He tugged the hood of his black sweatshirt up higher, making himself invisible to Sergei and Stefan, and the woman who unknowingly might be sending him to his death.
Moving with the crowd into the Hall, he situated himself next to the steps leading into the cage and began his warm up. A few glances fell his way—his damn size always raised a few eyebrows. Yeah, a clean-shaven face only carried him so far in the harmless prick category. Yet after what Sergei had done to that other fighter, most of the crowd’s attention was fixed on the Russian.
He began the motions of warming up by jogging slowly in place, his mind racing all the while. Something was rotten in Shitsville and Stefan was thick in the muck of it.
The bell sounded again, ushering the last of the fighters and spectators into the Hall. Piss poor timing for doubts about his partner to be clouding his head.
Bracken schooled his expression, knowing in a few seconds, eyes would be on him, including that little shady fucker’s.
He kicked off his sneakers and socks, then slowly removed his hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants, down to bare feet, bare chest and a tight-fitted gray pair of fighting UAM shorts. They were designed to cling to a fighter’s body. He didn’t want to give Sergei anything except hard muscle to grab hold of.
“I didn’t see you come in,” Stefan hollered, making his way over, just as Bracken anticipated. His partner offered up a lame smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, followed by a goddamned pat on the back, all the while fidgeting about like an actor about to take the stage. He was more keyed up than usual, his eyes hard, jaw clenched tight, and stiff in the way he held himself as he shifted on his feet. “You been here long?”
“No. Let’s get this over with.”
Yeah, Numbnuts was neck deep, but was he clean on the inside or full of horseshit? Whatever it was, Bracken knew he’d better keep his cards close to his chest. “On time for a change, huh, asshole?”
“Yeah, figured you might need some help.” Stefan visibly relaxed, but his lie seemed to echo around them.
“Nice to know you’ve got my back. Stick around, I might need a water boy.”
The little fucker glared at him. “What about Huntley? Your woman will have her hands full without me around.”
Bracken continued to jog in place, keeping a tight grip on his reaction. He didn’t know what the hell Stefan was up to. What he did know was that keeping Huntley far away from the guy—fuck, all of them, Russians included—had just become a priority. One more week until this was all over. If Sergei didn’t kill him first.
“Listen, asshat. Forget about her. This fight, then the bust, those’re our priorities. She’s served her purpose. I’m in—as soon as I kick this bastard’s ass.”
“She’ll be close by, anyway. Wonder how she’ll react after seeing you get your face bashed in?”
He caught a flicker in Stefan’s eyes, just enough of a tell to confirm what Bracken had suspected all along. His partner was fucking with him and using Huntley as his Achilles’ heel, or some shit like that. What pissed Bracken off even more was knowing the Numbnuts was right on target.
“Go buy a box of Kleenex,” he snapped, letting his irritation go uncensored. “You and Sergei will be weeping after I’m done in the cage. After tonight, I’ll be in tight with the Russians.”
“Always so confident. You think Sergei’s going down?” Stefan demanded, his voice full of arrogance. Jesus. Stefan wanted him to lose. Why? Was the prick envious? Jealous? Of him? Of a guy with quivering hands and a psyche shredded up like an old winter blanket? Or was it money that drove him?
Fuck. Bracken’s instincts were barking. Survivor instincts that’d save his ass too many times to count. Whatever angle Numbnuts was working smacked of deceit.
He glared back at the dickhead. Time to press his buttons. “Tell me. Why do you hate women so much?”
Stefan bristled. “I don’t dislike them.”
“What, did you get your little heart broken? Your prom date bail on you?”
“Fuck you. No.”
Bracken forced himself to roll his shoulders, warming up and relieving the tension weighing him down. Rolling away the urge to crush Stefan before he found out what he was up to.
“You wanna tell me anything?” he asked, jabbing the air.
“Huntley’s a royal bitch. I don’t have women issues—”
Gotcha.
“—Jesus Christ, man. Forget it. What about the job? You find out anything more about the shipment? Work any new leads?”
Stefan stepped back, out of harm’s reach, in case Bracken decided to lay into him for the his dig on Huntley. Tit for tat, buddy. And your poker face sucks. Stefan was withholding information. He’d taken money from a Russian—a big fucking red flag kind of gesture. Did he know the meth was headed to Vegas? How involved was his partner in this drug deal?
“Nothing new. The shipment is a week or two out.”
A week or two—not less than a week? The little fucker was lying. Shit. Fucking shit.
“I thought you wanted to focus on the fight? Good luck. You’re gonna need it.” Stefan thumped him on the back. “By the way, Huntley will be close by. Like I said, a bird’s eye view.” He pointed to the elevated bar running along the Hall wall, smirked, then disappeared into the crowd.
Shit. Fucking shit. Nothing he could do about it now.
Bracken stripped off his sweatpants, his mind running laps of its own. He found Sergei across the Octagon ring, hard to miss given his height. Vladimir was there, too, talking to the man. Like he was giving orders to put a serious hurting on Bracken. Like the fight was a setup.
Jesus. Tonight, the case turned into an entirely different operation, spun and then flipped around, with everyone except Bracken on board.
And he’d dragged Huntley right into the center of it all.
Too late to get rid of her tonight. But tomorrow, he’d send her packing. Cut the cord, and fast. Get her as far away from him, the Warehouse, Stefan as possible. Send her off knowing that although he’d broken his promise to take her to Tahoe, he’d still handle her ex. Lock his ass up for breaking and entering. Shit. He knew it all along, that having any kind of relationship with her was like signing her death warrant. It left her vulnerable.
It left him raw. Naked. Weak. Because for the first time in his life, he cared for someone so deeply, it hurt. And that was more dangerous than the beast of a man moving toward the stairs.
Enough emotional nonsense, it was time to get busy. In a second, Sergei would spot him and then the battle would begin.
He ripped off his hood and unzipped his sweatshirt, feeling like a teenager all over again. Not the sweet, pimple faced kind, the kind whose biggest fight had been over winning at Xbox. Shit, the thugs he’d called family as a teenager were more likely to slit each other’s throats over a turn at playing the stolen Xboxes that’d been set up in one of several squatters’ paradises they called home.
Vladimir, Sergei...the spectators. They all assumed Sergei was fighting some good-for-nothing biker.
Not a boy who’d been weaned on his father’s fists.
Not a teenager who’d fought in alleys and fight clubs to earn a few bucks.
Not a man who had nothing to lose except his very breath. Nothing more.
Huntley. You’re going to lose Huntley.
With a trembling hand, he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.
Fuck. He was a dead man.
* * *
Huntley caught Stefan’s wave. No one, not even that smug jerk, could break her good humor. With a nod, she acknowledged him then turned back to attend the seemingly endless line, a rowdy crowd anxious to get brewskis in hand before this highly anticipated fight began.
The bar in the Hall was slightly elevated by a platform. So instead of men bellying up to the bar, th
ey were more at chest level. An awkward position, with really no comfortable way of hanging out at the bar. No easy way to chat up Hank’s girlfriend. Which led Huntley to believe the weird layout had been done on purpose.
It hadn’t kept Hillary happy, though. And she couldn’t have picked a better time to quit. Her loss. Huntley’s gain.
Perfect timing, to take notes on this “professional” bout, rumored to be the biggest match up the Hall had ever seen, with the big, obnoxious-looking beast Sergei, favored to win over some baby-faced boxer no one’d ever heard of. She’d focus on the punches, assess if there was anything more to pick up on, for her to apply, practice and perfect for New Year’s Belles Brawl.
Huntley knew her night was going to rock. Scores of men eager for drinks were knocking each other over to toss tips her way. Macho, aggressive men. With thick and loose wallets, all thanks to the air of violence making the average spectator a blood-thirsty participant. What she’d make tonight in tips would pay next month’s rent. Relieve some of the financial burden she’d been feeling, given that her shifts on Monday nights weren’t exactly raking in the dough. She still had money in her checking account to pay Bracken for training. If he’d stop brushing her off and take her money, she’d feel a lot better about the time he’d spent with her. She sighed. McBadass was as unmanageable as ever. A deal was a deal—whether or not she’d been sleeping with her trainer didn’t factor into it. Business, then pleasure.
Yeah, tonight was perfect timing for Huntley to have been promoted into the Hall. Perfect timing to witness the bouts, first hand. Maybe she’d learn a new move, and surprise Bracken during their next sparring session.
“I didn’t recognize the cold bastard, not lookin’ like a pretty boy...” The conversation stopped mid-sentence as Huntley approached with their beers. A chill swept up her spine, similar to the chill from the cold bottles in her hands. A pretty boy bastard?
“There’s something about the guy that has me betting he’ll win.”
His friend took a sip from his bottle. “That Russian Sergei, do you know what he does for fun? Kills people.”
His friend laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“No. I heard a few of the other Russian fighters talking about it. Strangled a man over a money dispute. If you ask me, it was a drug deal gone bad—for the other guy, that is.”
“No shit,” the second man replied, sounding impressed before tossing a ten on the bar.
“I think these guys are part of some kind of gang. Or mob, maybe. Bad news for the Hall. What was Hank thinking letting them in? Bet ya it was his dick listening to that bimbo of his calling the shots. Ya know, it was her responsible for those stupid pub tables.”
The guy looked over his shoulder, his words hushed. Huntley could barely make out his movements, her vision blurred by the panic that’d gripped her by the throat.
They stepped back, ready to move on, but Huntley grabbed hold of the nearest guy’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “Who exactly is Sergei fighting tonight?” she asked, her tone anxious.
“What, he didn’t tell you?”
“No...he didn’t.” Hell. No.
“I’da thought since he’s been training you...”
She placed her palms on the bar to steady herself. Why was she just finding this out? And from a stranger?
“For what it’s worth, I think that son of a bitch trainer of yours is going to win. Underdog or not. Hey, are you okay?”
Was she okay? No. No! His first official fight and he decides to go up against a rumored killer? A giant twice his size and quite possibly three times his weight. The Russian resembled a sumo wrestler, with less fat and more muscle, fewer teeth if you didn’t count the gold caps. And what was Bracken doing fighting when she was the one supposed to be in the cage?
The tension in the room echoed loudly off the walls of the Hall. A quiet yet nervous excitement that seemed to be growing by the second until it hit a crescendo more jarring than the horn that’d just rang out announcing the bout. She searched the cage for Bracken but he’d yet to enter it.
The line of spectators at the bar grew less friendly, more anxious to get their drinks before the bloodletting began. Huntley hurried to fill their orders, pausing a few times to scan the room for signs of Bracken.
She caught Hank’s nod, his grin of pleasure at the length of the line. A sign the bout wouldn’t begin until every man in the audience had paid for a drink. Smart business practices.
Huntley thought about slowing the pace, keeping the line of men waiting, delaying the fight until she could catch sight of Bracken. And do what? Kiss him good luck after nailing him for being so damned secretive? Truth of the matter was, she might know very little about him but one thing she did know? Bracken had nerves of steel. In his case, courageous was an understatement. Most importantly, he had a punch that could kill a man.
Underdog? To everyone except himself, the guy she’d served, and her.
Murderer or no, Sergei was in for a surprise.
As if sensing her thoughts, the horn blared. Both men had entered the cage, coming to the center as was custom. Two Russians, but not Sergei. Definitely not Bracken.
The crowd went berserk.
“Where are the fighters?”
“What is this goddamn shit? We came to see Sergei fight!”
Hank hollered into the megaphone, trying to soothe them over. Trying to stall, make more money off of the bar tab. “A five-minute preliminary bout. By either tap out or knockout. Let the fight begin.”
The tap on the Heineken keg sputtered. Crappy timing. Since Hank was too preoccupied fending off the angry crowd, hauling the keg from the back storage room fell on Huntley’s shoulders. After pushing truck tires up a mountain, this would be a cinch. Plus there was a hand truck if she needed it. Before the line could fully reassemble, Huntley hurried out the door and down the long, scantly lit hallway that ran the course of the Warehouse to the storage unit at the end. Jeez, if she wasn’t in training, she’d down a few beers herself. Liquid courage for the upcoming bout featuring a rumored murderer and the badass brute who’d won her heart.
The door to the storage room was halfway open, but as she reached for it, she heard voices coming from within.
She froze, and before the thought of interrupting them crossed her mind, a man spoke up enough for her to hear him.
“Sergei has his orders. That bastard is done.” Huntley’s heart skipped a beat. There was only one bastard they could be referring to. But it was that one word—orders—and the way the Russian had said it, his tone seething with hatred, that caused Huntley to pivot on her toes. It couldn’t be good, any way you looked at it.
Another man spoke, his voice low, hushed. “Good. Not sure if he’s caught on or not. Have Sergei crush the bastard to within an inch of his life.” Holy crap. Stefan. “Don’t kill him. Not yet. Everything’s in place. He’s got to take the fall when the bust turns rotten, just like Flagstaff. We’ll finish him off in Vegas. Leave his body at the Mayhem’s clubhouse with the rest of them. It’ll look like a war had been waged over the meth, with him having been the one leading it. And losing. A fitting end because that bastard hates to lose.”
The conversation knocked the wind out of her. What? Kill him? She had to warn Bracken. She had to stop the fight.
“Moy droog, I’m no fool. Vat the fuck, a narcotics detector? I voudn’t believe it. A bad ass. Pond scum. Vat else? But a copper, no fucking vay.”
“A dirty cop. A dirty, dead cop. Unless your fighter isn’t as good as you say.”
What? No. No way. No way in hell.
The Russian laughed. “You doubt my Sergei’s ability?”
“Just don’t underestimate Bracken. I provided you with the perfect setup.”
“After Sergei butchers him, he’s yours. Then ve’ll take a highway voyage to Vegas.�
�
“Yes. Finish up business with the Mayhem. While we’re pushing the meth out of the Warehouse, the cops will be pulling their heads out of their asses. And Bracken will take the fall once more.”
Vladimir laughed, the sound sending shivers down Huntley’s spine. “Termite them all. That’s your orders? Hello and goodbye?”
“Terminate. I want you to kill every one of those Mayhem shitheads. You have the Pitbull MC’s cuts? You’ve got to make certain it looks like the Pitbull bikers retaliated for what went down in Flagstaff. The cops are anxious to bust up both biker crews. This should do the trick.”
“You’re one smart cop.”
“You do this for me, you’ll get double...no, triple, the amount I promised you. Remember, the fewer people who know about this shipment, the better. Everything so far has gone exactly as I planned it.” Stefan laughed. “Like you said, hello then goodbye, you badass motherfucker.”
The conversation lulled. Huntley didn’t wait around to hear any more. Quietly, she raced down the hallway, her heart in beat with her steps. Once comfortable she was out of earshot, she sprinted the rest of the way but was forced to stop and squeeze past the walls of men by the cage.
Everything I thought I knew was a lie.
The Russians weren’t here for the beer and the bouts. They’d swarmed the place, readying to head off for a murder spree in Vegas. A hit on the Mayhem bikers, organized by a dirty cop, that asshat Stefan. They planned on bringing a shipment of drugs back to Reno for distribution. Is that what the Warehouse was being turned into? A drug distribution center? Did Hank even have a clue?
And the biggest lie of all? The one that cut deep and made her doubt everything they’d ever said to one another, everything they’d done? Bracken wasn’t a biker. He was a cop. An undercover cop. Deep within some kind of investigation involving money, drugs and murdering criminals. Was he even a fighter? Holy hell, was there anything about him that wasn’t an illusion?
You were just a part of his investigation. Just a means to an end. A pawn.
“I’m a liar, a first-class conman. Remember that,” he’d said.
Out for the Count Page 25