Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book Two)

by Thunderbolt, Liberty

  Tristan nodded yes as Bretten extended his own hand. “No hard feelings man.”

  He thought about what Brooke said regarding Tristan being pissed if he knew she told everyone about his dad, so he didn’t mention it.

  “I was on my way out so I’ll let you two talk. I’ll see you at the house tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be back. The Best Western is nice, but expensive.”

  Bretten brushed by Tristan and into the hallway. The door closed behind him and he was glad he only had to cross the alley to see Brooke.

  Chapter 18

  Harold could smell Eck’s rotten breath. It made him squirm. He tried to lean away. The midnight black Chrysler 300C had a large back seat, but the spiky haired bastard pushed toward the middle as Dean pulled out of the parking lot. It was like Eck’s hulking frame sat on his chest. Harold’s armpits were filled with sweat and he felt queasy.

  Only minutes before, he’d left his office with the two men flanking him. Each step offered an alternating swirl of emotions from terror to anger. He shouldn’t be in this position. Yes he’d royally screwed up, lost his wife, his daughter, his car, his life, but he’d been paying these leeches, he’d been playing the game. It was never enough though.

  He’d walked between the two mouth breathers in effect being led out of his office. He tried his best to maintain an air of comfortable confidence, to carry himself as he would if Eck and Dean really were clients and he really was on his way to a meeting, but his efforts proved futile. Who was he kidding? This wasn’t the case at all no matter how much he wished it so, and his colleagues weren’t stupid. Their eyes followed him and the curves of their curious faces showed that they knew something was off.

  Harold now leaned toward the Chrysler’s locked door and wondered what his co-workers were saying. Dean pulled into traffic and Harold couldn’t believe he was here in a nice car with leather seats and these two animals. He glanced at Eck out of the corner of his eye. Then he looked at Dean as the smug bald-headed dick fiddled with controls on the dashboard. “Where are we going?” Harold asked.

  “We already told you Harry, to meet Mr. Smith,” Eck said.

  “I know that, but where?”

  “Only a mile or so, don’t worry it won’t be long. You’re not using that damn GPS again are you Dean? You know where you’re going, right?”

  “Absolutely, but her voice is hot as hell.” He glanced back at Harold. “It’s even got the gold cloud anti-theft system. I’ll always know where my baby is.”

  Eck shook his head and rolled his eyes. He glanced at Harold and chuckled. “Hot as hell computer, he loves that damn GPS.”

  Even though he was smiling something about the look on Eck’s face shot chills through Harold, but he’d had enough of these arrogant jerks. He was terrified, but at some point a man had to take a stand.

  He didn’t respond, just gritted his teeth and stared out the window. He didn’t enjoy the scenery for long. Dean pulled into a half-full parking lot and eased the car into an empty space well away from the other parked cars.

  Harold looked at Dean, then Eck. “Well, are we going into this place or what?”

  Eck sighed. “You are the most annoying and demanding fool we’ve ever worked with Winstatt.”

  Before Harold could respond Dean said, “Yeah Harry, I don’t know what it is about you, but he’s right. You shouldn’t be running your mouth. You’re not exactly in a good position right now.”

  “Not in a good position? How can I not be in a good position? I’ve been paying. I’ve paid back almost every penny I borrowed!”

  Dean shut off the engine and turned sideways in his seat. He brought his left hand up next to the headrest on the passenger side. It held a gun.

  The harsh barrel edged over the leather seat and the empty eye, the dark hole where death was released, looked menacingly at Harold’s dumbstruck face.

  Eck chuckled. “Careful Dean, remember that scene in Pulp Fiction when Vincent blasted Marvin?”

  “Yeah, but hell, they were driving, we’re just sitting here, I’m not going to shoot poor Harry.”

  Eck smiled at Harold. “Do you have an opinion about the possibilities of Dean accidentally blowing your brains out?”

  Harold only thought he was terrified before. He’d never seen Pulp Fiction. He didn’t know these two fancied themselves to be something like the murderous Jules and Vincent, and he didn’t get Eck’s cruel joke.

  Dean laughed. “Good one Eck, if I remember right, in the movie Vincent asked Marvin if he had an opinion—”

  “Exactly,” Eck butted in. “The kid said he didn’t and then BAM!”

  Both men laughed while Harold’s entire body shook. He obviously wasn’t in any kind of position to demand anything and the gun in Dean’s hand demonstrated the point perfectly. He’d considered these men might hurt him in some way. He thought they might punch him, kick him, push him around, but a gun. Now reality set in. He could die.

  The hum of his electric window, not the firing of the gun, ended the horrid scene. He’d been staring at the mechanism of death so unflinchingly that he did not see the car pull into the adjacent parking space.

  He turned away from the gun and was met by Mr. Smith’s smug eyes and thick gray hair.

  “Hi Mr. Winstatt, how’s it going for you?”

  Harold tried to make words form. His lips moved, but nothing came out.

  “I’ll take that as not so good. What’s wrong?”

  This time Harold was able to answer. He glanced at Dean, or more specifically the gun, but it was no longer visible. His words came in a gush. “Jesus Mr. Smith, what’s wrong? What’s wrong is these two goons are threatening to blow my head off.” Harold’s voice cracked a little. “I’ve been paying, Mr. Smith. They have no right to do this to me. They think they are in old Vegas or something, I should go to the police and report them.”

  Mr. Smith listened, face expressionless. But as Harold said the bit about the police he raised his hand. “Now wait a minute Harold, it sounds like you are questioning the integrity of these gentlemen and that is quite hypocritical of you. You still owe me money, and you still have that boat of yours don’t you? Talk about a lack of integrity.”

  Harold couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Fine Mr. Smith, but this guy was just waving a gun in my face. What about that?”

  Mr. Smith’s eyes flashed with anger. “They are going to do what it takes to get my money, that’s why I hired them. And how about that boat?”

  “They threatened my family, set up a fake piano lesson. The bastards talked to my wife.”

  “So what you dumb shit. That’s what they do to people who try to dick me around. And they take pleasure in it when the offending person is as unlikable as you. Now answer my question.”

  Harold had forgotten about his current position, the gun, the two thugs whom he now shared a car with, he seethed. “I swear Mr. Smith, or whatever your real name is, you’re just like these two. You think you are in old Vegas too. You can’t do this to people. It is not the fifties anymore.”

  Mr. Smith leaned out his window and ran a hand through his hair. He grumbled under his breath and appeared on the verge of losing his composure. But before he spoke he calmed. “Old Vegas, you don’t know what you are talking about Harold. You’re just a loud-mouthed idiot in over your head, and because of that I’ve excused your asinine behavior, but I’ve had enough. Let me tell you Mr. Winstatt, old Vegas, new Vegas it’s a myth. Sure they’ve dressed up the town, made it family friendly, a vacation spot. But underneath it all, the city still operates as it always did. And you broke the facade, you entered real Vegas. It is a place you don’t belong. Again I ask, what about the boat?”

  During the diatribe Harold regained his own wits. He now spoke calmly. “I’m sorry Mr. Smith. You are absolutely right. I belong in Henderson with my family. And I’m not selling my boat. I will pay you the fucking money, but you and your goons need to stop harassing me.”

  Harold
was surprised that his words seemed to placate Mr. Smith. The man’s face relaxed, he even offered a slight smile. He took a deep breath and then looked into the car to Eck and Dean. “This guy, can you believe this one? Do you have your video camera Dean?”

  Harold didn’t understand the question, but it made Dean’s hard eyes sparkle with delight. “Absolutely.”

  “Then I am done with Mr. Harold Winstatt. He’s all yours.”

  There was no time for Harold to process the statement. He started to speak, but Eck’s elbow crashed into his left temple. The impact forced his head into the door frame and he let out an anguished grunt. Everything tilted, flashes of light streaked across his vision. He heard Mr. Smith’s garbled voice. “Bye-bye Harold, I’ll enjoy your boat.”

  The second elbow landed on the jaw. One of Harold’s teeth was knocked free and tumbled out the open window then clanged against Mr. Smith’s car. The blood poured from his mouth and he whimpered. “Stop, please.”

  Eck scoffed at the pathetic request and unleashed a barrage of hammer fists to Harold’s face. After the third Harold’s body went limp, his brain shut down, but Eck struck him a half dozen more times just for fun.

  Chapter 19

  Bear sat at Marshall’s, one of only two customers during the late afternoon hour. He hadn’t seen Marshall much lately because he’d been so damn busy. His phone rang and that didn’t surprise him. In one big gulp he slammed the rest of his beer and answered after the third ring. “Bear Haynes here.”

  “Bear, it’s Tony with SRV fights. We need Maris to step in next week.”

  “Really? For who?”

  “Mason Grimes, kid ripped a tendon in his arm. Sad really, he’s 9-2 and on a five-fight win streak. Injuries happen though.”

  “Shit, so you’re telling me you want him to fight for the belt against Davis?”

  “Yep, we know it will be a step up and he’ll definitely be an underdog, but it’ll also be a great opportunity for him...and you.”

  “Don’t underestimate him Tony. You saw the tape of his fight in Korea and now he’s been with Whit for a while.”

  “Oh I’m not, I know he can fight and I’m going to let Davis know too. No offense, but we want an exciting fight that ends with Maris losing. Davis is damn near a household name.”

  “I understand, but maybe it is time for Bretten Maris to become known.”

  “So I take it you’re in?”

  “Email all the specifics to me. I’ll go over it and call you with any concerns. Let me talk to Maris and Whit. I got a hunch that if you guys give us a decent deal you’ll be damn happy. With Maris stepping in you’ll still have one hell of a main event next week.”

  “Hope you’re right. I’ll get everything to you in a couple hours.”

  Marshall slid another beer in front of his friend as he clicked off the phone. “Well, what’s up?”

  Bear didn’t answer right away. First he slammed half of the fresh beer in a matter of seconds and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So...” Marshall added.

  “So, what’s up is your favorite agent just landed a title fight for Bretten Maris.”

  “A title fight! Is it in one of those small time shows though?”

  “Nope, SRV Fights in Dallas, definitely not small time. It’s not the UCC, but winning a title in a promotion with deep pockets could be great for business. That extra bit of leg work after signing Maris and Cortez paid off.”

  “SRV Fights, that’s the one owned by that businessman that has his own TV network right?”

  “That it is. Over ten million subscribers will have the opportunity to watch Bretten fight.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yep it sure is, and it takes a little bit of the sting out of last night.”

  “Uh-oh, what happened last night?”

  “My wallet became a whole lot lighter when the Lakers got trounced.”

  “Dare I even ask how much?”

  “Five thousand bones Marshall, but you gotta bet big to win big, right?”

  “Yeah, except when you don’t win, Bear.”

  Bear chose to take another drink instead of respond. Marshall was right, sometimes you lose.

  Chapter 20

  Dean said, “I love this soundtrack.” Harold swam in and out of consciousness and Dean’s words sounded garbled.

  “How could you not? Pulp Fiction is only the greatest movie of all time,” Eck said. “Put it on Son of a Preacher Man.”

  Harold’s head throbbed, he couldn’t see out of his left eye, and his mouth was filled with the distinct metallic taste of blood.

  Dusty Springfield started singing about walking with Billy Ray, the son of a preacher...the music dulled, became distant, and Harold was out once again.

  While he slept, Dean drove the Chrysler 300C out of Las Vegas and Eck hummed along to the music. They had an idea of their destination, not exact, but had been to the desert a few times before. A different spot each time, it made sense to spread them out.

  The sound of tires leaving asphalt for uneven dirt woke Harold once again. He was slumped, half way in and half way out of the seat staring at the door handle with his one good eye. Now the soundtrack offered Urge Overkill’s version of Girl, You’ll be a Woman Soon. Harold had a hard time hearing the words because his heartbeat was audible in his right ear. He groaned and rolled over.

  “Shut up Harry, we’re trying to listen to the music,” Eck said.

  He squirmed into a semi-seated position, “What, what’s...happen…?”

  Dean glanced into the back seat. “Damn Harry, you should take better care of yourself. You’re a mess. Don’t worry; we’re just taking you out into the middle of the desert where we’re going to leave you for dead.”

  With each second Harold was gaining alertness. “But I’m going to pay—”

  Eck didn’t let him finish, he turned and delivered a left hook that opened a gaping wound above Harold’s left eye and put him to sleep once again.

  “Dammit Eck, can’t you wait until we’re out of the car? You have to clean that shit up.”

  Eck chuckled. “It’s just a little more blood,” and then licked the bit of red juice that clung to his swollen knuckles.

  “You’re a sick fucker, just sick.”

  “I take that as quite a compliment coming from you. We’re probably at a pretty good spot, play the part where Jules does the Bible thing.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you Eck? It’s Ezekiel 25:17.”

  Both men settled in and listened to Samuel L. Jackson. “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides...”

  Dean pulled the car off the narrow dirt road, if it could even be considered a road. They were completely alone, no one in the world knew of their location. Before shutting off the car Dean let Jackson finish talking about laying his vengeance down. Dean had done his research and knew that the words weren’t exactly as it read in the Bible, but it was still cool.

  The desert breeze woke Harold’s limp body as he lay on rough sand. His clothes were removed and now he tasted a mixture of dirt and blood. His face hurt so badly, his mouth and tongue swollen. The sun delivered too much harsh light and he squinted against it. He rolled to his side and heard one of his killers say, “You charged the battery right?”

  “Yeah I charged the battery,” the other said. “Oh, look who’s awake.”

  Dean leaned down and eyed Harold’s battered face. “Really this is too bad Harry, I’m sorry it turned out this way.” His words dripped with sarcasm and the smile on his face suggested he wasn’t sorry at all.

  Harold tried to sit up, tried to talk, but Dean kicked him in the ribs as if he was blasting a soccer ball. Harold felt his ribs break and blood-tainted air rushed from his mouth. Then each breath offered pain and came in short rasps. His already battered brain almost shut down again due to lack of oxygen.

  “Nice Dean, were you a field goal kicker in high school?”

  Dean laughed. “Go ahead and cut him
, I wanna see what kind of fight he has left.”

  Harold didn’t see it, but Eck wielded a knife that he used to expertly slice the beaten man’s right Achilles tendon. The excruciating snapping pain was nearly intolerable. Then Eck moved up the leg. This time digging the knife into the meaty part of the calf muscle and twisting repeatedly. The blood spilled down Harold’s bare leg and stained the sand. He arched his back, but no anguished screams escaped his broken body. He just shook and offered a pathetic moan. He could barely see. He’d lost a tooth. His lip was split. His face was busted. His ribs were shattered, and now his right leg was rendered useless.

  Eck leaned down real close to Harold’s ear. “That’s it Harold. We’re all done here. Now get up and get out of here before we decide to end your pathetic excuse for a life,” then he punched him and kicked him in the side for good measure.

  Eck knew the man was as good as dead, but wanted to get him moving so Mr. Smith could enjoy a little action. Nothing was more boring than an anti-climactic death.

  Eck stood and made his way to Dean’s side. “Okay, go ahead and start taping. Let’s see what the little shit does.”

  Harold struggled to his hands and knees and started crawling. He groped his way through the desert. His vision was too blurry to guide him. Each movement was agonizing. The jagged ribs dug into his side so he decided to try to make it to his feet.

  His destroyed right leg made walking impossible. After only three steps he faltered, first to his knees and then to his stomach. The unforgiving desert sand pierced his tender skin.

  Dean kept the camera rolling as Harold inexplicably dragged himself in a big circle to the left. They watched as he crawled, then crumpled again. Finally, after a couple minutes of no movement the camera was turned off.

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “No way.” Eck looked at the sun as it sunk toward the western horizon. “Won’t be long though. The wolves, coyotes, and whatever the hell else is out here will get to him soon.”

  “Yeah look,” Dean pointed to the sky. Amazingly, a couple of vultures circled against the blue backdrop.