Wicked Storm

by Chase Austin

  “Let’s begin the fight to the death,” the emcee roared. The audience’s cheers resounded through the hall. That was why they were there.

  The two fighters stepped forward from the two camps, warming up their bodies. The old man watched them closely.

  “Weighing in at one hundred and ninety-five pounds and the undisputed champion of the cage matches, please welcome the man known only as DUKE,” the emcee announced.

  Duke had the build of a boxer. A boxer who was now a leashed dog. For every champion fighter who became fantastically wealthy, there were hundreds more making less than twenty grand a year. And passion was certainly not enough to put food on your plate. The old man had seen many boxers become paid fighters just to avoid hunger.

  Duke was roused by the reception. He waved his arms above his head to stir the audience while giving the old man a fierce stare. He bounced from one leg to other, warming up. He was ready for another win.

  “Gentlemen, give a huge round of applause to welcome our next fighter! Weighing in at one hundred and fifty pounds, undefeated in one hundred and thirty-eight fights, the best fighter Japan has ever produced—Toshio Fujiwara!”

  A lean, fit Asian moved into the spotlight and gave a slight bow with his hands and arms at his sides. He was a kickboxer who had been fighting for the Triad when he was won by his current Italian owner in a poker hand. His hardened face and cold eyes took in the competition. He had to kill the old man first and then Duke. His owner had promised him his freedom once he had delivered one hundred and fifty wins. He had twelve more to go. He entered the cage and walked towards one corner. Duke was already inside, marking his territory at the opposite corner.

  The old man studied the two fighters. With Duke, it was easy to conclude that his fighting style revolved around boxing, but Toshio hadn’t given him much to go on. He would find out soon enough.

  Two unoccupied corners equidistant from his two opponents awaited him. The chances of surviving the dual attack were in the low single digits. He felt a sinking in his stomach as if his body was pleading with him to back out. It happened to him every time, and he still wasn’t used to it.

  “Grandpa, you ready to die?” the emcee asked.

  Sam took out his glasses and handed them to the young man and ambled towards the ring. There was no hesitation in his stride, no reluctance. The ERS moved with him, engulfing his surroundings in darkness. He could hear the sniggers and jeers. They were here for a show and he was going to give them one.

  The cage door was open, swinging outwards in the air. The cool breeze from the air ducts made it oscillate with a creaking sound. Sam walked up the steps and bent to enter the ring.

  The door was slammed shut behind him. He walked up to the corner opposite the door equidistant from the other two, all his senses working overtime.

  “Fighters ready?” the emcee’s voice boomed in the arena. Duke and Toshio nodded. Sam didn’t. A man stepped forward with a boxing ring bell.

  “Fight rules. Nothing is off limits and the fight will only end when any two fighters are dead. Questions?”

  The question was rhetorical. There was nothing to ask. There wasn’t anyone refereeing the fight.

  It was a street fight in a cage. Duke and Toshio were already in position, having marked Sam as the common enemy.

  “Gentlemen, let the massacre begin!” The emcee rang the bell twice.

  The audience’s excitement was at a peak.

  Toshio moved first. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw him getting into an attacking stance. But turning to face Toshio meant showing his back to Duke and Sam wasn’t ready for that so early in the fight. Duke wasn’t moving. He was probably conserving his energy. Once the old man was dead, he could quickly finish his tired opponent. It seemed like a good strategy to Sam, yet he didn’t turn fully towards Toshio. The distance between him and Toshio was less than three steps, but Sam realized his opponent had stepped forward with no concrete plan. It was clear he thought of the old man as an easy target and planned to finish him quickly.

  Sam stepped forward in a straight line, maintaining an equal distance from both. Toshio took one more step and Sam suddenly changed his posture and let his opponent walk into a blazing roundhouse kick that just missed his skull. Toshio ducked in time but couldn’t save himself from the kick crashing into his rib cage. Even before he could understand what had just happened, his body hit the mat. The crowd was stunned into silence. It had happened so fast, no one had seen the two kicks, but everyone heard the loud crack of Sam’s leather boot hitting Toshio’s bones. Toshio screamed in agony, but he couldn’t lose the fight so soon. He had to use all his energy to lift himself up. Sam checked Duke from the corner of his eye; he was still in his corner, frozen with shock. Sam wasn’t done yet with Toshio. Wrapping his arms around Toshio’s head, he held him up as he thrust a knee into his ribs. The sound was unmistakable. Multiple ribs had snapped. Pain exploded in Toshio’s chest. His breathing became labored. His legs were Jell-O. He wobbled as Sam placed an uppercut sending him into the ropes. Duke suddenly realized that they were not even fifteen seconds into the fight and Toshio was almost dead. Sam had him bouncing between the ropes and his ruthless jabs like he was working out on a punching bag rather than a person.

  Cross.

  Roundhouse kick.

  Hook.

  Hook.

  Jab.

  Sam shot a back kick into Toshio’s midsection. The pain was insufferable. The kick drove him through the ropes, and he hit the cage fence. His body flopped in a wet, fleshy thud to the ground. Twenty-three seconds into the game and he was dead.

  Sam wasn’t even panting. He stood straight, staring directly at Duke, who could barely comprehend what had just happened. The old man in the ring had just killed one of the best fighters in less than thirty seconds.

  In the box, Marco felt a rush of panic. He had not planned for this. The audience also looked shocked, including the companion of the old man, whose mouth hung wide open.

  Marco spoke into his mic and two of his own fighters ran towards the cage. Sam had expected this. Before they could enter the cage, he had to finish Duke; he had perhaps less than ten seconds to do it. Duke held an attack stance, but he had mentally prepared himself to fight the Asian, not this crazy oldie. He had no strategy for this opponent and his mind was suddenly bereft of ideas. Sam saw this as his only chance; things were changing quickly, and he had to act.

  “Fight, you idiot. Kill him,” the Sheikh yelled. Duke instinctively turned towards his boss’ voice, and that was a mistake. Sam lunged forward. Duke saw him coming from the corner of his eye. He turned his head while swinging his right arm, bent at an angle of ninety degrees, in a horizontal arc aimed at his opponent. Sam crossed both hands to block the incoming punch but instead of deflecting it, he gripped Duke’s arm. He then pushed Duke’s arm away from his body and immediately brought it right back with extreme force, this time trapping Duke’s head between his own hands and his right arm. Before Duke could understand what had just happened, his skull hit the wire mesh twice in quick succession. Dazed, Duke threw a weak left punch which missed Sam by miles. Sam let go of his head but not his right hand. He turned it by thirty degrees in the opposite direction and a snapping sound told him that the bones had given way. He loosened his grip and let the hand fall. Duke stumbled away from Sam, clutching his injured arm with his left hand, frightened and looking for an escape. In his desperation, he made for the exit door, turning his back on Sam who didn’t miss the chance. He grabbed Duke’s skull from behind with both hands and gave it a hard jerk. The skull severed from the spinal cord without resistance. Sam released his opponent’s lifeless body to the ground. But this was not over yet. He heard the cage rattling and looked up.

  Marco’s first fighter was at the top of the ladder, ready to jump. He had not yet realized Duke was dead. His body was already in motion. Sam moved away from Duke, giving himself room to maneuver. The fighter jumped in, without realizing that his opponent was
waiting for him and that it would take him a crucial two to three seconds to recover from the ill-planned leap. Sam stood ready, and the minute the man landed, a kick in his gut took the air out of him. Before he could recover, his body was already on the ground, rolling with pain. His screams echoed in the silent arena.

  Marco’s other fighter stopped at the top of the ladder; he had just realized that his partner couldn’t complement him. Jumping into the cage meant certain death.

  Sam looked up and recognized the hesitation. He looked back at the still breathing fighter and landed a kick in his rib cage. Another set of bones broke.

  “Open the cage,” Marco ordered the emcee, who signaled the man standing near the cage. Before the old man could take the third life of the night, the door swung open.

  “The fight is over, and we have a clear winner,” the emcee announced, his voice muted in shock. “Samuel.”

  Outside, the Sheikh and the Italian squirmed with humiliation. They had not only lost their fighters and their money, but also the chance to see the old man succumb to a painful death. Only one man cheered in an otherwise silent hall.

  Sam landed squarely on the floor from the elevated cage. His young companion was suddenly animated for the first time that night.

  “Eddie!” the old man shouted his companion’s name. Eddie walked towards the stage where Mia was still on the chair. He jumped and landed on the dais. No one stopped him. He lifted Mia onto her feet carefully as if she were a doll. She did not resist.

  “Water,” she whispered in his ears.

  “Water.” Eddie gave the emcee a no-nonsense glare. The flustered emcee handed him a bottle of packaged water from the podium. He was still having trouble believing all that had just happened.

  Eddie opened the bottle and held it to Mia’s lips. She emptied the bottle in seconds.

  “More.” Her voice now had strength.

  The emcee handed him two more bottles. Mia gulped them both.

  “Thanks,” Eddie said, his voice dripping with contempt.

  “W… Welcome,” the emcee stuttered.

  Sam walked towards the stage and helped Eddie get Mia down from the stage.

  “Well done, Mr. Samuel.” The lights came on, and an elevator door opened at the center of the far-right wall of the first floor. Marco had left his bulletproof box to meet the old man in person, enclosed by his bodyguards in a two-by-two formation.

  Sam and Eddie froze.

  “Who are you?” Marco fired the first question walking towards them.

  “Is this part of the deal?” Sam asked while turning to face Marco and his men, his tone neutral.

  “It isn’t, but without answering you can’t take her with you,” Marco said stopping at a safe distance from the two.

  While Sam was talking to Marco, Eddie quietly steered Mia away from Marco and his men.

  “If it’s not part of the deal, then I am not inclined to answer. Look, the matter is simple: I kept my side of the bargain and you must keep yours.” Sam mumbled.

  “You think you can come into my home and do whatever you like,” Marco said, his tone ominous.

  “What will you do if I tell you who I am?” Sam’s eyes were fixed on Marco, but he was also taking in his surroundings since the lights were now on. Eddie, standing right behind him, did the same. Four bodyguards with Marco, two at the gate. Seven bodies in total.

  “I’ll spare your friend,” Marco responded with a smirk.

  “I thought your words had some worth.” Sam was still indulging him. Everyone was engrossed in their conversation, but what no one saw was that Sam was slowly moving his feet apart, giving himself room. Eddie was doing the same behind him.

  “I’ll ask you one last time, who are you?”

  “Now,” Sam said in a neutral tone.

  “Yes… now.” Marco thought the word was intended for him, but it was just the signal for Eddie and Sam to press a tiny lever inside their custom-made leather shoes. The lever was linked to a small groove that moved in an outward direction. Inside, two custom-made plastic pistols, snuck through the metal detectors, were crammed over a spring mechanism that suddenly found space to expand. The thrust threw the guns straight up in the air. The weapons were tiny and could only carry two 9mm bullets in a single magazine. Sam and Eddie each had four bullets to kill seven men. One bullet to spare. Everything seemed to happen on auto-pilot. Sam and Eddie were still looking at Marco. They had timed their moves to the second and did not have to look as their hands moved in time to catch the guns. It all happened so fast and in such an unexpected manner that before Marco and his men could understand what was happening, their opponents were already armed. Before they could react, Sam had already leveled his two guns and shot one round each. Two 9 mms drilled into the skulls of the two nearest bodyguards. Eddie also fired two rounds at the men guarding the main door. None of the four bullets missed their marks.

  Sam and Eddie had no intention of giving the remaining three a chance to act. Eddie turned in his place and shot at the man to Marco’s right. Sam shot the one to his left. Before Marco could draw his weapon, his men were all gone. The spectators shuddered at the blood bath, but no one intervened. This was not their battle. The emcee had vanished from the stage. Marco slipped his right hand into his overcoat.

  “Don’t,” Eddie yelled, and Marco froze, his fingers inches away from his gun.

  “You still want to know who I am?” Sam asked.

  “No.” Marco’s voice quivered.

  “Mia. Let’s go.” Eddie smiled at the girl who was watching everything. She limped up to Eddie. The water had brought her senses back to some extent. She knew these two odd-looking men had just killed six, and yet she instinctively trusted them.

  Sam turned and took Mia’s hand. “Your father is waiting for you. Let’s go.”

  Tears trickled down Mia’s face. Was this for real?

  Sam led the way, she followed. The onlookers parted, clearing their path to the exit. Eddie was still at his place, his gun pointed at Marco.

  “What should I do with him?” he yelled. Sam and Mia were already at the door.

  Sam said nothing.

  “Shit… shit… shit.” Eddie looked at Marco and cursed.

  “Leave me,” Marco pleaded.

  “You should not have said that. You just lost all respect in my mind.” Eddie pressed the trigger. The last bullet from his gun left a trail of smoke behind it, even as he turned away. He didn’t have to check if Marco was still breathing. He knew he would never miss a shot from that close a range.

  Eddie turned to the audience and smiled. “Don’t leave, the police are here to take you all to your new home.”

  Once Mia was inside the black van, a warm blanket tucked around her shoulders, Sam gestured to the driver to take off. The van sped off.

  “Where do you think they will take her?” Eddie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Wick said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Wick didn’t know the destination of the van and he didn’t need to. His bosses at the Task Force-77 or TF-77, an off-the-books covert black ops team created by the NSA and the US Army, only shared the need to know intel with its assets. Some were not fine with that but Wick wasn’t one of those.

  “You don’t know, or you don’t care?” Eddie asked. He got no response. Wick rarely spoke more than was necessary. It was as if he was conserving energy for his next mission. Eddie had worked with him enough to know this, yet he pressed him occasionally to get a reaction out of him. “Now what?”

  “I don’t know,” Wick said looking after the speeding van.

  “You look good in this get-up though. The silver wig and beard are actually quite effective with the opposite sex.” Eddie smiled.

  Wick looked at Eddie and turned to walk towards a dark alleyway, a few hundred yards away. An unlocked Prius was waiting for them. Eddie saw him ambling away and followed him with a weary sigh. Wick took the front passenger seat and started to remove his makeup. Eddie settled behind t
he wheel. One look at Wick, who was busy cleaning his face with wet tissues, and the urge to crack another joke about his disguise died. He revved the engine, and the Prius lurched forward.

  In the passenger seat, Wick was soon done with the tissues and threw them out the window. He looked younger now, but tired. Behind the facade of the wrinkled profile lay a thoughtful face with battle scars that had been softened by multiple plastic surgeries. His black hair waved back in the breeze. Wick rubbed his bruised hands slowly, trying to soothe the pain. It was a known side-effect of his profession, but he had seen worse. He looked out the window and found a cloudless sky. It was a full moon night. He shut his eyes and let the moonlight caress his face. His mind was calm, content. Moments like these were rare in his profession, but nights like tonight made staring death in the face on a regular basis seem worthwhile. All he needed now was some sleep. All he now needed was some sleep until his next orders to hit the road again in search of another target, worth saving or murdering.