A Fighting Chance (30 page)

“Jesse Chance, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he says, jutting his hand out between us, and I glance down to confirm what Miguel saw. Yup, most of his pinkie and ring fingers are missing
, with the severed edges showing obvious signs of burns.

Now it’s my turn to look surprised.
Wow, he knows my first
and
last name. “Well, at least you know exactly who you bet five grand on…”

His eyes go wide for a beat. “
I’ve heard good things about you. I like to keep my ear to the ground.” His lips spread in a flat smile and his eyes narrow in suspicion. “Is that what brought you all the way over here to find me?”

“An American attending a Cull fight
and betting big…I was curious.” I shrug.

“Well, hopefully that’s been sated
now.” The smile widens as he attempts to look friendly. Attempts and fails.

“Almost. You got a name? You seem pretty familiar with mine.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Won’t answer that question, huh? How about this one? What happened to your hand?”

He looks down at his right one, examining it as if he didn’t know he was missing two fingers. “This? Factory accident,” he says as he pats me on the back. “Good luck.” He moves by me quickly and I lose sight of him. My father and this man have the same injury, the same vice and, thus, probably owe the same people money. I shake my head at the thought. Of course my father lied to me. No surprise there.
Henry Chance is just not someone the benefit of the doubt can be wasted on.

I stroll back to where Miguel and Drew are still standing with their eyes turned up to
the current match. “Cocodrilo is here,” Drew says with a brief glance my way, before she looks to the other side of the cage. I shift my gaze to the bout but link eyes with Carlos instead. Malevolence is deep in his—it’s as present as his pupils—and for the first time tonight, terror cinches my throat.

“Did you find him?” Miguel asks.

“Yeah. Whatever happened to that guy is the same thing that happened to my father. It
has
to be over a gambling debt. Guess some people can’t ever shake the itch…” I trail off when I spot someone I recognize. I remember his face from when he was striking mine. It’s the guy with the bandana who beat me up in Colonia Doctores, and on his left and right are his accomplices. All three of the guys who attacked me are talking to Carlos. “It was
fucking
setup.
It was fucking setup
…”

“What?” Drew asks. “What are you talking about?”

“Those are the guys who jumped me. The ones standing with Carlos.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Very sure. It makes sense. Sandrine told me before my fight with Nico that Carlos was pissed about
Las Sirenas
. I bet he’s been watching us, looking for the right moment for revenge. And I bet when he found out I wanted to fight him that piece of shit realized he couldn’t beat me in a real match, even though he really wants to, to save his reputation. But he knew if I got hurt, I’d have two choices: not show up and have a big problem or show up and have him as my problem.” Carlos waves at me, and the three men also give me smug, triumphant smiles. Suddenly, one of the fighters in the cage collapses onto the chain-links, following a haymaker punch to the jaw, blood spraying his opponent.

The second fight is over.

“I’m so angry and I feel so
fucking
helpless…” Drew says with clenched teeth. “This is completely unfair. What an asshole.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you…” Miguel says in
an apologetic whisper, and I shake my head adamantly. I’m glad that neither him nor Drew was with me when it happened because who knows what they would’ve done to them. Not having to live with that is definitely worth whatever Carlos is about to do to me.

Cocodrilo
doesn’t even wait for the cage to clear before he steps inside and does his signature baring of teeth. His menacing look is mixed with a dark kind of gleefulness. Carlos is as excited as a restless kid the minute dawn breaks on Christmas morning. He points, flips his palm up, and beckons me.

My exhaustion is
intensely palpable in the instant, overtaking my limbs and rippling through my muscles until they feel like weights.
He’s going to crush me.
Drew’s arms wrap around my torso from behind, and she presses her face into my back. I turn around and kiss her forehead, and I hate how final it feels. My thoughts about the inmate and his last meal come to mind again, but this time it’s about his last rites.

“Please win,”
she says. “If you do, I will ride you until you beg me to stop, until you cry.” Her smile wavers and I can tell she’s trying not to bawl. “It’s the wrong thing to say, but I will say anything to give you a reason not to get killed in there.” The announcer amps up the crowd with a spiel about Carlos.

Miguel
’s hand lands on my shoulder as soon as I pull away from Drew, and he leans in to my ear. “You have to fight dirty tonight. You have to do everything possible to put him down because that’s what he’s going to do to you. Don’t think about it. Just do it. This is about your survival.”

I nod at him,
knowing he’s right, and all my fear gushes into my bloodstream. “If something happens to me in there, just make sure she’s safe, okay?”

“Nothing will,” he says, just as the
announcer says my name. Carlos rattles the chains and snaps his teeth at me as I part the crowd with my stride. My heartbeat is drowning out the noise, and I bury all my uncertainty under fighter bravado. Fighting is obviously about skill and power, but there’s a small percentage that’s purely psychological. The latter is what I worry about the most. A bad feeling, a sense of failure and impossibility, can grow if you don’t restrain it, especially when an opponent, much more prepared than you are, is staring you down.

I step into the cage and stand across from Carlos.
“You had to send three fucking guys, huh?” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and the same thought crosses our minds I imagine. Beating him, once a plausible outcome, is now as likely as demolishing a building with my bare hands. And this dude is a fucking building.

When we touch gloves, he jams his knuckles against mine.

Then the bell rings.

His
fist slams into my face like a cannonball before I even have time to react, and stars explode before my eyes. I fly back so fast the blood from my mouth goes airborne, showering down a trail on the canvas as I’m thrown into a side of the cage. I immediately lose my focus as a panic attack builds like a tempest in my chest.
No, no, no. Not now.

Carlos takes an easy stroll toward me.
Fuck. Move, Chance, move.
I duck a right hook with a low squat then swing around and assail him with a kick to the ribs. I dash to the other side of the cage, behind him, and windmill him with punches to the back of the head. The effort quickly wrings the power from my muscles, and I push back from him before I’m really ready, to save my strength. Carlos roars with rage as he spins toward me.

I shuffle around him
, but my knees buckle suddenly, bending all the way down to the canvas. Carlos kicks me the rest of the way over, restraining me with a knee on the left side of my back. My breaths get shallow as I sink lower, like he’s mashing one of my lungs. He drills his knee down, sending pain thudding across my spine, then places his palm on the back of my head, grinding my face into the canvas. I try to tear his fingers off, but I’m pinned, helpless. When the pressure lifts, I get my arms up quickly and cross them over the back of my head to absorb the punches he’s undoubtedly about to rain down on me. And when the hits
do
come, they’re excruciating, each one hurting more than the last. But I’m not out of the fight just yet. When he flips me onto my back, I jab him in the nose as hard as I can. I follow up with a hook and an uppercut, forcing him to recoil instead of punching me in the face.

Ding.
The first round is over already, and I’ve never been more grateful to hear a sound. I stumble, almost crawling, to the corner and collapse against the chains. My ears are ringing, and I can smell the iron in my blood. Taste it, too. My head feels like Carlos is inside and trying to punch his way out.

“…
fucking stand here and watch him get beaten to death!” Drew is screaming at Miguel. They’re both frowning and sweating, and neither of them even notices I’m standing there.

“
I don’t want to, either, but what can we do, Drew? We can’t just yank him out of here and run!” Miguel yells back, looking more frustrated than angry.

“Guys, I’m okay,” I say with a mouth full of blood, and tingly pain courses down my jaw. Jesus, I hope it’s not broken. “Drew…” She look
s at me, and defeat, despair, and abject terror, they’re all there in her face. “I got this…he’s going to draw it out because he wants me to suffer. It’ll hurt but I can rest here and there…”

“Y
ou won’t survive the fight. He’s trying to kill you. You know that, and he’s going to,” she says matter-of-factly, but she still reeks of fear. “I have to do something. That motherfucker knew he couldn’t beat you, so he set you up. He’s not playing fair, so I’m not going to, either. How do we stop the goddamn fight, Miguel?”

“Drew, a guy died
during
our fight. That didn’t stop anything,” I remind her. Miguel nods, agreeing, but I can see in his eyes that the idea wheels are cranking.

He shrugs.
“I don’t know. I guess…
something
has to happen to make the fight almost impossible or slow it down…and I don’t know what that is…” We all stand there in silence as the clock pushes into the last ten seconds of the break, and both their faces fall into bleak expressions.

Drew taps her lips nervously as she looks around
, but fiery determination glows in her eyes when we lock gazes again. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything…”

“Stay alive…just stay alive.” She pushes back from the cage and starts to thread through the crowd, the resolve in her steps equal to what I just saw in her eyes.

“Where are you going?”
I call after her.

“To be
the something
!” she shouts back.

My heart is clanging in my ears
, deep worry tensing my already strained muscles.
What the fuck does that mean?
“Miguel, go after her! Stop her, please.”

The clock hits zero. I have to go back in.

His skin goes pale as he gulps down. “But she’s right. We have to stop this. I should’ve stayed with you that night. I’m not going to walk away this time.” I don’t bother calling after him as he, too, disappears into the horde of people. I move for the center of the cage. I’m tired, pain is destroying my concentration, and I’ve swallowed so much of my own blood that I’m nauseated. Carlos looks as refreshed as ever—I even see the burst of energy blooming in his eyes as he takes the sight of me in—while my victory seems more and more daunting.
Fuck.
My brain is traitorous, sparking paralyzing fear in the moments right after the bell rings.
They’re right. They’re right. I’m going to die here.

But other people are depending on me, and that’s why my survival has to matter more than my fear. I don’t want Drew and Miguel to see what Christiana
saw. And what would happen to HJ? Who would protect him? From Henry?

I
will myself to snap out of it. I dance around Carlos’s swings with some quick steps, drive an elbow into his back, and attack him with a storm of jabs. I ignore my body’s pleas, delivering blows wherever I can hit him. Cocodrilo can’t keep up with me, and I don’t allow him the chance to adapt to my moves. I switch to rapid-fire kicks to stun him further—one to the side, one to the face, and one to the stomach. My muscles are trembling more than I can ignore, and the strain forces me to step back. Exhaustion is a craftier adversary than Carlos, but I’ve done enough to make him scramble to the other side of the cage. As much as my face hurts, I smile at him. I’m too fast for him, even when I’m not on top of my game, and he knows that. It’s my agility against his brutality. But even I’m not cocky enough to think I can do this for another round. Maybe not even the entirety of
this
round.

Carlos growls and barrels toward me. I fake a left and shuffle to the right
, but my knees give out as a muscle spasm erupts, and I crash to the canvas. Cocodrilo pounces, nailing my neck down with his hand and raising a fist that’s aimed directly at my temple.

Suddenly, the already faint lighting above us fades down to near candlelight, flickering candlelight.

Then the whole place goes black.

My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness as squares of bright moonlight crash through the windows. Carlos turns his attention back to me, gearing up to punch me into a coma, when three gunshots ring out. We both push away from each other, instinctively staying low. The horrified screams come next. Then a rumble of footsteps—like a bomb going off—shakes the building as people scatter in every direction.