Knuckles

by Patrick Logan

  Glynn was having none of it. He shoved one to the ground, and then drove his first into the belly of the other, sending him wheezing to his knees.

  “Tony!” Glynn shouted over his shoulder so loud that Coggins’s ears hurt. “Tony, get the fuck out here!”

  Evidently, the boxing match hadn’t gone as planned.

  So this is why he needed extra security.

  From the woodwork spilled more of Tony’s men, identifiable by their long black trench coats. Coggins moved backward, trying to stay out of the way, all the while observing the scene with a strange fascination.

  It appeared at first that Tony’s men were only trying to break up the fights between the bikers and the Mexican gang members, but these efforts were for naught. Before long, their interference was noted by both sides and these men, so very outnumbered, became the target of the audience’s fury.

  Glynn was fighting off three men at a time now, driving his meaty fists into any soft, sensitive parts of their bodies that he could find, when the man surprised him by having the peace of mind to turn to him.

  “Get out of here, Coggins!” Glynn yelled. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  Coggins was dumbstruck, confused as to how things had degenerated so quickly.

  What the fuck am I doing here?

  A noise from behind him drew his attention, and he turned to see Tony and Yori burst from the office, their faces etched in matching frowns. Seeming not to notice him, Yori reached into his waistband, his long, thin fingers wrapping around the butt of his gun. But before he could pull it clear, he was cold-cocked by a short Mexican, and he stumbled sideways into Tony, who only just managed to keep them both upright.

  A beer bottle whizzed overhead, and Coggins ducked just in time to avoid being brained.

  His heart was pounding in his chest now, and his blood rushed in his ears.

  I don’t belong here… I don’t belong here… I don’t fucking belong here…

  He moved against the back wall, pressing his spine against the cool surface, hoping that he was now hidden in the shadows.

  I should call Whitey, get him up here, diffuse this situation before… before… what?

  Two bikers came between him and Tony and Yori, who were still occupied by the Mexicans who had been waiting for them to come out of the office.

  Before someone is murdered.

  Any idea of speaking to Tony now long forgotten, Coggins slid silently toward the entrance, trying to keep his breathing in check.

  The body of a man was suddenly launched in his direction and his back slammed hard against the concrete wall just a foot in front of him. The man’s shaved head slammed against the unforgiving surface, and his eyes instantly rolled back in his head. As he slumped unmoving to the ground, he left a smear of blood from the point of impact to the floor.

  Coggins swallowed hard and slunk around him as quickly as possible. His own knuckles throbbed, reminding him of the beating that he had dolled out less than forty-eight hours ago.

  How did I get here? How did I go from battling the blizzard and the—coooooome—creature that Dana Drew had become? To being part of a brawl between bikers and gangbangers and wannabe mafia? How the fuck did I get here?

  Coggins shoved an off-balance biker out of the way, and then broke into a run, avoiding slumped bodies and bottles that now rained through the air like heavy confetti.

  He sprinted toward the door, slipping by a morbidly obese man with copper-colored skin who was standing off to one side, a queer expression on his face.

  Then he pulled the door wide and slipped into the night just as the first shot rang out.

  I’m sorry, Alice. I’m so sorry.

  Chapter 20

  Chris Davis was smiling up until the point when the first shot rang out.

  “Jesus fuck!” he swore.

  Although he didn’t see where the shot had come from, he instinctively ducked, and this in all likelihood saved his life. Something whizzed over top of his head, seemingly to part his short black hair. He turned, falling onto his ass in the process and saw a biker just three feet behind him stagger, a red spot blooming on the front of his jean vest. Another biker tried to prop him up, but one look at the blood stain, and he dropped him to the floor and bolted out of sight.

  Something struck Chris from behind and sent him sprawling onto his stomach. With only one hand to brace himself, his chin smacked hard off the concrete floor, and pain shot up his broken arm.

  Get out! Get out of here! His mind screamed. You need to get the fuck out of here!

  A man with wild eyes and a short red beard rushed by him, and he pushed himself to his knees just in time to avoid being hammered against the wall.

  “Fuck,” he swore, trying to remain low. On his hand and knees, Chris scrabbled across the floor like some sort of wounded crab, trying desperately to avoid being kicked or punched or shot as he made his way to the door.

  The man with the red beard who had passed him moments ago slipped out the door and vanished into the night. Fueled by actually seeing someone escape the mayhem, he redoubled his half-crawl efforts and by some miracle made it there without being struck again.

  Breathing heavily, Chris grunted as he managed to clamber to a squatting position and was about to stand when something large blocked his way.

  It was as if someone had plunked a boulder down in front of the door, trapping them all inside.

  Chris slowly raised his eyes, sweat dripping down his forehead.

  A huge man, one of the like he had never seen before, with smooth, bronzed skin, and dark eyes, stood before him.

  And the man was laughing, a horrible, deep rumbling sound making his massive gut quiver and shake like a congealing bowl of oatmeal. Two bikers appeared at his side, their thin lips twisted into sneers.

  “Sabra,” one of the men said to the mountain of a man, “we should get out of here. Things are set. Tony won’t get out of here alive—the cartels will see to that.”

  Chris, amazed that his presence had somehow gone undetected, rolled to one side, ignoring the pain in his arm and back.

  The big man shook his head, his chin shaking like rooster waddles.

  “No,” he said simply. “We aren’t leaving yet.”

  One of the bikers shoved a man trying to get to the door to the ground.

  “What do you want us to do?” he asked. Considering the chaos around them, the conversation seemed unusually calm, and this made Chris even more uncomfortable.

  The man’s response, immediate and decisive, only served to simmer this sensation.

  “Kill them. Kill them all.”

  Chris had heard enough. Figuring that he was going to die either way, he decided that he would do so on his own terms.

  He leaped to his feet and started to sprint. Knowing that his only chance was to find another way out, he kept his eyes straight ahead as he passed the fat man and his entourage, expecting a hand to reach out and either grab him or spill him to the floor.

  To his surprise, neither happened.

  But it wasn’t just this ‘Sabra’ that he had to avoid. The entire gym had become a brawl, and the floor was slick with spilled blood. Thankfully, the single shot that had whizzed overhead minutes ago had been the only one, and this fact alone had kept the audience for stampeding. Tony’s men had searched everyone coming into the gym, so Chris’s only hope was that it was one of them that had fired and that others hadn’t managed to sneak any by them.

  Still, he wasn’t hanging around to investigate.

  Chris kept moving, switching to all fours when he had to. He wasn’t sure how he ended up in the locker room, but in less than a minute he found himself there, breathing heavily in the harsh light, sweat pouring down his face, stinging when it hit the cut on his chin. He brought a hand to his forehead, and it came back tacky with blood, but upon further inspection, he realized that it wasn’t his.

  Exhausted, he slid around the backside of the lockers, trying, and failing, to draw a full brea
th.

  I have to get out of here… I have to get out of here… I have to get out of here…

  Any thoughts of the money he had won by betting on Peter with everyone else tipped off that he would throw the fight had long since vacated his mind.

  Money and power were typically at the forefront of his brain, but this was superseded by something more primitive: pure survival.

  Chris froze when he heard someone fall into the room, followed by a grunt and then smashing glass. When there was no further movement for several seconds, he peeked around the lockers and saw the waitress in a heap on the floor, the tray pressed against her chest, her black blouse soaked with spilled beer.

  She was unconscious.

  He was debating going to her, but a man suddenly barged into the room, and Chris was once again locked in place.

  The man’s face was so badly bruised and bloodied that it was nearly unrecognizable. His first thought was that it was one of the bikers, but there was something about the way his left eye was completely swollen shut that gave him pause.

  A glance at his bare, muscular chest sealed it: it wasn’t one of the bikers, but Peter Glike.

  Chris knew that the smart move was to remain silent, out of sight, but like many of his decisions that day, he opted for the alternative.

  Maybe it was that he felt sorry for the man, for being stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place.

  Or maybe it was the guilt knowing that this was only the beginning for Peter, that when the cartel found out he had lost the heroin—the heroin that Chris had stolen and used to bet on him—things would get a lot worse.

  Whatever the reason, Chris stepped out from behind the lockers and went to Peter, wrapping his good arm around his waist.

  Peter didn’t resist; instead, he actually leaned against him. It was clear that the beating he took extended beyond the physical.

  Together, they limped back around the dark blue lockers, once again out of sight.

  Neither man spoke, using the momentary reprieve from the violence and bloodshed to try and catch their collective breaths. Together they slumped to the floor, their backs banging up against the metal lockers.

  Chris wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but the gym behind them seemed to quiet over the next few minutes, presumably as men were either beaten unconscious or some semblance of order had returned to the gym outside.

  Maybe both.

  But this didn’t last long; the silence was suddenly broken by a shout not ten feet behind them.

  “Peter! Peter fucking Glike! You messed up big-time, Peter!”

  Tony burst into the room, moving quickly around the lockers. Usually calm irrespective of the circumstances, Tony’s face was beet red, and there was a large, bloody gash running across one cheek.

  And he wasn’t alone: he was flanked by two men in trenchcoats.

  “Third round, Peter! You were supposed to go down in the fucking third!” Tony was fuming, a white paste forming at the corners of his mouth. “I saved you, Peter! I fucking saved you and your delinquent father!”

  Chris half-hoped that Peter would get a second wind and rise, saving them from what was to come. But the man’s only response to Tony was to slump harder against him.

  Peter had given up.

  Pain shot up his broken arm with the added pressure, and Chris failed in suppressing a grunt.

  Tony’s blazing eyes turned on Chris then.

  “And you, you—” Tony took a large step forward, but nearly lost his footing.

  Tony swore, and one of his men grabbed his arm. He shrugged him off, then kicked at whatever he had slipped on. His gaze dropped, and then he bent down and picked something up.

  Chris’s heart dropped into his stomach when Tony held a bloodied dollar bill in his fat fingers.

  “You used your fucking counterfeit money here? Here? In my fucking gym?”

  Still screaming, Tony lunged at them, taking even his two bodyguards by surprise. Chris shrieked and tried to cower out of the way, but he was unable to move more than an inch with Peter leaning against him.

  Tony’s shoulder drove into Chris’s stomach, forcing the air from his lungs.

  The lockers behind them rocked, and for an instant, Chris feared that they would topple.

  They didn’t.

  Instead, they rocked forward, throwing all three of them onto the ground. Chris used this momentum to try to turn over, to scramble away, but Tony grabbed him by the collar and held him firm.

  He raised his fist high above his head, and screamed into his face, “I should have never let—”

  “Wait!” Chris cried, bringing his hands up to protect himself. “Tony, wait!”

  Tony hesitated before raining down punches.

  Chris struggled to catch his breath, and when he finally did, staring up at Tony’s blazing eyes, he played his final card.

  “There’s someone in your organization, someone working undercover!”

  Tony’s face went slack and Chris nodded vigorously, waiting for the last possible second to reveal what he had heard behind the cafe.

  “He’s working for the police! The fucking FBI! Tony, it’s—”

  But Chris never got the words out. Instead, a shout from behind Tony caused them all to turn.

  “Tony, you better get out here,” a red-faced man in a trenchcoat yelled into the locker room. “It’s Sabra… Sabra’s here and we’re fucked.”

  Chapter 21

  Dirk had no intention of getting involved, but his hands were forced. A fist plowed into his midsection, and in the split second before the signal reached his brain, he lashed out, delivering a punch to the bald crown of someone’s head. The man toppled, and Dirk doubled over in pain, both from the punch and from a shattered knuckle.

  As he bent over, wheezing, something struck him in the back of the head and he stumbled forward, stars exploding across his vision. Before going down, Dirk managed to turn and got his hands up in time to deflect a second blow from what he now saw was a piece of wood. He shoved it to one side, using the man’s momentum against him, and he went sprawling.

  Something else dawned on Dirk as he managed to get back to his feet, fighting the dizziness from being struck by the piece of wood.

  The man who had hit him was a biker. Tony had his own crew, who he preferred to use, but Dirk knew that he also occasionally used bikers when he needed a little extra reinforcement.

  As the man righted himself and started to turn, Dirk receded into the shadows, looking around as he did.

  With all of the fists that were flying, it was hard to tell, but he thought that there were bikers fighting Tony’s men in trenchcoats, bikers fighting bikers, and the Mexicans seemed to be fighting everyone.

  What the fuck is going on here?

  This was way more than he had bargained for—he was supposed to go undercover and stop a low-level drug dealer from spreading heroin in the tri-county area. But this… this was some sort of turf war. A deadly turf war.

  His eyes fell on the name etched on the back of several of the biker’s jean jackets: STEEL KNIGHTS.

  He racked his brain, trying to recall why the name sounded familiar.

  And then he remembered why: the Steel Knights were affiliated with a major player in the drug game further south.

  Sabra Gianopolous.

  The man with the hunk of wood lunged at him then, but the strike was clumsy and Dirk easily slid out of the way. As the man stumbled by, Dirk shoved him from behind and the man’s face smashed into the concrete wall.

  He collapsed onto the ground, holding his nose and the fountain of blood that spurted forth.

  Dirk quickly looked about the gym, trying to find the path of least resistance to the door. Eventually, his gaze fell on the locker room toward the side of the gym, and while he initially skipped over the scene, something drew his eyes back a second later.

  He made out Tony’s unmistakable figure despite having his back to him, hovering over another man, one whom Dirk had
seen one time before.

  The cowering man had been standing outside Tony’s office when Dirk was about to approach Peter about throwing the fight.

  Tony looked as if readying to rain down punches, but then the man with the dark hair beneath him shouted something and he hesitated. Then Tony turned, and unbelievably, through the crowd of people fighting, his gaze fell directly on Dirk.

  Time seemed to slow, pause even, and when Tony backed away from the man on the ground, more of the scene revealed itself to Dirk.

  What the fuck…?

  Peter Glike, his face resembling ground beef, was slumped on the floor in the locker room.

  And then Tony, eyes still locked on his, came for him.

  To this day, Dirk doesn’t know why he didn’t turn and run at that moment. After all, the look on Tony’s face was one of sheer rage, and given the fact that he was undercover and the way he had stopped after the man on the ground shouted something, it was clear that the gig was up.

  But Dirk didn’t run, instead, he was remained rooted in place, watching in mixed horror and fascination.

  Tony exited the locker room and strode toward him. Two men in trenchcoats suddenly appeared by his side, clearing a path for Tony by shoving anyone in the vicinity out of the way. And then it was as if the fighting men separated, like the parting of the Red Sea, giving Tony a direct path to him.

  As he closed the distance between them, Tony slipped a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number, saying something short before hanging it up again. Then he pulled a nine-inch switchblade from inside his jacket.

  Only after seeing the harsh light glint off that blade, coupled with the expression on Tony’s face, did Dirk start to look around for a weapon, searching for the hunk of wood that had struck him not minutes earlier.

  But it was too late.

  A thick forearm slipped around his throat and squeezed tight, cutting off his air supply. Dirk tried to claw at the arm, but his movements only caused it to tighten.

  It was one of Tony’s men—it had to be.

  And then the man himself was upon him.

  “I told you that once you are in, you’re in!” the man shouted. “I fucking warned you!”