Encender (The Enertia Trials Book 2)

by J. Kowallis

  It’s then that I realize Roydon’s fall was ninety percent theatrics—for the benefit of his opponent and access to the knee. With zero trouble, he jumps to his feet. Veins and lean muscle define his arms as he strikes Martinez over the head with the back of his elbow. Another blow to the back of his rib cage and a full-thrust kick to his tailbone. Martinez struggles to get off his knees. Roydon moves to face Martinez in a flash. His movements . . . are almost too quick to see. Unreal.

  Roydon’s kick lands directly in the center of his opponent’s face. Martinez is dazed, but not out. He rushes Roydon. I can’t believe it. Roydon grabs Martinez’s outstretched arm by the wrist and wrenches it back to it’s extent. Martinez can’t use his arm.

  In a snap, Roydon uses the arm as a lever to throw him to his back on the bare ground with an accompanied knee strike to the gut. Dirt flies into the air around him. Roydon throws a full kick into Martinez’s ribs.

  I see Roydon’s lips move. I can’t see what he’s saying, but the next move he makes is the last. Roydon’s fist plummets into his opponent’s ribcage; a rasping gurgle escapes Martinez’s throat so loud I can hear it through the noise around me. His lungs have been ripped into by the broken ribs.

  Martinez’s body quits moving.

  Suddenly, the crowd that cheered for Martinez and jeered Roydon, has flopped. Their enthusiasm and a mixture of pure hatred for the winner is wild. My heart pounds inside my chest with heavy anxiety. With movements and fire like Roydon has, I’m shaking.

  He wins the next fight. The next. Fight after fight, I watch him. Win after win, I notice the whispered comment to each loser before their turn ends. It’s only when I start to notice the hanging emotion over Roydon’s head—lethargy in his face and revulsion in his eyes—that I realize . . . he feels sympathy. He says something to them out of pity.

  Emotion gets in his way. He cares.

  I’ve found it. It’s his weak spot. With the right moves, the right choices, that emotion can be broken into. He can be beaten.

  ―ESTEVAN―

  “Harder. Harder! Ransley, that’s not enough!”

  “I know!” she yelled back at him. Sweat ran down her face and she wiped it out of her eyes with her forearm. Leather straps wrapped tightly around her hands and cut into her skin, drops of blood smeared along her knuckles and down her fingers. She placed her hands on her hips, stepping back from the training hologram.

  Estevan rubbed his gloved hands over his face in frustration. It was too soon. “You’re not ready. Your body hasn’t healed fully yet. There’s no way you’re going to be able to make it two minutes into any fight while fighters like Roydon use Silat techniques. Let alone win.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice.” She smoothed her wet hair back, and took a deep gulp of air. “I’m going to be fine. Really, I am. Besides, we’re out of food and if we put this off any longer we’ll starve for a week and then I’ll never have a chance to win because my body will be too damn weak to do anything. I can do this.” Ransley rubbed her hand over her cropped hair once more, making the sweat hold her hair down. She put her fists up again. “Go.”

  “Your first fight’s tonight, Ransley.”

  “Go!” she yelled.

  With a deep breath, Estevan restarted the fighting trainer. The hologram looked like and mimicked any world-renowned fighter of the post-millennium 20s. At least, it had the capability to. Since they’d found it, its programming was jammed, and had only ever looked like Francois Amar with his bulging brow ridge and swollen ears.

  It was a technology they were lucky to have. Finding it broken in a boxing center nine years ago was the only thing that saved them. Estevan hadn’t been quick or nimble anymore when they found it, and even though she was a young teenager, she was beating him into the ground each practice. The equipment learned from her movements, growing and strengthening each time she put up a kick. Simulated pressure and visualizations made it the closest option to the real thing. Even if it looked like a piece of junk.

  Ransley threw hits into the training projection’s side; a roundhouse to the head and another strike to the left ear. With each movement her muscles swelled in long defined cuts from under her skin. When the projection grabbed her arm and twisted it around, Estevan’s lungs collapsed. He heard the familiar pop of her shoulder escaping the socket again. She screamed and hobbled to the side, grasping her arm.

  He cursed and stopped the training. “Ransley, you’re not ready!”

  “You stopped it!?” she bellowed, pain carved in her face. “Why did you stop it? Estevan, what am I going to do in the circle if that happens to me? I can’t call time-out! You're gonna have to trust that I can do this! So, stop babying me and let me fight!” Her nostrils flared and her dark brown eyes burned through him.

  Against all the feelings in his gut, he set his jaw, feeling warm air escaping his nose and flitting over his mustache. The cold ate at him from the inside and out. She’d wear herself out. He couldn’t do it. If she kept fighting, if she went into the ring that night, she’d die, and he knew it. He knew that ring better than any other place he’d been. There was a different feeling in your bones when your life was in danger. He’d lived and breathed it every night for ten years—each time he stepped into the Argolla.

  Even when he knew he was the best.

  Then again, was it the fear or the guilt that ate at him? How many like Ransley had he killed? And why? For the lousy thousand pesos that kept his tab alive at the bar, and allowed him an endless string of women? Maybe. Yet, every single one of those fighters would have done the same thing in his position.

  Ransley yelled at him again, bringing him out of his thoughts. He didn’t know why he reset the hologram, but with one single press of the pad, the training restarted with Ransley’s arm hanging at her side.

  She ducked as the projection swiped at her head. Her good arm’s elbow raised to defend a blow raining toward her from the training hologram. Her body moved forward into the fighter, then used her good arm again, hand flat, to shove the fighter’s nose into his brain. Wrapping her arm around the fighter’s neck, she pulled him forward, her knee solidly striking her opponent’s groin. He collapsed and visually gasped for air.

  While he seemed to breathe in, Ransley grabbed hold of her shoulder, and swiftly popped it back in. Her throat cracked and groaned at the snap of the bone back into its socket. The training opponent rushed her.

  The face, the ribs, a stomp on the arches of its foot. She hit them all.

  One, two, one, two. Her hands flew, balancing herself. Her leg kicked out, landing with force on the projection’s chest. It fell to the ground and she jumped on top, gouging her fingernails into his face before snapping its neck.

  She panted heavily. The projection disappeared. Then with one glance at Estevan, whispered, “I’m fine.”

  ―

  While Ransley slept off the early morning training, Estevan stole away from the broken down apartment of his childhood. Luckily, she slept comfortably on a stained mattress from another apartment and although the springs were poking out, it had no rodent residents.

  He walked down the street of Los Ángeles, his freezing hands jammed into his coat pockets. The city looked even worse during the day than it had the other night when they pulled in. The playground he frequented as a kid had fallen apart. Graffiti littered the broken swing set with the chains dangling down, seats missing. The merry-go-round tilted with years of rust, crusted snow still chilling underneath.

  Up ahead, the smell of liquor saturated the air, even rising above the stench of garbage and bodily fluids fermenting in the sun. An open bar was still in business down the street. He only had a few pesos on him and perhaps it would be enough to buy him a moment of relaxation and pull his mind away from Ransley’s fight before he signed her up. He passed by, taking note of how many people were awake in the early morning. Only a couple men and a woman sat outside the bar, half asleep.

  The woman’s red hair draped her back like s
eaweed and her breasts were barely held in by the torn tank top she wore. Sticky yellow stomach acid and half-digested contents stained her front and had slithered into her cleavage. The first man wouldn't stop laughing. The cackle sounded too exhausted to fully release. His green fedora rested far back on his head, and he kept reaching back to keep it in a certain place. The second man’s eyes were bloodshot, and he looked at Estevan, raising the shot glass in his hand. It shook like a tremor, the liquid sloshing everywhere.

  Estevan nodded at him, and walked into the bar.

  “Tequila,” he said to the tender. The barman, with grease stains on his front and a thick black beard, pulled out a smeared shot glass and filled it up.

  “Never thought we’d see you again,” the man whispered.

  Estevan’s eyebrows jumped and his hand froze before he reached for the shot glass. “Do I know you?”

  “Last time you had a drink in here . . . it must have been over twenty years ago.”

  With the glass between his hands, Estevan dipped his head back and gulped down the contents. He held it out for another. “You must be mistaken.”

  “I’ll never forget the face of Estevan Benitez,” the bartender’s voice lowered further. “Neither will anyone else here.”

  Estevan glared cautiously at the man and downed the second shot. At that, he pushed the glass away and reached into his pocket.

  “No charge.”

  He paused. The bartender took the glass and wiped it down with a soiled rag.

  “Gracias.”

  The man nodded and put the glass away. Down the bar, the woman with red hair vomited again and it splattered all over the bar top. Instantly, she started laughing. Her breasts jumped up and down with each breath until she passed out and fell on the floor.

  Estevan nodded at the bartender and left. The buzz of tequila in his body numbed him a little before he headed toward the center of the city. When he reached the fighting ring, one of the buildings was clearly marked as the registration office. He climbed up the stairs while garbage, waste, and empty bottles and cans clinked near his feet in the breeze. The door scraped on its hinges when he opened it. Lights glowed inside with actual electricity. Dirt tracked over the peeling laminate floor, but it looked like someone tried to keep the place livable.

  Two men at the end of the hallway were laughing and talking in low tones, standing around a long tabletop. Estevan made his way over to them. When he got closer, Estevan noticed another figure seated behind the table. The man looked up at him and smiled, a frayed wood toothpick rolling between his teeth. His waxed pencil mustache shone in the dim light.

  “Tell me, Adelmo,” the man said, looking in Estevan’s direction. He slowly raised his hands to rest them behind his head, “do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Qué?” the larger man asked.

  “I never thought I’d see one in real life. Unless . . .” He sized Estevan up. A smile spread on his face and he adjusted the rumpled edges of his pinstripe jacket while he stood up.

  The other men with him, the larger one obviously named Adelmo, turned around to look at Estevan, a look of confusion cutting into his face.

  “I can’t believe my eyes. Estevan Benitez.” The man smiled, showing off a platinum-capped tooth. “You know, I watched you fight when I was a boy. The match you had with that hombre from Puerto Rico? I still remember it! September, twenty twenty-three. Of course, at that time, all fights were underground. Couldn’t have the policías interfering.”

  “I can’t believe your parents took you,” Estevan’s voice grated. Children weren’t allowed at Argolla fights in the past. In spite of his disgust, he tried to keep his voice smooth and controlled.

  The man smiled. “I was an orphan. I didn’t have parents. Didn’t need ‘em. You know, when you scalped him with that hidden chunk of glass in your hand, I thought I’d go deaf. The crowd loved this man,” he said, turning to the man on his right. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Caspar, by the way. I run this ring now.” He put his hands on his narrow hips and smiled.

  “You know,” Caspar continued with a revered aire of electricity, “I bet on you every round. You never let me down. I remember the time you sunk your fist so low into a man’s stomach I thought you’d punched right through the other side. You were a legend. My little buddies and I would practice for hours after watching you fight. We always wanted to be like you.” He nodded with a tight smile. “One of us almost did. Got his first fight arranged when he was eighteen. Only lasted two minutes.” He continued to nod. “Called himself ‘Benitez Dos.’ More like ‘Benitez Muerto’.” He chuckled. “Dead idiota. So, what brings you back to our beautiful city? I thought you got out of the ring years ago. While I am thrilled to see you walk through my doors, I think you might get your guts handed to you in a perro dish out there. Even though that might be entertaining.”

  “I’m not here to sign my own name, Caspar. I have a fighter.”

  Caspar’s lips faltered between a smile and a straight press. “You trained a fighter? You? Well,” he grinned fully, “I must say, this is probably the best news I’ve had in years. What I wouldn’t have given to end up that lucky. Although, I think I got the easier end of things. I can only guess he’s gonna be the best show we’ve ever had. I can guarantee if he fights anything like you did . . . you’ll rake in at least four thousand Ps with the way the crowd’s been gambling.”

  Ignoring Caspar’s remark about Ransley being a man, Estevan squinted. “It’s a good week?”

  “Try, good month. We haven’t had The Public poking around here for a straight forty-five days now. Haven’t lost a fighter to them in a while. It’s given us a chance to build up our regular base. I’ll tell you, that government is bad for business.” He cursed in Spanish. “Every time guard transports land on the edges of the city, the crowds and fighters scramble like ants, Benitez. Then we never see them again. Any loyal fan base we acquire gets skittish and takes off for another city.”

  “I’m sure,” Estevan grumbled back. He thought of Ransley’s abilities and the threat to her if any of these men found her out. He clenched his jaw. “Do you expect The Public anytime soon?

  “I hope not. They never come when expected. Even worse when they show up in the middle of a fight.” Caspar smiled his toothy grin again and chewed on the toothpick between his teeth. “So, tell me about your fighter. Name? Age? Build?”

  “Ransley.”

  “Ah, an Americano.”

  “Ransley Benitez. Early twenties,” Estevan continued, “Lean slender build. Been trained for seventeen years now. I’ve seen my fighter throw men three times in size. Haven’t lost a fight in nearly eight years now.”

  “Well,” Caspar smirked again, “I have no problem believing that. He’s a Benitez student, and . . . apparently the fruit of your own loins.” He looked down at his book and followed the last line across the page with his finger. “He’s got his first fight at ten. Bigger hombre. Name’s Yaco. He’s already made it through four fights, but it’s wearing on him. It’ll be a good break-in for your guy. You know the rules. No weapons.” He smiled again and chuckled as if it were a joke. “And Benitez?”

  Estevan raised his eyebrows before turning to leave.

  “If your fighter don’t show, I believe you remember what will happen.”

  He nodded and turned to leave, the memories of his past flooding back again. His fists shook and clenched in his pockets.

  ―CASPAR―

  “This will be one of the greatest fights of the year,” he smiled. “Benitez’s protégé taking out fat Yaco. We are going to be rich off this one.”

  “You and I both know Benitez ran from his last fight. In fact, he never came back, right? How can you be so sure he’ll follow through?” Faron folded his arms over his broad chest. With the elegant beard on his face coming to a point on his chin, and his receded hairline, he looked like el diablo. The red lapel he wore underneath the dirt-stained suit vest he wore only helped the visual.

&
nbsp; Caspar smiled still. “Because I know what happened to Benitez’s family when he ran. I can guarantee he won’t let it happen again, especially since this is his own kid in the fight. Think he’d want his son without a Papá? I don't think so.” He turned to look out the window to the crowded bleachers and Argolla below.

  “You sound bitter,” Faron’s voice dropped.

  Caspar’s nose wrinkled. “Disappointed. I revered the man. He ran from his last fight. Stinking coward.”

  “Did any of his family members survive? After the ring patron put a hit on his family?”

  “The ring patron at the time was Juan Trujillo. Next to him, The Public government looks like a bunch of mild-mannered babysitters. No,” Caspar ran a hand through his hair, “Benitez dodged, and Trujillo was out his money. No one in that family was allowed to survive. Not one. I heard even little kids were home when it happened.” He snickered. “Rotten luck for them.”

  “Why did he run?”

  “No one knows. Everyone has their . . . opinions. Some say Benitez was too scared of his opponent, which, I know isn’t possible. The man wasn't afraid of anyone. Personally, I think he felt guilt. I think he finally caved.” Caspar scoffed and swore. “Can’t imagine the guilt he felt after his family was killed. That’s why I’m so shocked he brought a fighter here.”

  “It’s all he knows.”

  Caspar nodded, looking out over the arena. “Most likely. That’s what the Muerte Favorita did, Faron. Fight the men, enjoy the drugs, protect the turf, and take the women.” He chuckled.

  Outside, the seats were filling and he could already see his bookies walking through the crowd taking bets. Yes, this was going to be a good night.

  He picked a bit of leftover wild pig from his teeth, rolled it around on his tongue and spit it out. “Let’s get down there. I don’t want to miss a second of this.” Grabbing his pinstripe jacket, Caspar slipped it on and buttoned it over the grungy muscle top he wore. The jeans he wore around his skinny legs were caked at the cuffs with the mud from endless nights of walking around the fighting ring. Caspar took a fleeting look at himself in the mirror before leaving the room. Slicking his hair back with oil and smiling with his platinum tooth, he nodded and yanked the door open, the two men following.