a barrel, with hands as big as two ball-peen hammers, the guy had hair that had once been jet black and curly. The proverbial Italian Stallion. And by that no-mess greeting, the stallion had things to protect.

Musty and dim, the fight club had all the glamour and odor one would expect. Light dribbled through the spots where the window paint had flecked off the large panes lining the front of the old warehouse.

Dust danced on the light beams, as if locked in their own boxing match.

Cardinal brought his gaze back to the guy who waved off a scrawny kid. “Looking for someone.”

“We ain’t a date joint,” the burly guy said.

Amusing. “Good, I’m looking for a guy.”

A shrug of the massive, well-muscled shoulders. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” The man almost grinned. “We don’t judge.” He slowly looked Cardinal up and down. “Well, most of the time.”

Cardinal cocked his head and met the man’s entirely too pleased eyes. “Look, someone asked me to meet him here. A—”

Thwump!

The burly guy jerked his attention to the ring where two fighters, wearing headgear and other protective gear, were heavy into a match.

Thwump!

“Hey!” The burly guy stalked to the other end of the counter. “Mario! What’d I tell you? I’m warning you, punk!”

The guy in the ring held up his gloves in a show of submission.

“Angel, eyes up. Focus!” Scowling, the burly guy backstepped, still watching the match in the ring at the center of the gym.

Cardinal could understand why.

“Up, watch—that’s right!”

A woman—had the big guy called her Angel?—bounced around the mat, going toe-to-toe with a bully of a guy. And holding her own. He’d half expected her to be laid-out flat after the way that guy swung.

A hard right. She deflected and threw her own.

“Whoa,” the scrawny kid mumbled from the other side of the counter.

“She’s good,” Cardinal said.

The man’s head snapped toward him. “What?” he barked. “What’d you say about my angel?”

“She’s a solid fighter. Good form. A little slow on the return, but—”

“Hey, Angel,” the man yelled, still glowering at Cardinal. “This punk says you’re too slow on the return.”

Cardinal laughed. “Hey, it was just—”

She waved her gloved hands. “Bring it!”

He glanced at the ring. Brown, wet ringlets sprung from a pulled-back ponytail, framing the face and doe-like eyes—well, doe in shape. The fury spewing from them made her seem more like the siren who’d coaxed Odysseus from his voyage—mission.

“No, no, I’m here to meet someone.”

The burly man laughed, long and loud. “Mister,” he said with a menacing gleam, “meet my angel.” Finally, he looked away. “Mario, give the guy some gloves.”

“No, seriously.” Cardinal wanted to punch the scrawny kid who stood laughing at him. “I meant no harm.”

“He’s just chicken,” the kid taunted.

Laughter bounced through the fight club, and only then did Cardinal realize he had an audience. A large one. He wanted to curse. He rounded on the guy when he started making clucking noises.

The kid’s smile vanished, and he backed away. “I’m going…to…” The guy pivoted and ran.

When Cardinal turned around, something flew at him, thumped against his chest, then dropped to the floor. He glanced down to find gloves and wraps at his feet. Though he retrieved them, he had no intention of fighting, especially not a woman.

He held the equipment out to the man behind the counter. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here to meet someone by the name of Courtland.” He looked to the ring, expecting the woman to perk up when he said her name. She didn’t. “You know where I can find Aspen Courtland?”

Something dark flickered through the man’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Where?”

He pointed to the ring.

“Now who looks slow?” came a taunting voice—a female voice. She stood at the side, red gloves hooked over the top ropes. The white tank accentuated her curves—and her toned arms and trim waist. Dark spots—blood?—splattered her shoulder. He’d seen the number she did on that other guy. Though young, short, and athletic, she had a fight the size of Alaska—and as cold—in those cobalt eyes.

The burly guy lifted the gloves. “One round. If you fight fair and remain standing, I’ll introduce you to Courtland.”

This wasn’t the first time he had to buy loyalty from locals. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Slowly, he reached for the gloves. “I’ll hold you to that.” He hesitated, looked at the woman again, then back to the big guy. “Two minutes?”

“As I said, one round. I’m a man of my word.”

“So am I.”

The man slapped his shoulder. “You can change back there. Luke will get you suited up.”

Within minutes, Cardinal had a pair of shorts, shoes, and a tank on. His newfound friend, Luke, led him back into the gym.

“Hey,” Cardinal said to the man who’d been in the ring with the girl, “any tips? I don’t want to hurt her.”

Mario laughed. “Yeah, go easy on her. She’s not as strong as she looks.”

Why did that sound a lot like “you’re stupid enough to believe me”? Cardinal slowed. “Then what does that make you since she beat the snot”—he motioned to the guy’s red nose—“out of you?”

More laughter. Mario bumped his fists against the gloves, a sign of camaraderie. “Don’t hold back.”

Surprise leapt through Cardinal.

“Angel won’t.”

Angel
. It felt like a sick, cruel joke. The name invoked a haunting memory.

Applause and cheers broke out around the gym, pulling Cardinal back to the present, back to the ring. Surprisingly, most of the others gathered round. Angel waited in the ring, conferring with two other women, who indicated to him as he stepped through the ropes.

The burly guy stood at the center of the ring. He held out his hands. Angel approached, and only as she came closer did he realize she was small…and beautiful—er, young. Way young. Was she even out of high school?

“Fight fair. Two-minute bell.”

    Five    

G
enerate momentum off the right toe. Keep balance. Take balance away from the other guy. The tall, muscle-bound man rivaled anyone she’d ever matched. In the first thirty seconds of their sparring, she realized he knew boxing. A lot about boxing.

Fair enough. No holds barred.

Aspen backed up, forcing him to come to her. He moved fluidly, which amazed her that a man his size could do it smoothly. Acutely aware of the throng gathered on the bleachers surrounding the ring, she tried to keep her focus. Shake off the words Timbrel had muttered as the guy climbed into the ring:
“a hottie like that—let him win so he’ll feel bad and take you out.”

The glove came up, glanced off her chin. She rolled out of it and followed through with a right hook, which he deftly avoided. The jabs and punches came quicker. Apparently, he’d gotten over fighting a girl—the trepidation clear on his face as he lumbered onto the mat was gone. Agitation wound around her stomach. She’d seen that look on every airman who’d been paired with her in the field. They quickly figured out there were bigger sissies back in their bunks. But she hated the assumptions, hated the looks and jeers. This guy had held that presumption for all of ten seconds before unloading.

Hands up, she protected herself against a jab. Though he stood as tall—no, taller—than Mario, the bulk on this guy added some leverage she hadn’t expected.

Keep your feet moving
. A left, right. She swung hard.

He deflected.

Harder.

A quick strike snapped her head back. Stunned, she backstepped. He eased into the space. She slammed a solid left, which he protected, then she rammed a right. Caught his side. He grunted but swung upward. The momentum carried through, popping her head back. Aspen gasped as her feet left the mat.

Ding!

She landed on her back.
Oof!
Air whooshed from her lungs.

The guy leaned over her. “You okay?”

“Get away from her!” Amadore’s shout pervaded the club. “What’d you do, punk?”

Aspen peeled herself off the mat, indignation creeping through her shoulders. She stretched her jaw and neck, amazed. He’d flattened her! Mario hadn’t managed that in a long time. Sitting, arms over her knees, she waited to catch her breath.

“Angel, you okay?” Amadore hooked her elbow and helped her to her feet. He twisted around. “You, get out of my club!”

“What a minute.”

“Out!”

Dane Whatshisname drew back, glancing between them. “You said you’d—”

Chest puffing, Amadore tightened his lips and biceps. Coiled, ready to strike like the cobra tattooed on his arm. “I said if you survived a round.”

Dane glowered. “I did.”

“No, you knocked her out. The bell hadn’t sounded.”

Grit out, she sighed. “He didn’t knock me out, Amadore.” She patted his side. “I’m okay. Just…” She shot Brittain and Timbrel a glance then looked toward the two men hovering near the far corner of the ring. Picking her pride up off the mat took everything she had. At the corner, she offered her glove to the winner. “Good fight.”