Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (21 page)

But, from the look on his face, it was very clear he had no intention of falling victim to the same thing.

Raising the pistol, he hissed: “Uncle Frank wanted us to keep you alive until
after
the fight. But ‘accidents happen’, right?” His finger tightened on the trigger, “and I’m sure old Frank will understand if we have to change the schedule…”

Toni stepped over and clung to me – and, helpless, we both stared at the unblinking black eye of that deadly revolver.

Chapter Fifty Six

Travis

It was time.

I’d paced back and forth in that dressing room for the full hour, hoping beyond hope that there’d be
some
news about Roxy, or Toni. But there had been nothing.

And I’d felt helpless – wanting to be out there, looking for them. But I knew I couldn’t. ‘Uncle’ Frank had made that very clear.

The only thing I could do to keep Roxy safe was exactly what he’d told me to – face off against Frankie Junior in the octagon, and
lose
.

So when there was a knock on the door, and an MMA League official barked: “It’s time, Mr. Oates!” I didn’t feel like a potential champion, about to meet his destiny.

I felt like a condemned man, walking out to his execution.

At least I had Taffy by my side. The little Welshman patted me on the back as I strapped on my gloves, and hissed:

“You have to lose, boyo. But don’t give it to him easy. You’ve got three rounds to draw it out. Make him
work for it
.”

And that made me feel slightly better.

I might have to concede to Frankie Junior before the final buzzer sounded – but by God, I was going to leave him bruised and bloodied by the end of it.

Taffy ruffled my hair – which was no easy feat, given that I was a foot taller than him – and we stepped out of the dressing room into the corridor.

A moment later, we were emerging out into the arena itself – nearly blinded by the spotlights overhead, and the roar of thousands of fight fans.

The speakers overhead burst into my walk-on music,
Life is a Highway
, by Rascal Flatts, and even I couldn’t help but get a swagger to my step as I listened to the pounding beat and lyrics.

But even though I looked the part, as I swaggered up to the steps of the octagon, I didn’t
feel
it.

At the bottom of the steps, Taffy helped me strip off my t-shirt and pants, and the MMA League cut man quickly examined me, before anointing my forehead with smears of Vaseline.

And then it was time.

“Boyo!” Taffy embraced me, and patted my shoulders. “You go up there and do what you have to. Don’t even think about it. Just think about Roxy and Toni, okay?”

I took a deep breath, and nodded.

“Good man.”

And then he patted my shoulder, and sent me up the steps.

The crowd went wild as I emerged onto the canvas of the octagon. I was nearly blinded by the lights, and deafened by the hoots and hollers – and for a moment it was easy to forget that I was here to lose.

The fans screaming? The camera bulbs flashing?

Shit, it had been so long since I’d been in the octagon professionally that I’d forgotten how good it felt. Being in the cage made me feel
alive
.

Dammit, this is what I was
born to do
. And right now, to protect Roxy, I was expected to give it all up. Forever.

Shaking my head, I took my place at the opposite end of the cage, and waited for Frankie ‘Fury’ Slater to come up those steps.

The speakers overhead started playing a different tune – a cheesy, but catchy song called
The Self Preservation Society
. With exaggerated British accents, and lots of cockney slang in it, the old 60s song was pretty appropriate for the lumbering, sneering ‘Junior’ to burst on stage with.

I narrowed my eyes as Frankie Junior clambered up the steps and took his place across the cage from me.

Dammit, I’d forgotten how
big
he was. Those massive shoulders, and those immense biceps. If I hadn’t known I’d had to lose, I’d have been wondering how I could possibly win against him.

That was the irony of the whole situation – how I’d gotten us into this mess by refusing to throw a fight it was likely I’d have lost anyway.

The announcer grabbed the mic.

He was a big, burly American dude – a fixture of fight night whether we were fighting in Atlantic City, Las Vegas, or – in this case – London.

In his theatrical American accent, he roared:

“And in
thiiiis
corner, weighing in at 212lbs, we have ‘Texas Trigger’ Travis Oates.”

The crowd roared and screamed as they heard my name – and it felt
good
. Dammit, I’d missed this. It’s a pity this would probably be my last taste of it.

“And in this corner,” the announcer continued, “fighting out of London, England, we have British interim heavyweight champion Frankie ‘Fury’ Slater.”

Again, the crowd went wild – this time roaring for a hometown hero.

I didn’t resent them that. Shit, we all cheered for our own home team. I remembered going to watch the Cowboys at the MetLife Stadium in New York the previous year, and I’d been the only asshole singing “Yippee-Ai-Ay” amongst a seat of Giants fans.

But even as Frankie preened and grinned in the limelight, I knew I’d one day get my chance to take him down a peg or two.

It just didn’t look like it’d be today.

The referee stepped forward, and brought me and Frankie into the center of the octagon.

“Let’s have a clean fight,” the ref demanded. “Now, touch gloves and back into your corners.”

Frankie Junior grinned at me, and lifted his gloves – offering me the chance to pound mine against them.

But I didn’t.

Now, believe me, that’s not something I did lightly. It’s considered the height of arrogance and rudeness not to touch gloves with your opponent. Shit, even as I backed off into my own corner, I heard the crowd in the arena gasp and boo.

But
fuck ‘em
.

I’d touched gloves with psychos and felons. I’d given my nod to the dirtiest fighters in cages all across the United States.

But this asshole? Here?

Fuck that shit.

So with a sneer at my opponent, I retreated to my corner, and prepared to face my destiny.

Chapter Fifty Seven

Roxy

So this was how I was going to die.

Gunned down in a London warehouse, by an ugly crook with an old revolver.

And the worst part?

As Toni and I clung to each other, waiting for the gunshot, I realized this wasn’t the worst way I could have gone.

I mean, fuck it. It was better than dying in a nursing home in Freeport, Texas, right? After a long life spent broke, alone and miserable.

I had spent so long angry at Travis for abandoning us – turning his back on X-AMERICA, and me, and my dad…

I never realized that maybe he’d had no other choice.

It wasn’t until I was staring down the barrel of a gun that I realized I’d lived more in the last few days than the whole four years since Travis had left Freeport.

And that if I was going to die here, maybe it was better than having to go back.

“Any last words, ladies?” The thug growled, as he lifted the gun to aim. “Which one of you wants it first?”

But we never got to answer that question.

Just as the thug’s finger tightened on the trigger, there was a sharp cry of ‘freeze!’

It echoed across the warehouse, and the thug turned to see where the sound was coming from…

…and that was the only break I needed.

I crossed the space between us in a single leap, and snatched for the thug’s revolver.

Startled, he tried to pull the trigger – but this dumbass Brit didn’t know shit about guns. Like the good ol’ Texas girl I was, when I’d snatched that gun I’d wedged my pinky between the hammer and the firing chamber – and when the asshole pulled the trigger, the only thing the hammer sunk into was the fleshy tip of my little finger.

I wrenched the gun out of his hand, and then I clocked the asshole hard across the face.

Pow
!

I might be a tiny girl, but I haven’t spent my life whaling on
Wavemasters
for nothing. That first punch sent the thug reeling to the left – and the one I followed up with switched his lights off.

Nose bloody, he crashed to the concrete like a felled oak.

And only after
that
had happened, did I turn to the sound of the noise that had distracted him.

British cops were pouring through the side door of the warehouse, in their funny hats and fluorescent jackets.

The ones in the lead were armed – they looked like a goddamn swat team. And behind them, out of uniform, came the familiar faces of Inspector Phelps and Constable Decker.

“What in the
hell
?” Toni gasped, clutching me as she watched the police pour in. “Where did
they
come from?”

And it was a fair question.

The police fanned out – pairs of officers rushing to each of the laid-out thugs I’d taken care of. As the big goons lay there, groaning, they were hoisted up and handcuffed – getting dragged out towards the door.

The same fate awaited the armed guy I’d just knocked out – only he was still unconscious as he was hauled to his feet, and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

Toni and I stood there, watching this, as Inspector Phelps strode up.

“Excuse me.” Shit, it was like he was announcing himself at a goddamned tea party, not breaking up a kidnapping. “Are you ladies okay?”

I stood there, with Toni clutching me. My heart was racing. My knuckles were bruised. But I felt more alive than I had in years.

“Ahem,” it was Constable Decker, pointing towards my right hand. “Might I take that from you?”

I glanced down.

The thug’s gun was still attached to my pinky finger – hanging off the end of it like a metal crab. Smirking, I pulled back the hammer just enough to free my bruised finger, and then carefully handed it over to the stout little officer.

“Jesus, Roxy,” Toni’s eyes widened. “The
police
?” She glanced disbelievingly between Phelps and Decker. “And just where the
hell
have you boys been all day?”

That was a good question.

“Sorry for arriving so late,” Phelps growled in response. “Mr. Oates and Ms. Rockatansky here,” he gave me an accusing look, “were very
uncooperative
with our investigations.” 

Turning to Toni, the Inspector explained: “The Park Plaza called the police regarding a trashed hotel room. When I realized it was
yours
,” he was looking at me now, “we did some investigating. We’ve had you and Mr. Oates under observation since you came to London – just in case something like this happened.”

I looked at the aftermath of Toni and my escape attempt – the splintered chair, and the spots of blood on the damp concrete.

“Well, you boys sure took your sweet time about it,” I growled. “Looks like I took care of most of the hard work for you.”

“
Perhaps
,” Phelps hissed. “But if you’d assisted us with our investigation from the
start
, perhaps we could have prevented this from happening in the first place.”

“How did you even
find us
?” Toni gasped. “You didn’t even know we were missing.”

That part had been quite clear – Frank had warned Travis and James about going to the police.

“CCTV cameras,” Phelps explained. “Once we’d established something happened to you, we logged into the city camera system and could trace everything – from you getting snatched from your hotel room, right up to them taking you
here
.”

“And what were you boys doing while we were tied up in here? Standing outside having a tea party?”

Phelps narrowed his eyes.

“Contrary to what you see on those fancy American cop shows of yours, tracking two kidnapping victims via CCTV cameras isn’t as easy as it sounds.” With a prissy sneer, he hissed: “We got here as soon as we could,
thank you very much
.”

“And here… Where
is
here?”

“The London docklands. An old strip of warehouses. Perfect place to hide somebody, if you ask me,” Phelps led up to the door of the warehouse. “Hidden in plain sight, you could say – in one of the most visible parts of greater London.”

And as we emerged into the evening gloom, I realized how true that was.

Sure, this section looked run down and seedy – cobblestoned streets, and rows and rows of crumbling warehouse as far as the eye could see.

But we were at the bottom of a hill – and looking up, across two rows of highways, there was the most astonishing sight in the distance.

A huge, white dome – like a flying saucer, landed right in the outskirts of the city – was gleaming in the moonlight. Neon lights and spotlights flooded it with bright colors.

The 02 Arena – so close, you could practically walk to it.

‘Hidden in plain sight’ was right – Uncle Frank had been keeping me and Toni – his leverage – right under his nose the entire time.

“Now, we’ve got to take you ladies down to the station for questioning,” Inspector Phelps demanded. “We’ve got a lot you need to tell us – hopefully enough to put Frank Slater away for a long time…”

“No!”

I spun around, and pointed at the 02 Arena in the distance.

“No, you’ve got to take us there.
Right now
!”

Phelps and Decker blinked, looking at each other uncertainly.

“’Uncle’ Frank kidnapped us so my… my…” shit, how did I describe Travis? “…my
boyfriend
would throw the fight against his son. You’ve got to get me there
now
, so that
won’t happen
.”

“Ms. Rockatansky,” Phelps held up his hand, and the tone of his voice suggested he was about to launch into a condescending ‘we can’t let you do that’ speech.

But I wasn’t having any of it.

“Uncle Frank’ll be there,” I snapped. “And I’ll make sure we give you enough to put that bastard behind bars for a decade. But if you want us to do that?” I jabbed my finger at the stadium. “
Get us the fuck over there
.”

Inspector Phelps stared at me incredulously for a moment – clearly unused to women, or
anybody
, talking to him like that.

But then he raised his hand, and clicked his fingers – attracting the attention of one of the uniformed officers milling around.

“Sargent Wilkins,” he snapped. “Bring the car around front.
Fast
.” He turned to me and grinned. “We’ve got a fight to win.”