Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (19 page)

Chapter Fifty

Travis

My heart pounded, as I powered down the South Bank towards the Tower of London.

It was ten in the morning, and I still had the taste of last night’s whiskey in my mouth. Admittedly, I’d only had the two glasses while we were shooting the shit over at James MacDonald’s place – but on the night before a fight, that was two-too-many.

Which is why I’d left Roxy slumbering in the bed beside me this morning, and pulled on my sneakers to log a couple of lazy miles around the block.

Fortunately, London is a runner’s city. Just a block from the Park Plaza were the steps down to the embankment – the long stretch of pedestrian roadway along the River Thames.

Even this early on a Saturday, the tourists were out – families with kids, foreigners snapping photos of Big Ben, and long lines of people waiting for ice cream and popsicles from the food trucks lined up along the street.

And then there was me – weaving in and out between them, as I got my heart racing with a good, hard run.

Last night’s late-night chat with James and his crew hadn’t done my fight prep much good, but it had done my confidence wonders.

I suddenly got it now – that coming to London to win this fight wasn’t just a dream for me. I could turn it into a reality.

Sure, I’d had less than two days of preparation time; and I hadn’t been in the octagon professionally in weeks.

But what ‘Bulldog’ MacDonald had told me rung true.

‘Uncle’ Frank wouldn’t have offered me fifty thousand pounds to throw tonight’s fight unless he believed there was a credible chance I’d win.

And back in America? That crooked bastard Red had demonstrated the same thing. He’d put his money where his mouth was; and bet on me to beat Frankie ‘Fury’ Slater.

As I rounded City Hall – a modern building overlooking the floating museum of the H.M.S. Belfast – I remembered one of my mantras growing up: An essay called ‘The Iron’ by musician and weightlifter Henry Rollins.

The ‘Iron’ he referred to was weights – and he’d written: “The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you're a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal.”

And money was the same thing. Uncle Frank and Red Callahan had both put money on my chances to win; and with men like that, they didn’t wager money unless they were confident they’d get equal or greater value in return.

So I could win tonight – and as I’d said too-few hours earlier; all I needed what that chance.

*              *              *

Twenty minutes later, I staggered back into the lobby of the Park Plaza with sweat dripping down my back.

I’d run a lazy two miles – just enough to get the heart pounding. This close out to a fight, I didn’t want to do anything that might risk my performance in the octagon – pull a muscle pounding weights, or tear a tendon really pounding the asphalt.

But two lazy ten-minute miles? It was enough to wash the whiskey out of my system, and fill my body and muscles with blood.

Still panting, I staggered up to the elevator, and was soon getting whisked upstairs. I figured I had enough time for a shower, and shave and maybe a nap before the car came to take me to the O2 arena over in Greenwich; to finally face my destiny.

And with the confidence of last night’s pep-talk, and the rush of a good run pumping through my veins, I figured there was nothing that could stand in my way.

I was wrong.

The elevator dinged as we reached my floor. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I lumbered down the corridor…

…and then froze.

The door to our hotel room was swinging open.

When I’d left, not twenty minutes earlier, I’d made sure to lock it behind me. It had clicked shut, and I’d tried the handle to make sure.

After all, Roxy was still asleep in there, and I didn’t want room service or the cleaners to disturb her.

But now the door was hanging open – and as I pushed it wider, and stepped into the hotel room, my heart suddenly skipped for a reason more chilling than the two miles I’d just run.

The bed was empty. The room was trashed.

Somebody had come in here and torn the place right up – with our luggage strewn across the room, and the chairs and tables kicked over.

And Roxy was nowhere in sight.

“Roxy?” I checked the bathroom. “Honey? Where are you?”

It was a small hotel suite. It didn’t take long to establish that she wasn’t there.

What the
fuck
?

I crossed the room to where my wallet, phone and keys were. They’d been thrown onto the floor, but were all still there, apparently.

I grabbed my phone – ready to call the cops.

But it rang before I could unlock it.

A London number.

“Hello?” Putting my phone to my ear, I searched the room for some pants and a shirt. “Who is this?”

“It’s James,” came the flustered reply – the Scot’s accent unmistakable. “Jesus, Travis.
They’ve taken Toni
.”

“What?” I froze, phone pressed to my ear. “What do you mean? Who’s taken her?”

“She’s
gone
,” James repeated. “She went out this morning for breakfast, and never came back… and then I got this call.”

And the exact moment he said it, I got another call as well – a blocked number this time, buzzing insistently.

“James, I’ll call you back.”

I already knew who it would be before I answered it – but as I dropped James’ call, and answered this new one, the familiar voice at the end of the line still gave me chills.

“’Ello, Travis.”

Uncle Frank.

“Probably noticed by now that something’s missing from your hotel room,” the Londoner purred menacingly down the line.

“Why you
son of a bitch
,” I hissed. “Where the fuck is she? I swear, if you’ve hurt one hair on Roxy’s head…”

“…you’ll
what
?” Frank chuckled – and, the truth be told, I didn’t have a good response to that.

“Listen up, you fucking yank,” Frank continued. “Yeah, I’ve got your girl. I’ve got James MacDonald’s girl, too. And if either of you cunts want to see ‘em again, you’re going to throw tonight’s fight like a good little boy.”

I shuddered as I heard that threat.

“…and if you think of going to the cops, or to Dan Blanc, then the next time you’ll see your quote-unquote ‘trainer’ again is when she’s floating face-down in the fucking Thames. Understood?”

I stood there in silence.

“
Understood
?” Frank repeated.

My knees wobbled. Slowly, I sunk down onto the bed, reeling from the news.

“I’ll take your silence as agreement,” Frank hissed menacingly. “Now I’m gonna hang up, and you’re going to go about your business. Only tonight, when you face off against Frankie Junior, you’re gonna
fucking lose
.”

Again, the only satisfaction Frank got from me was silence. But, once again, he didn’t seem to care.

“Don’t make it look too easy,” the Londoner warned. “And don’t think of telling anybody it’s rigged. ‘Cos if you do, your girl is getting sent back to America in the cargo hold.”

The cargo hold. Where they put coffins, on planes.

“You understood all that?”

Again, I gave him nothing but silence. But, apparently, that was good enough.

“Do as you’re told, and your little slut will be back with you tomorrow morning, safe as sound. But try to double cross me…”

Frank never finished that sentence. He just hung up.

I sat there on the bed, trembling.

What the fuck had just happened?

Chapter Fifty One

Roxy

The bag got ripped off my head.

Blinking, I looked around. For the past hour, I’d been kept in total darkness – but now my eyes were adjusting to the light, I could see I was in a run-down warehouse; with bare, brick walls and light filtering in from filthy skylights overhead.

I was tied wrist and ankle to a sturdy wooden chair – and it didn’t look like I was alone.

Four men in cheap suits and balaclavas stood around me – all staring down at me menacingly.

And opposite? There was another young woman tied to a chair, with a bag over her head.

Only when they tore this girl’s bag off, she didn’t hold back in response.

“Why you honky-ass Limey
motherfuckers
,” screamed Toni Rome, as she writhed and struggled against her bonds. “You let me out of this right fucking now or I swear, I’ll kick all of y’all asses like it was Independence Day all over again.”

Toni was dressed in a purple velour tracksuit, but her coiffured hair and makeup was perfect. The only thing inelegant about her was her language and attitude – and, given the circumstances, you could hardly blame her.

“Snatch a homegirl off the streets?” The chair Toni was tied to rocked back and forth, as she struggled against the ropes. “You motherfuckers have
some fuckin’ nerve
!”

Damn
. I’d read that Toni had grown up in the roughest part of Compton, Los Angeles – a hotbed of crime, racial discrimination and abuse. But I’d only seen her at her poised, elegant best. Now she was tied up and helpless, she was playing the scrappy, sassy hoodrat – and I feared for any man who got the wrong side of her.

Slap!

Apparently, one man wouldn’t have heeded my warning.

“Shaddap,” growled one of the thugs, after slapping Toni across the face. “Any more lip out of you, and I’ll fucking
gag
you.”

And while Toni shot him a look that could have killed at a hundred paces, she did indeed fall silent.

“Right,” the towering thug hissed. “If you two can finally behave for a moment, I’d got something to show you.”

And then from his jacket, he pulled what looked like an iPad out.

The thug swiped and tapped the screen for a second, and then suddenly a face appeared.

‘Uncle’ Frank Slater.

He was choppy and digitized, but nobody could mistake that grizzled face, or the thick, London accent.

“Good morning, ladies,” Frank growled through the iPad speakers. “Sorry I can’t be there in person… gotta keep an alibi, and all that.”

“You bastard!” I screamed, struggling against the ropes tying my wrists to the chair. “Why have you done this?
Let us fucking go
!”

On the screen, ‘Uncle’ Frank chuckled good-naturedly.

“Sorry, ladies. Can’t do that.” He grinned, showing his digitized teeth. “Wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I had a word with your boy Travis last night, and I found him to be…”

Frank paused.

“…
uncooperative
.”

I struggled against the ropes, and rocked the chair from side to side.

“Why, you grey-haired limey prick…”

Frank ignored my insults.

“So that’s why I snatched you ladies. Surprisingly easy, as it turned out. Especially you, Ms. Roxy. Knock on the hotel door. Taser to the ribs.” Frank grinned. “You should be careful who you open the door to.”

My cheeks flushed as Frank went over the circumstances of my kidnapping. After a lifetime of martial arts, I’d never thought of myself as an easy mark – but Franks goons had caught me unawares, and I’d paid dearly for it.

Frank was unaware of what was going on in my head, so he just kept talking.

“Now, then, ladies,” he growled. “Here’s how it’s gonna go down. You two lovely things are going to hang tight with my boys, here – while back in London, dear old Travis will hopefully see the light of day, and do what he should have done from the start – let my boy
win
tonight’s fight.”

I stopped struggling.

So, that was the deal. After Travis refused to be bought off, ‘Uncle’ Frank had found another way to convince him to throw the upcoming fight with Frankie Junior.

Me.

“You prick,” Toni started screaming at the iPad. “Why did you drag
me
into this?”

And then, a little sheepishly, she turned to me and clarified: “Not that I’d want you to be going through this alone, hun. I was just…”

“No worries,” I reassured her.

Frank laughed again.

“Two heads are better than one,” he grinned, peering out at us from behind the glass of the iPad screen. “I figured if I get that posh prick MacDonald involved too, he’ll convince Travis to stay the course even if that trashy Texan comes down with a fatal case of conscience.”

Toni growled at the iPad:

“Well, your plan’s
dumb
, motherfucker. So what if Travis
does
throw the fight? What
then
?” She nodded in my direction. “You think Roxy and I ain’t gonna tell the cops, and the MMA League, the moment we get free?”

Frank narrowed his eyes on screen.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. But don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”

We listened silently.

“The moment young Travis has done his part, I’ll tell him and Bulldog where to find you two – only, when they turn up, I’ll have arranged a nice little accident for all four of you; just like I did for Andy Mackey.”

I shuddered when I heard that.

“It’ll be a real pity, like,” Frank sighed wistfully. “Four young, successful people. Snuffed out in a tragic accident.”

And then he laughed.

“But don’t feel too badly about it. Maybe they’ll name an MMA arena after you, or something.”

And then the screen went blank; and Toni and I were left alone in the deserted warehouse, surrounded by Frank’s menacing, hooded thugs.

I turned to Toni, and mouthed the word ‘sorry.’ After all, her getting swept up in this was all my fault.

But she didn’t seem to care about blame. She gave me a conspiratorial nod, and then struggled with her bonds.

“Oi!” The thug with the iPad swatted her over the back of the head. “You two sit
still
. Any nonsense out of the pair of you, and we’ll make sure that ‘accident’ happens sooner, rather than later.”

And with four burly thugs staring down at us, Toni and I slumped in defeat. After all, we didn’t have much other choice.