by Paul Tassi
Tanner was already there. Mark had missed his intro, which was assuredly five minutes of footage of his poor dying son. Mark sure as hell didn’t want to see that for the eightieth time; he felt bad enough. Tanner was also shirtless, and had a smattering of disjointed tattoos. A cross. A clover. The names of his children etched on his ribs in what appeared to be their own handwriting. He eyed Mark with the hunger of a starving animal. Suddenly, Mark realized that while he had nothing to lose, Tanner had everything to lose, which in this case was probably much more dangerous.
An announcer wearing a sparkling suit with pearl white hair and teeth strode into the middle of the ring. The wireless mic clipped under his throat boomed throughout the entire field, and swaying masses slowly grew silent as he introduced the two fighters.
Mark was met with a smattering of boos mixed with the cheers. Either there was an anti-Chinese bent to the crowd, or they just didn’t like his gambling and mercenary work. Tanner, on the other hand, had everyone cheering at the top of their lungs and stomping on the bleachers like madmen. Mark supposed if he was in the crowd, he’d be rooting for the man across from him, too.
The announcer reiterated the rules, because there was no referee. In effect, there were no rules. No rounds. No off-limit blows. They were to fight until one of them was physically unable to continue, though Crayton’s judges were known to use a loose definition of that phrase. More or less, you were either unconscious, or you were begging for mercy. Mark knew from the look in Tanner’s eye that the latter wasn’t even an option for him.
The announcer’s voice, the din of the crowd, all of it became like white noise to Mark. He scanned the seats for Brooke, looked to the boxes for Carlo and Crayton. In the third row, he caught a brief flash of a narrow, hard face, flecked with scars. He looked again, and the dead man was gone.
Mark shook his head, and rubbed his eyes. He saw himself on the giant screen, fifty times larger than life, looking bewildered. Underneath the feed were numbers. Four. Three. Two. One. A familiar chime.
He should have been paying closer attention.
Tanner’s fist connected with his temple, and everything went white.
11
MARK HIT THE FLOOR as the crowd leapt to its feet. His vision slowly flickered back, just in time to see a shin about to crash into his face. He rolled back and Tanner’s kick went wide. Mark spun up to his feet, and shook his head. He had a momentary flashback to tenth grade when Johnny Kalowski sucker punched him after football practice because his girlfriend had passed Mark a note in class. After he’d gotten that one shot in, the next few minutes resulted in Johnny Kalowski’s jaw being wired shut for the following month.
Tanner’s hit wasn’t cheap, though; Mark was just off his game. Had he really thought he saw Zhou in the crowd? Was he actually going insane? Mark took a breath and collected himself, able to dodge a fresh flurry of elbow strikes from Tanner, who was now shifting into full Muay Thai mode. Where the palest white man Mark had ever seen had learned to be an expert Muay Thai fighter, he had no idea. Honestly, he’d rather buy Tanner a beer and talk about it than beat him half to death in front of all these people, but that didn’t seem terribly possible in the present moment.
Tanner threw out a few more kicks, showcasing a flexibility that was more reserved for yoga instructors than ex-cops. He was exceptionally fast, and Mark had to break a sweat deflecting the incoming blows. His highlight reel really didn’t do him justice. In person, Tanner was a lot more formidable than Mark had imagined.
He’s fighting to save his son’s life, said a voice in his mind, but Mark shoved it away. He had to. He threw a punch.
It missed.
Tanner ducked under and countered with a stiff uppercut that rattled every single one of Mark’s teeth. He backed away and shook it off, allowing himself a snarl of anger. Tanner the desperate father was melting away, and the man before him was becoming simply an opponent to be destroyed.
Mark flew off his back foot and hit Tanner hard across the face with an aerial right hook. Before he could even recover, Mark planted his foot in his chest and sent him crashing against the polyglass. The stunned Tanner threw up his arms to block, but Mark went low and sunk a trio of jabs into the man’s ribs. He could have gone a few inches lower and probably ended the fight right there, but he was still holding onto a little bit of restraint and decency, at least.
Tanner gasped on the last hit, and threw out a counter punch of his own that glanced off Mark’s shoulder. He lunged forward and wrapped Mark up, but Mark countered with a quick judo throw that planted Tanner flat on his back. Mark leapt a few feet in the air and came crashing down with a knee that probably would have caved in the man’s chest, but Tanner was still quick enough to roll out of the way. Much to Mark’s surprise, Tanner spun around and countered with a winding kick to the back of his head, which sent him stumbling forward.
Even though the ring kept some of the sound out, the crowd was in frenzy. Mark wasn’t on the outside looking in, but even he knew that they knew this was more than a normal fight. The audience could feel his anger. Tanner’s desperation. There were stakes here. Not just a prizefight with two rich guys looking to get richer. In that moment, Mark thought that maybe Crayton wasn’t crazy after all, and he really had tapped into something here.
But it was only a moment, as his head was snapped back into the ring by a square punch to his eye that drew blood. He staggered back and grabbed Tanner’s wrist when he swung again. Tanner whipped around, not missing a beat, and slammed his elbow into Mark’s ear, which caused him to lose his grip. Immediately, Tanner jammed a knee into the meat of Mark’s thigh, which almost caused him to collapse on the spot. He’d rather be fighting a boxer that only knew how to use his hands, or a bodybuilder that didn’t know how to use anything at all. Tanner was potentially lethal, and it was clear he deserved to be there.
Mark blocked the next knee strike, and countered with a downward elbow of his own planted in Tanner’s sternum. Tanner lunged with another strike, but Mark grabbed him and flung him sideways through the air and into the wall. Even if the crowd was on Tanner’s side, they couldn’t help but cheer at that.
Mark kicked Tanner as he tried to rise, once, twice, three times. Tanner finally blocked and slowly got to his feet. He was favoring his left side, and Mark struck hard at his right leg, which he’d landed on wrong. It gave out as expected, and Tanner crashed to the mat again.
“Stay down!” Mark growled at him, out of earshot of the cameras, he hoped. “This is over.”
Tanner either didn’t hear him, or didn’t listen. He scrambled to his feet and dove at Mark, but got a forearm across the bridge of his nose as penance. Mark shifted his feet and drove a hook into his jaw, and Tanner went to his knees. When he looked up, his eyes were unfocused, but still open. That exact blow had knocked out dozens of other, much tougher looking men throughout Mark’s life.
Mark could feel the blood trickling down his face from a cut near his eye, but Tanner looked even worse. Mark saw a white fleck on the ground that might have been a tooth. Tanner raised his fists.
“Just stop!” Mark hissed again. He didn’t want to humiliate the man, even if he had to beat him.
Tanner swung wildly again, and Mark dodged like the punches were in slow motion, which they practically were. Tanner’s strength, his speed, were draining quickly. Finally, Mark caught his arm, spun him around and wrapped him up in a chokehold.
“It’s over,” Mark whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry.”
“It … can’t … be …” Tanner choked out as Mark’s grip tightened around his femoral artery. He struggled violently, like a man facing death, but as the seconds passed, the thrashing slowly subsided. Mark wrenched upward, pulling even tighter. He saw a crazed, bloodied face on the giant screen overhead. His own. Tanner’s eyes were rolling back in his head, and tears were spilling out of the corners.
Mark kept pressing the artery, and left the windpipe intact, not wanting to do any lasting
damage. Finally, Tanner blacked out completely, and Mark lowered him gently to the mat. The crowd was quiet. It wasn’t the victor they wanted, and it also definitely wasn’t the explosive conclusion they expected. Mark heard pattering of a few cheers, a few boos and more than a few outright sobs. The chime sounded. He was a city finalist.
The announcer returned.
“Your winner, Mark Wei!”
He held Mark’s battered hand aloft as Tanner slowly started to come to. The look on his face when he realized he’d lost would haunt Mark forever.
12
MARK SLEPT FITFULLY FOR the next twelve hours or so, his body exhausted and bruised, but his mind firing on all cylinders whenever he closed his eyes. He worried about Carlo and his fight. He thought about Josh Tanner’s son. He thought about Spearfish. And Zhou. And Riko. And Asami. He thought about killing. He thought about dying.
Until finally, he had to think about the mission. Crayton’s people were sending an autolimo as they always did, and Brooke had outfitted him with the necessary gear for his first meaningful exchange with Crayton. It wasn’t much, but it would prove useful all the same, provided everything went as planned.
Mark called Carlo from the limo, which was the best he could do since the combatants were forbidden from associating with each other before the fights, even if they were friends. Ultimately Mark decided he’d rather face Carlo in the final than Drescher. Not that he was scared of Drescher, but he didn’t want Carlo mangled by the man. Better Carlo win and the two of them could have a friendly final based on the actual spirit of competition, not blind rage or desperation. Mark was already planning which knock-out blows would be effective but undamaging to Carlo in their theoretical final. But first, Carlo had to get there.
“Use your speed,” Mark said. “The man’s a tank, but he won’t be able to keep up. His reach and power won’t matter if you can get inside.”
“Mark, come on, you do know I do this for a living, right?” Carlo said on the other end of the line.
“Yes,” Mark said, “But MMA still has weight classes, rules. We didn’t have either when I served, so I might have some useful sage advice for you yet.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Carlo said with an unseen smile. “Well, I rewatched his old Prison Wars tapes and he suffered a bad break in his left arm about a year and a half ago. Steel pipe cracked that shit right in half during his match with what’s that guy’s name? Some mafioso.”
“Enzo Cavatti,” Mark said, more familiar with Prison Wars than he’d have liked to be, now that he’d watched both seasons multiple times as background research for the Crucible mission. “Though as I recall, the pipe ended up in Cavatti’s windpipe by the end of that fight.”
“Right, but point is, that’s exploitable. I’ve got a half dozen different ways I can tweak that arm alone.”
Smart kid. Smart fighter.
“Just don’t forget to focus on defense. Trying to block will probably get you killed, so dodge whenever you can instead. With the haymakers he throws, he’ll get off balance soon enough if he’s hitting nothing but air.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Carlo said. “That’s always been the plan. Don’t worry, old man. You’ll get your grudge match with me in the final.”
Someone said something out of earshot.
“Oh shit, I gotta go. I’ve got like six interviews before warm-ups. Time to get this beautiful face on TV.”
Mark chuckled.
“Good luck, I’ll see you after.”
“No luck needed.”
AS A FINALIST, MARK was invited to watch the fight from Crayton’s private box at Wrigley, which would allow him to get close to the man far ahead of schedule. Anything that could possibly speed up the mission and abort the Crucible earlier was a welcome development. The wood-paneled box had seated presidents and princes alike at one point or another, but now it housed Crayton and his assortment of VIPs, with Mark among them. As he entered, he was greeted with a scent of a thousand ancient cigars that had wormed its way into the wood and upholstery over the years. A few men were actively smoking new ones, and everyone turned to stare as he entered. By now, everyone in the room instantly knew who he was, and the bruises still spreading across his face would make it clear to anyone who was confused. He was the Talent, and it was clear he was in a room with the Money, which was exactly where he needed to be.
Crayton himself was the first person brave enough to actually talk to him, and he acted like they were old friends, greeting Mark with a firm handshake and a palm on his shoulder. Wyatt Axton loomed behind him, and Mark saw the lump of a large caliber pistol in his coat as his hands remained crossed in front of him.
“Hell of a fight, Mark,” Crayton said through his shark smile. “I’ve watched the replay four times already. Your technique is flawless!”
He stared a little closer at the biggest bruise near Mark’s eye and winced.
“Well, almost flawless,” he laughed. “Come on, we’ve still got some time before the fight and there are a bunch of folks who have paid a hell of a lot of money to get to sit in the same room with you tonight.”
“I’m sure you’re the one they’d rather be talking to,” Mark said with a smirk. Crayton leaned in and lowered his voice.
“That may be, but that’s why I need to throw you at them instead,” he said, his smile still fixed. Mark wondered if he ever stopped smiling. Behind him, Axton was his polar opposite; he had probably never smiled in his life. His eyes never left Mark for a second.
As Crayton introduced him to everyone from CFOs to talk show hosts, Mark constantly scanned the room. Suited security lined the walls, with Axton forever attached at the hip to Crayton himself. But from what Mark could tell, Crayton hadn’t gone so far as to outfit the box with any anti-surveillance tech. Mark periodically pretended to check his phone for messages, but really he was getting data about the unseen frequencies rebounding around the room. There was nothing that would detect a bug, nor what he was going to attempt later that evening.
Mark was now rubbing elbows with the types of men and women who spent more on fuel for their private jets in a year than Tanner would need to help his son. Mark swallowed the thought and contracted the right muscles to make his smile reappear as he was introduced to the actual owner of the Cubs, the team that was supposed to be playing on the field below until they were preempted by a gladiator match.
After too much socializing for Mark’s taste, the festivities were about to begin, and everyone took their seats. The plush recliners were so comfortable, Mark wouldn’t have been surprised if patrons normally spent more time sleeping in them than watching baseball. But if the Crucible qualifier pre-show was meant to do one thing, it was to wake the audience up.
A line of two dozen women were in the ring where the clear walls had not yet been put up. Even from a distance, it was clear they were unnaturally beautiful, and soon enough the monitors in the box zoomed in enough to confirm that. They wore short, sheer, flowing robes that left little to the imagination. They were clearly meant to be cheerleaders of some sort, but instead of pom-poms they wielded sword hilts with flowing ribbons streaming out of them. Music started blasting, and the girls launched into an elaborately choreographed routine that was equal parts athletic and erotic. Mark squinted at the monitors above, and swore he recognized a few women from TV programs where they wore even less.
“What do you think of the, uh, what are we calling them, Vanessa?” Crayton asked. Mark had a prime seat next to the man himself.
“The Muses,” his vice president answered from behind him. Mark could never seem to escape her. She glanced at him with a quick flash of something unknown in her green eyes.
“Ah yes,” Crayton said. “The Muses. I like the name, but the execution I’m not so sure about. Mark?”
“Oh, uh, they’re very … talented,” Mark said, unsure of what else to say.
“Oh, come on, Mark. I didn’t pay these girls an ungodly amount of money to take a night off from fucking on TV for tal
ented,” Vanessa said. They were porn stars then. Mark wasn’t imagining it. He’d missed this entire spectacle yesterday when he was behind closed doors before his fight.
“They’re ridiculously hot,” Mark said with a frat-boy smile, knowing that was the desired response.
“Thank you!” Vanessa said, throwing her hands in the air. “I told you, sir. That will engage the prime demo even more. Best of both worlds. Tits and ass-kicking.”
Crayton waved her off.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s all a bit crass for my taste.”
Mark had to stop himself from spitting out a sip of bourbon at the irony there. Instead he choked down the drink.
The dance continued, punctuated by whistles in the crowd. An assistant buzzed by Crayton’s ear, holding a phone.
“Sir, another call. It’s urgent.”
“Block the number. All those numbers,” Crayton said, suddenly sounding annoyed. “No more calls. Tell him our business is concluded, as I’ve made explicitly clear already.”
“Of course,” said the man. Mark heard the faint sound of the hinges of a door closing before catching a few barely audible words from the man. In Mandarin.
“Wō hěn bàoqiàn … ”
My apologies …
China. A thread. But who was it? And why was there tension with Crayton?
“Everything okay?” Mark lightly pressed. Crayton waved his hand.