So fast, I wouldn’t even see it coming.
A bullet in the back of my head, I’d have no clue I was dead. I’d just be floating; metaphorically, in the clouds. Literally, in the Hudson river.
My family would never get closure. They’d never know what happened to me.
But why, when death feels so close, am I thinking of blonde hair and blue eyes?
Because Abel just mentioned her. No other reason.
“You’ll fight the gauntlet tonight. You need to win three fights to get to the finals.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll meet Brochov there.”
The fact he’s already decided that scares me.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll lose to Brochov.”
“Lose?” Lurching forward, I come to a sharp stop as seven pistols aim right at my head. “Abel.” Hands up, I take a single, slow step forward. “I don’t lose. I’m worth more to you as a champion than I am a loser. I’m worth more in your punters’ eyes if I maintain my streak.”
Without a care in the world, while his minions run around his club making him millions, he shrugs “You’ll lose tonight.” Unruffled, Abel – with the raven hair sparkling with oil and gel, his manicured hands that are buffed and polished every week by underpaid and underfed workers who can barely speak a lick of English – stands from his desk and straightens the ivory silk tie I’d like to one day strangle him with. “Youwilllose tonight, because I’ve put one-point-three million on Brochov.”
“Why would you bet that? I don’t lose! I could’ve won you the same money if you bet for me to win.”
“Why did I do it?” He slides his hand inside his breast pocket in warning. We don’t question Abel. We don’t question a damn thing he decides. “Because Iownyou, Bishop. Because you’ll do as you’re fuckin’ told. You lose, or you die. There is no third option.” Pulling his hand out of his coat, he waves the ring adorned digits in dismissal. “Go. Enjoy. Save any teeth for the tooth fairy. She might drop a quarter under your pillow tonight.”
With flaring nostrils and clenched teeth, I turn on my feet and come eye-to-eye with Lance’s former…‘partner’is a term reserved for the guys on the right side of the law. For cops and shit. Lance and Chad were more likeassociates.They shared women. And needles. And guns. And probably assholes, too.
“Move.”
“When you fuck up,” he snarls, “it’s my bullet that’ll end your life. It’s the least I can do to repay you for what you did.”
“Yeah? My blade sliding across his neck felt good.” I look down at my shoes. “I didn’t wash the blood off yet. Wanna lick them?”
“Oh, and Bishop.” I turn at the sound of Abel’s voice sliding through the room and my earpiece barely half a second apart, and come eye-to-eye with the devil himself. Chad is a gnat in my face. Abel is a fucking monster who’ll crush me without breaking a sweat. “Make it believable. Lose, but do it convincingly. We have certain guests tonight that won’t take kindly to leaving without their money. Make them believe it.”
* * *
I don’t knowthe names of the men I put down. I don’t know their families, or the reason they’re here. It’s likely they have hungry children and a pouting wife. They probably need the winnings more than me, and definitely more than Abel – since I don’t keep a cent of my prize money – but hungry children and cranky wife or not, I still blaze through the rounds in the out-of-place regulation size boxing ring.
Abel doesn’t waste money, but tomakemoney, he has to provide a quality service.
That includes a gold standard boxing ring.
Professional referees, though there are no rules.
And good fighters.
It’s a boxing ring, with ropes, not a cage, but the fights here aren’t all stand up. It’s grappling. It’s wrestling. It’s razor blades between your knuckles. It’s whatever the fuck you gotta do to be the guy still breathing at the end of the fight.
Moving through the rounds with nothing more than bruised ribs and a bleeding eye, I come to the final round against a fresh-faced Russian who,somehow, gets to walk in tonight and advance straight to the finals.
And yet, everyone’s money – except Abel’s – is on me.
Taller than me, and possibly tipping over to seven and a half feet of pure fucking muscle, the three-hundred-pound motherfucker actually helps me relax. If I must lose, it’ll look pretty fucking authentic with this monster.