Wolf felt a bit miffed by this dismissal but let it ride. He wasn’t here to prove how tough he was; he was here to make a couple bucks.
And take a beating, although he was starting to have serious misgivings about this venture now.
I’ll just stay on defense, he thought. I got nothing to prove.
He also harbored no resentment against Storm. From his own ring experience at Leavenworth, Wolf knew the delicate balancing act a fighter had to perform. You had to maintain that level of confidence and belief in yourself, and at the same time deal with the natural anxiety of stepping up and putting everything, your body, your health, your prestige, on the line. This process included stoking your confidence with a combination of bravado and arrogance. You couldn’t afford to have friends or be courteous in the ring or the octagon. Not when the guy standing across from you was intent on taking your head off.
“Well,” Reno said. “He’s tougher than he looks. But just the same, Gill’s right. You don’t want to take chances at this juncture.”
Storm pursed his lips and shook his head. “I ain’t worried. Come on, let’s go.”
Gill grabbed his fighter’s arm and smeared a gob of Vaseline over Storm’s eyebrows, nose, and cheeks. When he’d finished Storm stepped through the open gate and into the octagon. Gill motioned for Wolf to step over and then applied some Vaseline to his face as well.
Reno yelled out someone’s name and a tall white guy in a sweatshirt came trotting over.
“Murph,” Reno said. “You up for doing some reffing?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Murph stepped through the gate and into the octagonal ring.
Wolf began to follow him and Reno grabbed his arm.
“You sure you want to go through with this now?” he asked. “Ain’t no shame in backing out if you don’t think you can handle it.”
Wolf watched as Storm danced about throwing punches and kicks, warming up. The display looked formidable.
“I’ve been through worse,” Wolf said, and stepped through the gate.
Reno was closing and securing it when Storm smirked and said, “Better not lock it in case I kick his ass so bad that he wants to run outta here.”
Bravado and arrogance, Wolf thought, suddenly feeling less like a man who was paid to take a beating and more like the guy who wanted to administer one. He smacked his gloves together and walked around the perimeter of the ring getting the feel of it with his bare feet.
Not having shoes on bothered him a bit, but it brought back memories of his Tae Kwon Do lessons in Tang Do Chon up by the DMZ.
Murph stood in the center and held up his arms.
“You guys ready?” he yelled.
Both Storm and Wolf nodded.
“Then let’s get it on,” Murph said, and dropped his arm. “The clock’s ticking.”
The clock was a huge, square time-board mounted on the wall above the highest rail of the octagonal cage. Two electronic displays, one labeled ROUNDS and the other MATCH LENGTH commenced with illuminated digital counts. Wolf moved forward holding out his left hand for the customary tap. Storm slapped it hard and then swung a kick onto the outer edge of Wolf’s left thigh.
The blow stung a bit and Wolf skipped back. Storm moved forward and began throwing punches, most of which Wolf blocked with his forearms.
This guy’s got power, Wolf thought, but he also seemed to be moving at an accelerated pace.
Wolf wondered how long his opponent could sustain it.
Storm stepped forward and threw a roundhouse kick toward Wolf’s head that missed then followed up with some looping body blows, one of which connected. Wolf threw his first punch in retaliation: a straight right that smacked into Storm’s face.
Storm took half a step back, then the outer edges of his lips twisted downward and he lumbered forward again, his eyes reflecting anger.
This guy was bigger and stronger than he was, so Wolf backpedaled in an arcing pattern letting the bigger man pursue him. Wolf knew that usually the guys with the overdeveloped muscles, the weightlifter types, tired quicker. So it was prudent to let the big guy keep slugging away and, hopefully, tire himself out. As Storm drew closer Wolf snapped a front kick upward into the other man’s abdomen. It felt like he’d just kicked a tree trunk, but Storm’s guard came down a tad and Wolf followed up with a left hook that smacked into Storm’s right temple.
Wolf was a little too slow pulling his arm back and Storm grabbed it, the sleeve of his sweatshirt providing nice purchase. Storm maintained his grip on Wolf’s forearm as he pivoted and used his right foot to strike the back of Wolf’s left knee to send him down to the mat.
The surface was padded but in this instance felt almost as hard as a paved street. Wolf tried to roll away, but Storm was on top of him in an instant trying to straddle him.
Time to wrestle, Wolf thought.
He managed to get onto his left side and put his arms up to block the series of punches that were now raining down upon his head. The obstruction of the headgear made it impossible to see the punches coming and Wolf felt several of them connect.
This is MMA, he thought. The ref’s not going to break us unless I can tie him up and neither of us can move.
Storm began landing punches on Wolf’s back and one of them strayed a bit low.
A kidney shot.
The pain radiated upward. It was a cheap shot, a foul, but Wolf wasn’t about to complain. He just hoped the blow had been unintentional.
Another pair of blows smacked into the top of his head and back.
No need to play the human punching bag, either, he thought.
With that, he reached up and grabbed the front of Storm’s sweatshirt with his left hand. Storm reached over and grabbed Wolf’s hand in his, trying to bend it into a wrist lock. Storm obviously outweighed Wolf by a substantial amount and was too heavy to buck off. Storm brought a hammer fist down onto the side of Wolf’s head, the helmet absorbing much of the impact, but also preventing Wolf from seeing the blow coming.
“Hey, Greg,” Reno called out. “Take it easy, would ya. This is a sparring session.”
“Fuck that,” Storm said, and delivered another hammer blow strike.
Wolf wound his hand into Storm’s sweatshirt and pulled the man’s upper body closer. Storm flailed away with two more blows and then tried to pull back. Wolf twisted, onto his back, which apparently Storm thought now gave him the upper hand. He cocked his arm back, but Wolf had worked his left hand up into the collar of Storm’s sweatshirt and then did the same with his right, crisscrossing his arms. He then applied a strangling technique, pulling both of his arms toward his chest and pressing the edges of his wrists to cut off the blood flow to Storm’s carotid arteries. Storm’s breathing immediately became labored and he began emitting a series of hacking sounds.
Wolf increased the pressure.
“Break ’em, Murph,” Reno yelled.
The referee stepped forward and tapped Wolf’s shoulder. He immediately released his chock-hold and anticipated that Storm would get off of him.
Instead of standing Storm, whose face was a bright red, took a few seconds to recover and then delivered a hard punch to Wolf’s head.
“Hey,” Murph yelled. “I said break, Greg, dammit.”
Storm cocked his arm again and Murph grabbed it and pulled it back.
This was enough distraction for Wolf to push Storm’s body away and at the same time shift his own form out from underneath him. He rolled away and staggered to his feet, wobbling to a corner and checking the clock. A minute still remained in the round.
Four minutes and I feel like I’ve run five miles, Wolf thought, and then remembered he’d done close to that on his roadwork this morning.
Dumb move. He gripped the crisscrossed wire of the cage wall and noticed a small crowd had gathered on the outside watching the festivities.
Looks like a lot of people are looking forward to seeing an ass kicking, he thought.
Reno was hobbli
ng into the center with his cane now and looked visibly angry.
“That was a cheap shot, Greg,” he said. “You oughta know better.”
Storm frowned and shook his head. “He cheated with that fucking choke. Grabbing my sweatshirt like that. Why, in a real match I wouldn’t even be wearing this piece of shit.”
“You know I don’t condone gym wars,” Reno said. He turned to Wolf. “You want to continue?”
Wolf felt fatigued but was getting his wind back.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I think I’ll get rid of this.”
He reached up and pulled the headgear off and tossed it away. It was sliding on his face and blocking his vision too much. It might have been effective for a sparring match in a boxing gym but for this MMA stuff, it was a liability.
“You can slip out of your sweatshirt, too, pal,” he said. “If you want.”
Storm glared at him and reached down yanking the garment from his upper body exposing a chiseled, heavily muscled torso.
The timer clock rang abruptly indicating the first round was over.
One down, two to go, Wolf thought.
He debated whether or not to slip out of his sweatshirt as well. Since he had a t-shirt on underneath it, he decided that would conceal his scarlet bruise well enough and slipped the sweatshirt off. He knew his arms were nowhere near as big as Storm’s, but neither were they matchstick size. Plus, Wolf knew he had the edge in speed.
The timer bell rang again and Reno walked out of the cage.
Wolf held up his glove for the sportsmanship tap but Storm ignored the gesture this time.
Sensing his opponent was angry, Wolf decided to stick with his original game plan of letting the other guy punch himself out.
Block and counter, he told himself.
Then the ball of Storm’s foot smashed into the outside of Wolf’s left knee. The blow could have done a lot of damage if it had hit him squarely, possibly causing a meniscus tear.
It was the third foul Storm had committed and the last one in Wolf’s estimation.
This guy deserves an ass whipping, Wolf thought, and snapped a quick jab into Storm’s face.
The bigger man brushed off the blow and moved forward with his arms semi-extended, obviously planning to dive for Wolf’s legs for another shooting technique to repeat his mounting procedure.
He’s more comfortable on the ground, Wolf thought. Like any wrestler would be.
Wolf danced away snapping a few more punches with his left hand.
The blows seemed to have little effect, but Wolf wasn’t thinking that they would. He was timing Storm’s approaches and watching how he lowered his arms in anticipation of initiating the shoot.
His left hand shot out again with trip-hammer speed, each jab a little harder than the previous one. Storm slowed for half a second, once again lowering his arms to do a front tackle, and Wolf drove a straight right into Storm’s cheek. In an instant, he twisted his upper body and delivered a left hook to the right side of the other man’s temple. He crumpled down to the mat.
Wolf would have been allowed by the rules of MMA to mount his foe and keep right on punching until the ref stepped in, but such a move was anathema to Wolf in a sporting event. He stepped away from his fallen adversary.
Behind him, Reno was yelling and Murph was running toward them. Wolf continued to the edge of the cage and watched as Gill ran inside and knelt beside Storm, who was now trying to rise on shaky legs. He shoved Gill away and managed to get to his feet, but looked wobbly.
“Get away from me,” Storm muttered. His eyes looked loose and unfocused as his head swiveled from side to side, then centered on Wolf. “Come on over here and let’s finish it, fucker.”
Wolf stayed where he was, saying nothing.
Reno stepped between them and held up his hands.
“This session’s over,” he said. “Greg, hit the showers.”
Storm’s jaw jutted out and he stared at Reno with a disbelieving look.
“No way, Reno,” Storm said. “That guy caught me with a cheap shot, is all.”
Wolf said nothing. His breathing was getting under control, and he remained ready in case the other man rushed him. Wolf planned to sidestep while delivering another straight right.
But he didn’t have to. Reno reached up and grabbed Storm’s head in both of his hands. He moved his face close to the other man’s and whispered something to him.
“No,” Storm said. “No I wasn’t. No way.”
Reno whispered something more, like a priest dolling out penitence to a confessor.
Storm’s jaw was still sagging and Wolf noticed that a stream of blood was cascading from the man’s billowing right ear.
With a pair like that, Wolf thought, he should’ve kept the headgear on.
Chapter Ten
Near Coy’s Auto Rebuilders
Phoenix, Arizona
Cummins lowered the binoculars and rested them on the steering wheel. He didn’t like being so close to McNamara, but at least, as far as they knew, Wolf wasn’t with him.
“He still in there?” Zerbe asked, snapping a freshly charged battery into the drone.
“I haven’t seen him come out yet,” he said and then watched as Zerbe lit up a cigarette.
They’d followed McNamara in the Malibu courtesy of the GPS tracker that Zerbe had planted on it earlier at the bail bondsman’s office. McNamara appeared to be alone when he entered the building.
“Well, keep watching. He’s probably going to pick up his own car.”
Cummins picked up the binoculars and held them to the lenses of his glasses. It made for an uncomfortable, not entirely clear view, and he wondered if he should try contacts like Zerbe had.
His glasses were as thick as mine, Cummins thought. And it would change my appearance a bit, too.
The large overhead of the main building next to the office area began to fold upward. After it locked in the open position, somebody drove a black Escalade through the door and parked next to the side door of the office. A guy in overalls got out and then McNamara emerged with somebody in a short-sleeved shirt from the office area. The two of them stood by the Escalade talking. The guy in the short-sleeved shirt was gesticulating and grinning. McNamara was smiling as well. Then they shook hands and McNamara walked around to the driver’s door of the Escalade and got in.
“Looks like he’s getting ready to move,” Cummins said. “A black Cadillac Escalade.” He read off the plate number.
Zerbe grunted an approval and made a few adjustments to the drone before setting it down next to their Lexus.
“Get ready to follow him at a safe distance,” Zerbe said. “And we’ll track him with the drone.”
Cummins was hoping Zerbe would toss the cigarette away before he got back in the car, but he didn’t.
No such luck, Cummings thought.
Mixed Martial Arts Fighting Academy
Phoenix, Arizona
“Hot damn,” McNamara said with a grin. “I guess I missed all the fun, huh?”
“Fun ain’t the word for it,” Wolf said. “But I got some money to put toward our bills.”
McNamara was about to speak, but glanced around and seemed to think better of it. The crowd that had gathered to watch the amped-up sparring session was still lingering about. Reno walked over to them with a concerned expression on his face. He nodded to McNamara and then addressed Wolf.
“I got Barbie cutting you a check,” he said.
“How’s Greg?” Wolf said. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
Reno shook his head. “He’s always had more muscle than brains. Gill’s in the locker room now convincing him to go to the ER to get checked out.”
“The ER?” McNamara said. “What kind of sparring session was this?”
“It got a little bit out of control,” Reno said, then looked to Wolf. “I ain’t blaming you, Steve. I know he fouled you a couple of times.”
Three to be exact, Wolf thought, but didn’t say anything.
“Yeah,” a familiar voice said amongst the throng of people still milling about. “I’d call it a first-class ass whipping.”
Wolf turned and saw the two FBI men, Franker and Turner, approaching. They had on loose-fitting windbreakers and Dockers on now, which must have been standard Bureau garb for the casual look. Franker had a broad smirk on his face.
“You learn to fight like that in prison, Wolf?” he asked.
“No,” he said. “In the army.”
“You’re a pretty brutal guy, aren’t you?” Turner said. His beard was so dark on his cheeks that he looked like he already had a five o’clock shadow even though it was only close to noon.
“You learn a lot of things in combat,” McNamara said. “Like how to survive and make the other guy hurt worse, but I don’t suppose either of you two snowflakes would know anything about that.”
Franker’s eyes narrowed as he looked at him.
“Looks like you’ve been engaging in a little combat of your own,” he said. “What happened to your head?”
“Your girlfriend closed her legs too fast,” McNamara said.
The FBI man’s face twitched a bit.
Wolf didn’t want Mac engaging in any verbal sparring with the two feds. Talking to them was always a no-win situation.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got a hot date with a cold shower.”
Reno was standing there in silence, eyeing the two FBI men.
“No wheelchair today, Mr. Garth?” Franker said.
“What are you guys doing here?” Reno asked.
Franker turned to him with an amused expression.
“We just came by to check out your facilities here. Nice place.”
“Yeah, thanks. Now if you don’t mind, this is my place of business and I’ve got work to do.”
“Where’d you get the money to open up a place this size?” Franker asked, looking around. “Lots of equipment. Man, those two rings there … Must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“I won a couple of big MMA matches,” Reno said. “Got me some money, so I invested it. Why?? Is that a crime, or something?”
Devil's Fancy (Trackdown Book 2) Page 16