Blake frowned as though it was obvious. “He lives miles from where they found him. I doubt he’d been home after the fight, so odds are he had his bag on him.”
“What’s your point?” Aaron knew exactly what point he was making, but feigned confusion.
“Well, your blood would be all over that tape. If they have anything on file to match it to—”
“They don’t.” Aaron’s heart thumped against his ribcage, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral, to give nothing away. “And no, the police haven’t been to see me.” Not a lie. The SCTF weren’t technically the same as the regular police. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
Blake held up his hands. “Calm down. I’m not gonna fucking tell them anything. Just wanted to make sure they weren’t looking our way.”
“I have nothing to tell the police.”
“That’s right. You don’t.” Blake smiled, although it lacked sincerity, and he patted Aaron on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can stash your stuff.”
Aaron followed him inside, feeling more unnerved than ever.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Hey, Archie?”
Michael glanced round to see Rob beckoning him over to where he stood with a couple of guys.
Harry followed where he was looking and leaned in to whisper. “The bloke on the right is one of Smith’s bookies. Not sure about the other one.”
“Might as well go and place a bet.” He looked up at the fight currently taking place. It’d be over within the next round or so judging by the state of one of the fighters.
If this were licenced and legal, Michael was pretty sure it would’ve been stopped already, and he itched to get in there and break things up. He also missed the weight of his gun nestled against his side. “Who’s up next?” he asked, shaking off the naked feeling of being unarmed in a place like this.
Harry’s expression said it all.
“Aar—”
“Al Hunter. Otherwise known as theButterfly Assassin.”
“Thewhat?” Michael whispered, eyebrows scrunched together. “Why the fuck do they call him that?”
“You’ll see.” Harry grinned. “Go place your bet. Can’t see this one lasting much longer.”
“You coming?” He didn’t want to encourage Harry to gamble after Thursday, but they had to look the part.
Harry shrugged. “Yeah, okay. But I’m not betting on him. I never do.”
Fair enough.
Michael let that go, figuring it wasn’t the place to start that discussion.
The SCTF wasn’t short on cash, but Michael didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention, so he made what Harry assured him was an average bet on Aaron to win. To say he was eager to see Aaron fight was an understatement, and he struggled to rein in his building excitement.
This was still his job, no matter that lately it seemed to come with a few more perks than it usually did. He needed to focus on what they’d gone there for, not Aaron’s fighting technique.
A cheer went up, and Michael looked over to see one of the current fighters, bloody and bruised but with his arms held up in victory.
His opponent had to be carried out.
Michael watched them drag his semi-conscious body from the middle of the crowd. The sight left a nasty taste in his mouth. That was why these places needed to be shut down. Why Smith needed to be stopped, whether by the SCTF or by Miller’s lot. Someone had to put a stop to it.
Michael fully appreciated that by making this type of fighting illegal, they’d made it easy for people like Smith to throw safety precautions out the window. There were no rules or regulations he had to follow anymore. Michael didn’t make the law, but it was his job to see it upheld.
Harry’s nudge to his kidneys grabbed his attention, and he looked up in time to see the announcer step into the middle of the makeshift ring. The crowd didn’t exactly quieten for him, but the noise level dimmed considerably, more so than they had for any of the previous three fights.
