by John Dixon
“You know how we settled it?” Davis said, and looked up, streaming tears, a hideous grin on his face. “Rock, paper, scissors.”
Carl tried not to imagine it and failed. “You won?”
Davis shook his head. “I lost. He handed me the knife and laid down, and I told him I was sorry, and . . . I cut his femoral artery.” He patted his inner thigh. “It’s supposed to take fourteen seconds to bleed out . . . but it took a lot longer than that, because as soon as I cut him, I threw my hands on it and kept pressing, trying to keep the blood in.” His eyes went round with terror. “He was screaming, and blood was spraying between my fingers, and he was fighting me, trying to get my hands off. He just wanted it over, but I held on until the blood stopped spraying and he stopped struggling and I realized he was gone. That’s when I heard them laughing outside the cage.”
Davis broke down then, sobbing.
For a terrible, frozen moment, Carl stood watching. Then he gave the tall boy an awkward hug. “I’m sorry,” he said, but he was feeling more than sympathy. He was feeling rage.
Renewed rage. Rage at Stark, who’d started all this, who’d caused so many innocents to die, and who’d killed the innocence of so many others. Stark, whose island had killed Ross and ruined Campbell and changed Octavia and forced Davis to kill Sanchez. Stark, who had perhaps tricked Carl into killing, too. . . .
Davis sighed. “Guess maybe I thought becoming a medic, I might make up for the killing. Maybe someday, I could head back to the world, be a street doctor, you know? People got no insurance, guys with warrants, gangs—they need street doctors. Guess I thought maybe I could quit taking lives and start saving them.”
“That would be good,” Carl said.
“You could save lives, too,” Davis said, and gestured toward the door, through which Carl could hear his teammates laughing loudly. “Those guys need you, man. Go out there, tell them to shut up and watch. Tell them what to see, what to do tomorrow. Otherwise . . .”
“You can’t make a fighter in a day,” Carl said. “What you’re talking about takes weeks, even months of training. I can’t go out there, give them some pointers, and expect them to win.”
“I’m not talking winning,” Davis said. “I’m talking survival.”
Carl glanced toward the bed and felt ashamed, seeing the parka lying there white as a flag of surrender.
“You’re driving this car, man,” Davis said. “You take your hands off the wheel now, those guys out there are going to die. Reach down inside, find the guy who fought Decker and Parker. Find the guy who beat Stark.”
“I’m still that guy,” Carl said, and knew in that moment that he would not run, knew that he would not only help Tex and Agbeko but would also do the terrible things necessary to win this tournament. He had suffered so long to keep Octavia safe. Now that she had rejected him, now that she had a new protector, Carl no longer needed to go back to Phoenix Island. No, he didn’t need to—he wanted to. Anonymous phone calls would no longer do. He was going to go back to Phoenix Island and take out Stark himself. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go it alone, though. “We can still set things right.”
“Never happen, baby,” Davis said. “You help these guys, I spend the rest of my days saving lives, we still won’t make it right. We can never be clean again.”
True enough, Carl thought, remembering what he had to do to the Brazilian.
“We can never be angels,” Davis said, “but that don’t mean we got to be demons.”
Now, with the deep rage toward Stark filling his nostrils with ashes, Carl felt like a demon—or perhaps an avenging angel.
“I’m going to help them,” he said, “but first”—he pointed toward the door—“lock that. I have a lot to tell you.”
TWENTY-ONE
IN BOXING, one often fights friends. Sometimes, he hurts them. Stops them. Lessens them. Friendships change, losing former ease, but both guys move on.
This wasn’t boxing.
And the Brazilian isn’t my friend, Carl reminded himself, trying to get his head in the game. The thumping music and false applause certainly weren’t working.
The ref called the teams to the center of the ring.
Carl and the Brazilian touched gloves and exchanged nods.
“Boa sorte, meu amigo,” the Brazilian said. “Que vença o melhor.”
The teams separated.
This is it, Carl told himself. He was about to fight not just the Brazilian but also himself—or, more accurately, his selves, the opposite sides of his nature: the explosively dangerous rage always lurking within him, and his equally dangerous reluctance to hurt his opponent.
In the end, he would have to hurt him. Badly. He just didn’t want to maim the guy, pound his brains to oatmeal, or kill him.
We can never be clean again, Davis had said, and he was right.
We might not be angels, he had said, but that don’t mean we got to be demons.
If you destroyed someone good for a cause you deemed good, what did that make you? An angel or a demon? Or did it make you something else, some unholy hybrid of the two? Something like Stark, with his progress at any price . . .
“Be fast like a tiger,” Agbeko said. “Stay outside, my brother, and you will finish him.”
Good enough advice—the Brazilian’s victories had come via choke out and tap out—but easier said than done, without unloading on the guy. He had to wear him down, had to keep sticking and moving, even if it meant a five-hour fight. Eventually, the guy would tire or get frustrated and let his defenses slip. Then Carl would finish him with a hard body shot or a clean, measured strike to the head.
“Open,” Davis said, and shoved in Carl’s mouthpiece. Then he patted his shoulder, looking him in the eyes. Carl had told him almost everything the night before, coming clean about what he’d been doing and what he planned to do to Stark, but leaving out the chip and Octavia. It felt good not to be alone anymore. “All right, baby. You know what you gotta do.”
Carl nodded.
Tex said nothing. He’d barely spoken since losing his match. He stared through Carl into the past, back to his own match in this very cage hours earlier. His opponent, an MMA specialist from Haiti, had flattened Tex, taking him to the mat for a little ground-and-pound before forcing him to tap. Tex had lucked out in his first two fights, drawing a bye and a badly injured opponent, but the Haitian had exposed his lack of experience and talent, smashing all that smack talk into his face. To Tex’s credit—and to Carl’s surprise—he had talked no trash after the fight, made no excuses, and issued no threats. He’d just gone sullen and silent.
Agbeko held out his massive fist. “Pound it.”
Carl pounded it—first with Agbeko, then with Davis, then . . . but Tex was already leaving the ring—and then the ref called “Seconds out!” and the rest of his team exited.
Across the ring, the Brazilian bounced. He raised his fists into the air.
Carl shook out a loose combination.
The bell rang.
The world slowed—yet not quite as significantly as it had before. When the Brazilian feinted with a punch and shot for the takedown, he was smoother and faster than anyone Carl had ever faced.
Carl slipped aside, but the Brazilian wasted nothing and was immediately back at him, coming forward in a crouching attack with a high guard.
Carl backpedaled, jabbing, catching his opponent on the hands and forearms, doing nothing to slow his attack.
Keep the fight in the center, he told himself. Avoid the cage.
The Brazilian tried a low kick and two punches, but Carl again danced away—jab-jab—staying on his toes, and moved laterally, pleased with the big ring, the space it gave him to stick and move, stick and move.
Patience, he told himself, and dialed back his adrenaline. Break him down slowly.
The Brazilian shot again, and Carl felt a flutter of panic as a hand latched onto his ankle.
He twisted and yanked free, retreating once more to the center. Agb
eko shouted, “Hit him! Hit him hard!” and false applause exploded as the Brazilian attacked again.
More of the same. Jab-move. Jab-pivot.
Wait for a clean opening, he reminded himself, and do not get angry.
As the fight trudged on, the applause dimmed. Carl didn’t care. He wasn’t here to entertain. He was here to win.
The bell rang.
Carl went back to his corner, where he refused the stool but took a swallow of water.
“Why do you not hit him?” Agbeko said.
“Taking my time,” Carl said.
Davis, who knew exactly what Carl was doing, patted his back. “Nice work, baby.”
“You are playing a dangerous game,” Agbeko said. “Hit him hard and be done with it.”
Carl nodded, pretending to take it in.
The bell rang.
The second round played out like the first. So did the third. And the fourth. Carl kept moving, snapping out light punches, connecting mostly with his opponent’s hands and arms and shoulders before moving away again. The Brazilian kept hunting him.
He hadn’t been challenged like this since his duel with Stark. The Brazilian was fast and tough and disciplined, never giving up his guard or making desperate attacks. Here and there, he surprised Carl by making contact. A glancing punch, an almost-grab, the tap of toes meant as a sweeping kick. But thanks to the chip, none of these really landed, and Carl kept moving, kept peppering him with pitter-pat punches. He’d found his rhythm. It was different than his boxing rhythm, jerkier and with bigger movements—dodges instead of slips, leaps in place of pivots—and he realized that he was evolving, adapting to the sport.
The bell rang.
Carl again refused the stool. Davis told him he was doing great, and Agbeko shouldered the medic aside, urging Carl to punch harder.
Carl’s eyes swept the arena. He saw the Few, looking bored in their opera box. Good, he thought. You better settle in.
“You are letting him get too close,” Agbeko said.
“I’m fine,” Carl said. He glanced toward the bleachers—and saw Octavia sitting there, looking small and alone.
She came, he thought. She still cares.
He sharpened his vision. Octavia was leaned forward, her ponytail gripped in one fist. She stared with complete focus—not at him, but across the arena, at the Few. Strange . . .
The ref called, “Seconds out!” Davis shoved in the mouthpiece, Agbeko repeated himself, and Tex carted the spit bucket out the door.
The bell rang, ushering in the fifth round . . . which went the same as had the first four.
So did the sixth.
And the seventh.
The Brazilian showed neither fatigue nor desperation, but his forearms were red and swollen from Carl’s constant jabs. Physically, Carl felt fine—if anything, the rounds had warmed him up, putting his chip and body into even deeper sync—but he was distracted by Octavia, who continued to stare not at him but across the arena.
His back hit something, and he realized he’d unwittingly backed into the cage.
The Brazilian shot for his legs.
There wasn’t time to dodge or pivot. Carl sprawled, attempting to jam the attack, but the Brazilian powered through, latching onto Carl’s legs.
The bell rang.
“He is getting closer,” Agbeko warned between rounds.
“I’m okay,” Carl said, and glanced again toward the bleachers. Octavia remained fixated on the opera box. Not so much as a glance his way . . .
“Mix it up in there,” a gruff voice said, startling him.
It was the ref, a meaty-faced guy with a mustache.
“No, thanks,” Carl said.
“The Few came to watch you fight, not dance.”
Rounds melted away, mirroring one another. Carl continued to stick and move; the Brazilian pressed on, maintaining his composure and tight guard; Agbeko demanded harder punches; and Octavia kept staring at the Few.
Toward the end of the fifteenth, the Brazilian stumbled, lifting one elbow, and Carl fired. He was a bit off angle, but the hook still banged hard into the guy’s gut, and Carl felt the force of it ripple through his opponent the way a hard punch resonated through a water bag. The Brazilian stumbled again, instantly covering his body . . . and dropping a glove from his head.
Carl twisted, cocking the hook, and the opening was there, but in his mind, he heard again the echoing thock, held the punch, and instead shot for the takedown.
He recognized his mistake at once.
On Phoenix Island, he’d come to enjoy grappling, and sometimes, when he rocked somebody during sparring, he would take them down and force a submission just to mix things up, but the Brazilian wasn’t a Phoenix Forcer. He rolled with Carl’s takedown and kept rolling as they hit the floor, wrapping an arm around Carl and turning him in an amazing kind of midair horizontal hip toss that stunned Carl’s fast-firing mind—a real wow moment—then slammed him hard into the mat.
And the Brazilian was on him.
Fake applause roared.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Carl had forfeited his advantages. Out in the middle of the ring, the chip had slowed the fight, allowing him to control the gap, pick his shots, and skirt attacks. Here there was no gap.
The Brazilian moved over him like water, a rushing stream that drove him into the mat, then flowed over him in a flood of simultaneous attacks, the Brazilian’s legs and arms, hands and toes, head and torso all working in unison.
Carl tried to roll, to pull an arm free, to turn into him, anything, but the guy was fast and smooth, countering everything and breaking him down flat. This was the nightmare scenario, the thing to avoid at all costs. He’d blundered and plunged headfirst into the world of the submission artist.
He tried everything he’d been taught, but the Brazilian was everywhere. He was on Carl’s back, then he swiveled out and pounded Carl’s ribs from the side. Before Carl could even react, the Brazilian was on top of him from the front, and he felt a forearm slide across his throat.
Carl grabbed the forearm but couldn’t pry it away. Wild with desperation, he bulled forward, but the Brazilian simply went with the push, dropping over backward, pulling Carl with him, and wrapping his legs around Carl’s waist. The Brazilian cranked the choke, pulling Carl’s head in one direction while pushing his hips in the other. Carl tried to pull free, but the Brazilian had him. The world began to fade, darkening at the edges.
Do something, Carl demanded of himself, but he was stuck. His mind went fuzzy, and the strength flowed out of his muscles. Then he was gone. His consciousness fell forward, arching out of his forehead, dropping like a KO’d fighter toward the mat, where it hit with a ringing clang. . . .
He was facedown on the mat, aware of roaring applause. The Brazilian was no longer choking him, wasn’t even there anymore.
He’d lost. The Brazilian had choked him out, and the fight was over, and now—
“He has to stand on his own,” the voice of the ref said, and Carl looked up to see his teammates hovering over him, Agbeko waving for him to stand and follow.
Utterly confused, mind whirling, Carl turned and saw the Brazilian standing across the ring, taking a pull of water, staring Carl’s way and nodding at something his trainer was saying.
With the deep conditioning of any boxer who’s been there and back, Carl struggled to his feet. Blood flow returned to his mind, and he remembered the clang and understood he’d been saved by the bell.
Agbeko led him back to the corner, took him under the arms, and plopped him onto the stool. Davis dug out the mouthpiece and sprayed water into his mouth and over his head, asking if he was okay.
“I’m cool,” Carl said.
“Enough of this game,” Agbeko said, his voice panicked. “No more waiting. Hit him hard and knock him out. He is too dangerous. You can’t take these risks.”
“You used a contraction,” Carl said, smiled with amazement—Agbeko had used can’t instead of canno
t—and then laughed aloud, enjoying another of those crazy moments fighters experience when their brains fire on only three cylinders: he’d remembered the word contraction. His book-sniffing middle school language arts teacher would never have believed it!
Agbeko shook his shoulders. “Focus, Carl. You know what you have to do.”
“But you never use contractions,” Carl said, and even as he finished the sentence, the humor drained out of him. He shook his head, shedding mental cobwebs, and clarity flooded in.
You’re in a fight, he told himself. He would have choked you out, but the bell rang. And now—
“Seconds out!” the ref called.
Carl stood.
“Knock him out,” Agbeko growled.
His team fled the octagon, and the bell rang, and the Brazilian rushed across the ring.
Agbeko’s final words echoed in Carl’s mind, and he knew he was right. This guy was too dangerous. He should just . . .
His jab slammed into the charging Brazilian, splitting the man’s guard, and knocking his head back.
Carl saw the opening but remembered his hook crushing Alexi’s temple—thock!—and swiveled away.
He didn’t trust himself, wobbly as he was, to land the shot with proper force. He wanted to end the fight, not the fighter.
Take your time, he coached himself, dodging another attack. Don’t let what happened last round make you crazy. Find your rhythm again.
He was back on his bicycle, spinning away, jabbing, moving laterally, cutting away as the Brazilian closed, and popping him again. Jab to shoulder. Jab to the guard. Double-jab to the forearms. Crisper, snapping shots.
With every exchange, Carl came back to himself. Soon, he had his rhythm.
The Brazilian had finally slowed a little. Maybe he’d exhausted himself during the previous round, or maybe he was just taking a breather, readying for his next opportunity.