AHARDSLAPSNAPS me out of the red void I’d fallen into. Tanner’s face comes into view, his jaw set in anger—a stark contrast to the man who welcomed me a few hours ago.
“Agent Brenner.”
I hear the familiar deep voice come from behind me as I make my way into the underground fight club. I come here often when taking my anger out on a punching bag isn’t enough.
Turning, I face the man, giving him an irritated glare. The last thing I need is people going into a frenzy or a shootout because a federal agent has breached enemy territory.
“Are you trying to get me killed?”
He chuckles while walking closer to me, slapping me on the arm in greeting.
“I would never dream of such a thing,” he smiles.
Tanner Vasquez owns the fight club I frequent. I’ve seen several underground rings from when I would fight as a teenager, but none match how Tanner runs his. He keeps the same fighters on his roster, requiring them to train and keep themselves sharp. People he trusts won’t take shit too far and bring the law on his ass. Too far is only an inch from death.
He inherited the business from his father, and he’s still working out the kinks to keep thriving under the radar.
Tanner stands a few inches shorter than me, with white-blonde cropped hair that lays longer on top. How one styles something so perfect yet disheveled, I’ll never understand. Tattoos decorate his skin. The only place he isn’t covered in ink is his face, and he always sports an expensive suit. His style and tattoos are dissonant.
“Are you here to fight or watch?” He raises a questioning dark eyebrow, deep brown eyes swirling with curiosity.
He and I have an agreement.
Tanner lets me fight when I need to make someone bleed, and I keep the cops away. Having a best friend with a talent for hacking as a teenager, you pick up a few things. Knowing enough about the data system, it’s easy to make shit disappear.
I think Tanner has always wondered about my story, why an FBI Agent shows up now and then, risking his badge to pummel a motherfucker. Maybe he recognizes my sick urges, the power of watching someone crumble under your fists. In his dark world, questions aren’t smart. So, he keeps them to himself.
I’ve thought of the possibility of him having connections to The Omen, but our deal speaks too sweetly to my darkness, and I can’t risk it. If it weren’t for my urge to please a dead man, I’d have ended up on the dark side of the line. But standing here, I realize I teeter somewhere in the grey area of that line. Abusing my badge to get what I want.
“Fight,” I clip.
Tanner nods once. “Good. I have a fighter out and need someone with Renton. You good with that?”
In some ways, it makes me sick, this game of hypocrisy I play. Despising most criminals but associating myself with others, but I’m only human, and we all have our vices.
“Snap the fuck out of it, Brenner.” Tanner’s deep voice pulls me back from my memory.
Before I blacked out, Renton put up a hell of a fight. He knocked me in the head a few times. The man was lethal, but when my mind went back to today when I heard Bastian go in on Mila, I lost it.
“You need a medic. Go to the clinic and sort your shit out,” he orders. “I think you just fucked me out of a fighter, dickhead.”
It takes a minute for what he said to sink in. I look behind Tanner and see Renton unconscious, surrounded by several people. I try to see if he’s breathing, but I am too far away to get a good look at his chest with everyone around him.
Hayes Renton looks like ground beef lying in the middle of the ring. Blood seeps from the wounds on his face. I start to rub a hand down my face but let it fall when it meets a sore spot. Tanner looks behind him at his beaten man, then faces me again.
“You’ve never lost your head like that,” Tanner sighs. “Get checked out and go home before Renton’s cousin comes for your balls.”
All I can do is nod once and walk away from the chaos.
I meander my way through the lower level of Limbo, slowly approaching the locker rooms. I went too far tonight, potentially ripping a man’s passion for fighting—if not his life—away from him.
Bastian’s voice echoed in my head. Then the suppressed rage took over, and I saw red. Every frustration I’ve felt lately erupted into a storm of fury, and I nearly killed a man. My lack of empathy in this situation worries me more than Renton’s well-being. I no longer give a fuck if people die at my hands because I can’t control my own emotions.
Have I been dancing in the grey area so long that I missed it when I lost my soul?
I’m thankful this part of the club is almost deserted, with the fights still going. Everyone was waiting for their fights, supporting fighters, or being nursed in the clinic. I probably need to go to the clinic, but I need to sort my head more.
Renton got me good before I finished the fight. There’s no way I don’t look like I’ve been hit in the face with a sledgehammer.