by Matt Rogers
A tourist might have found it terrifying — King imagined there weren’t many tourists in the Congo. The occasional scream cut through the night air like a knife through butter, but other than that most of the town had fallen into soft murmurs of activity.
King, meanwhile, was set to take part in the most physically taxing activity imaginable.
The nerves still failed to materialise. He had seen such vicious combat in the real world, where every strike had lethal intentions, that a controlled brawl overseen by a referee felt like a casual stroll in the park. He slung one of the bags they’d brought over one shoulder and followed Brody out of the tiny apartment, down a series of congested corridors and out into the Congolese night.
The atmosphere differed significantly from nights at Brody’s compound. There were thousands of people moving quietly about the city, ghosting in and out of alleyways, some with noble intentions and some taking advantage of opportunities in the night.
King and Brody powered across the street, cutting in and out of traffic, shoving their way through the sizeable crowd trickling toward the three-storey building.
‘Looks pretty popular,’ King muttered, holding his duffel bag close to deter pickpockets.
‘Word spreads. There’s probably rumours of an American fighting.’
‘Could rumours spread all the way to Lars?’
Brody threw a dismissive look in King’s direction. ‘That’d be a pretty impressive chain of Chinese whispers. From Congolese civilians to U.S. government black ops.’
‘You never know.’
‘I think Rex Bernardi should be our only real worry.’
‘You seen him yet?’
‘No. He’s probably holed up in his hotel room. Everyone thinks they want to explore the more dangerous parts of the world until they end up somewhere like here.’
‘He’s a SEAL. He’s been through Hell Week. I’m sure he wasn’t under any false illusions.’
‘I don’t know him. Can’t comment.’
They entered a long stretching lobby sporting a ceiling that hovered only a few inches above King’s head. There were no civilians in this area — he placed it as an entrance for staff and fighters only.
He wasn’t entirely clear on the layout of the structure — were cage fights the only attraction here?
For some reason he was hesitant to enquire.
A skinny African man in a singlet and cargo shorts stepped forward to greet them, carrying a clipboard. His bloodshot eyes bored into King, asking a million silent questions, but as soon as his gaze turned to Brody he nodded respectfully. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ Brody said. ‘Are we good to go?’
‘Yes.’
The man stepped aside and ushered them down a narrow corridor. Brody went first, moving with purpose. King guessed he had history in these halls, complete with grimy paint flaking off the walls and water dripping intermittently from the ceiling. Through the plaster and the concrete he heard the muffled murmur of a crowd. It formed a ball of tension in the pit of his stomach — not nerves, just a distinct awareness that his upcoming bout would be observed.
Briefly, as he moved through the disgusting corridors toward what he imagined would be an unimpressive locker room, he questioned whether he was making the right decision. It would be a barbaric thrill ride under the bright lights of the arena, but he had next to no information about what he would be dealing with. He didn’t know how large the crowd would be, or how skilled his opponent was. He hadn’t even seen a picture of Francis, or a video of the combatant in action. If the man really was everything the promoters touted him as, then King would have his hands full.
Then he remembered a gruelling fist fight with three Force Recon Marines on the deck of a container ship off the coast of Somalia, and he realised he’d already faced the toughest test. Back then, the stakes had been through the roof.
This was, at the end of the day, just a contest.
There was a referee to separate them.
Brody ushered him into a windowless concrete room with wooden benches running the length of three walls and a rusting tin cabinet to store his personal belongings. Apart from that the room was entirely bare, left unfurnished to provide room for the fighters to warm up.
Brody glanced around the horrid conditions and grimaced. ‘It was a whole lot better when I was last here.’
‘Tough times, maybe.’
‘It’s the amateur circuit in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Fighters don’t even get paid. I was hoping the promoters could put the revenue from ticket sales to good use.’
‘You think they make much money out of this?’
Brody ruminated for a moment. ‘I doubt it. The price of a ticket in the big leagues … people kill for that kind of money out here.’
‘People kill for that kind of money anywhere,’ King muttered.
He changed into the pair of traditional Muay Thai shorts he’d brought along for the fight and slipped padded fingerless gloves over his hands. The temperature had soared the further they’d strode inside the complex, as if the concrete walls were trapping the humidity in. King found it hard to breathe as he strung combinations together against Brody’s wrist pads, the impacts detonating off the walls like gunshots.
The sweat began to flow freely.
He felt warm.
Loose.
Ready.
Then everything changed.
Sudden pandemonium reigned in the corridor outside. A harsh demand, spoken in Swahili, cut through the empty hallway with vicious intentions. A warning.
You’re not permitted here, was the impression King got.
He twisted on the spot to investigate the source of the sudden commotion…
…and three of the South African mercenaries barged straight into the locker room, all of them armed, guns aimed at the heads of King and Brody.
29
King instantly noted Wyatt in their midst. It was a face he wouldn’t soon forget — the pale skin and hard features made him seem menacing at first glance. The other two he recognised from the rudimentary roadblock he’d faced on the way to Brody’s, but he hadn’t spoken to them before.
They’d stayed silent then, and they stayed silent now.
As usual, Wyatt did the talking.
King stared down the barrel of a fearsome-looking Desert Eagle handgun as the man said, ‘What the fuck is this?’
King paused, weighing his words before responding. Neither he or Brody were armed, and one wrong move could spell disaster. ‘What’s it supposed to be?’
‘Thought you were here to visit your friend, you lying fuck.’
King jerked a thumb over his shoulder, sensing Brody hovering still as a statue behind him, no doubt suppressing all kinds of emotions. ‘That’s my friend there.’
Wyatt smirked sardonically, addressing Brody. ‘Hey, buddy. Haven’t seen you in a while. We’ve got unfinished business.’
‘What business?’ Brody said.
‘You don’t remember?’
‘You talking about when I beat one of your friends to a pulp?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I recall there being six of you back then.’
‘Two were fired. One was the guy you beat to shit.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘In the ground. That’s how you get fired out here.’
‘Is that what happened to your fourth man?’ King said, nodding to each of the trio in turn. Wyatt clammed up, and King sensed he’d struck a sensitive topic. ‘Look, what the fuck do you three want?’
Wyatt’s eyes flared — clearly, he didn’t get talked back to often. He lowered the Desert Eagle and powered across the locker room. At roughly six foot four and outweighing King by at least twenty pounds, the big man had a noticeable advantage in the strength department. When he reached out with a massive calloused palm and shoved King back into the rusting cabinet, it took the entire room by surprise.
King almost lost his balance, hitting the row of
drawers hard enough to almost take the entire piece of furniture off its base. He righted himself, staying composed. He knew if it escalated further than a shoving contest, the other two mercenaries wouldn’t hesitate to use their weapons.
Especially if he beat Wyatt to death like he knew he could.
‘What do you want?’ he repeated.
‘I want to know what you’re doing here,’ Wyatt hissed, a vein protruding from the side of his forehead.
‘You don’t seem happy.’
‘The fuck is that supposed to mean?’ Wyatt barked.
‘Feels like I’ve crashed your party, if I’m being honest.’
‘You have.’
‘What do you do here?’
‘Fix fights. How’d you find out? Is that what you want? A cut of my profits? Fat fucking chance of that happening.’
‘I don’t know a thing about this,’ King said. ‘I’m here to fight.’
’That would be a coincidence, wouldn’t it?’
‘It sure would.’
‘Your friend isn’t doing much talking.’
‘I know you fix fights,’ Brody said, his voice low. ‘Better than that, I know you represent Francis. He’s your golden boy. Shame about the need for a late replacement. Glad we could help, though.’
Wyatt smirked. ‘Oh. I see what this is.’
King couldn’t help a shiver of discomfort trickling down his spine. It felt like he’d been caught in the middle of a subtle turf war, waged between two parties who barely knew of each other’s existence. ‘I don’t see what this is.’
Wyatt said, ‘Your boy’s keeping you out of the loop.’
‘Sorry, King,’ Brody said. ‘You probably would have protested.’
Wyatt changed direction, storming across the locker room toward Brody. A dark feeling took over King’s motor functions — nausea and apprehension struck him all at once. He sensed rage building inside Brody in a way he hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t certainty — no-one knew exactly who had decimated the village all those years ago.
But it was the possibility of unleashing violence.
Of going back on everything he’d been trying to drill into King during their time together.
It bristled in the air, silently spreading over Brody’s features, so noticeable that Wyatt slowed in his tracks, pulling up a foot short from Brody’s motionless form.
‘Take another step,’ Brody said, his voice quiet. ‘I fucking dare you.’
Wyatt sported the same smug grin, but something about it felt false now. ‘Drop the tough guy act. We’re the ones with guns on you.’
‘You seem really confident,’ Brody said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
‘We should be.’
‘You should be. But you aren’t. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding me all these years. Beating up your friend like that … you should have held a grudge. Haven’t heard a peep from you since.’
Wyatt cocked his head. ‘You seem overly invested. Have I done something to you? Why all the anger? You came out of our last meeting on top. We left you alone for good reason.’
Brody said nothing, but in the silence King heard all the things the man wanted to say. That he knew about the mercenaries slaughtering villagers, that a woman he was close with had been amongst the victims.
But Wyatt didn’t know. Entirely oblivious to the cold reality. Which either meant he wasn’t involved, or the act had become so common, so routine, that the altercation all those years ago had passed entirely from his mind.
‘Anyway,’ Wyatt said. ‘Enough of that. We’re here to do a job.’
‘So are we,’ Brody said.
‘You’re going to throw this fight.’
‘Are we?’
‘You don’t have a choice.’
‘There’s always a choice.’
‘Enough!’ Wyatt yelled, his voice echoing off the locker room walls. ‘Give as many cryptic responses as you want — doesn’t change a fucking thing. Your boy here—’ Wyatt jabbed a finger in King’s direction ‘—is going to go down. I don’t care how long it takes to do it, but he’s going to take a dive. Then we’ll get paid and we won’t bother you. If not…’
‘What?’ King said, suddenly pumped full of adrenalin, ignoring the two gun barrels trained on him. He inched closer to Wyatt, imperceptibly sandwiching the man between himself and Brody. ‘What’s going to happen if we don’t?’
Wyatt moved the finger from King to his two friends. ‘This is Thorn. And the other guy’s Link. They’re going to be in the crowd. You do one thing wrong and they’ll blow your head off.’
‘You’d do that? In front of all those people?’
‘We own those people,’ Wyatt said. ‘We control the money around here. And that makes us gods.’
King considered how easily he could subdue the three of them. It would only take a short string of compliant apologies to cause the trio to drop their guards. Then a simple step toward the two armed men, as innocent as possible, and a successive string of elbows to the most delicate parts of their face. They would crumble with broken bones and shattered morale, and King would strip them of their weapons in a heartbeat. Then he would fire a round from one of the massive Desert Eagles through Wyatt’s forehead and they would be free from the mercenaries forever.
Except they wouldn’t.
Even in such a heightened emotional state, King considered the consequences. Previously he might have ignored his better judgement and beat the three of them into submission, but Brody had inadvertently taught him much about the way of the world.
Word would spread, quickly.
Brody would be identified as a participant in the chaos, and his peaceful life would be thrown into jeopardy because of the reckless actions of a young foolhardy soldier. King would go on to do great things, if fate had it that way, and Brody would be left to fend for himself in the Congo having made an enemy out of one of the largest mining corporations in the country.
No.
They had few options.
So as Wyatt spun on his heel and shoved King once more, he didn’t retaliate. He took the push in stride, bouncing off the nearest concrete wall, and watched the three mercenaries storm out of the locker room with sparks in their eyes and smug grins on their faces.
‘Remember!’ Wyatt called as they departed. ‘Your boy goes down. Or there’ll be hell to pay.’
30
Neither King nor Brody felt it necessary to speak until any trace of the three mercenaries had faded into nothingness.
When complete silence had descended over the locker room, King turned to his mentor. ‘What the hell do we do now?’
‘We can leave,’ Brody said, but something in his tone indicated it was a test.
King narrowed his eyes. ‘You think I’m going to fall for that?’
‘Good man.’
‘You knew about them?’ King said. ‘And you didn’t tell me a thing?’
‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘I’d like an explanation before I head out there. I deserve one.’
‘You don’t have to fight,’ Brody said. ‘I mean it.’
‘I don’t see how this changes anything.’
‘I deceived you.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You had your reasons.’
It was then that King noticed Brody’s knuckles clenched, so hard he thought the man might faint from exertion. The bones were white.
‘I always knew it was them,’ Brody said. ‘Deep down. But I couldn’t go near them. I couldn’t approach the mine. I didn’t know how I’d react if I saw them up close, and given my past…’
‘You’re a violent man,’ King said, vocalising his realisations. ‘You don’t know if you can control it.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, I think you just proved yourself wrong. Was that the first time you’d seen them since…?’
Brody nodded. ‘Three years ago, everything happened in a whirlwind. They showed up to my compound thinking they
could push me around, and coincidentally they’d gunned through the village just a few nights before. They didn’t know I was connected to anyone there. But I had an inclination it might have been them that did it, which is why I took out my rage on that one guy.’
‘The one you beat to a pulp?’
Brody nodded, staring blankly, pulling up old memories. ‘It only took a few seconds. Five or six strikes … get yourself angry enough and that’s all it takes. I put him down in the dirt in front of all of them and they dragged him back to their truck, deciding to pick a fight with me another time. Then they never bothered me again.’
‘Maybe their employers told them to rein it in.’
‘Maybe. I’ll never know for sure.’
King sensed something in the air, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. ‘Something happened…’
‘I paralysed the kid,’ Brody said. ‘One of the strikes hit him in the back of the neck, in just the right place. He couldn’t walk … by that point I’d isolated myself to the compound, but news spreads fast around here. One of my delivery drivers told me.’
‘And you don’t know if he was involved.’
Brody shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue. He was someone with a muddied link to the rest of them — how was I to know if he was the culprit? It was a wild guess. No, it wasn’t even a guess. It was a body to take out my anger on.’
‘That’s why you’ve sworn off violence. That’s why you’re living like a monk.’
‘I will never lay a hand on another human being for as long as I live.’
Awfully serious, King noted.
But he could tell Brody meant it. There was a lifetime of moral depravation in the man’s eyes, eyes now brimming with tears.
‘What if you found out exactly who did it?’ King said. ‘Exactly who fired the kill shot.’
‘I would need to be one hundred percent certain.’
‘But if you were?’
‘I’d deal with them. That’s … that’s what I came here to try and find out. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just … I’d been holed up in that place for too long. I needed out. If only temporarily…’