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She sat in stunned silence for several seconds. I didn't blame her. That was how I'd felt ever since that day. "But that wasn't you, Logan. You tried to stop them."
"But I was a part of it!" My voice cracked despite my best efforts. "I was the one who called it in. I was the one that didn't stop the enemy before they found shelter. We killed them, Grace! There are no excuses for that!"
I turned away, no longer able to look her in the eye. I half expected her to make an excuse and leave. In the end, it was this guilt that drove Fi away. She'd said she was there for me, but it was a superficial offer. She didn't really want any part of my torment. She wanted the carefree man I'd been before, the one that had died back in that desert. Once she understood that he wasn't coming back, she began looking at me differently. I couldn't stand seeing that sadness in her eyes, that tiny tremor of fear.
But Grace didn't react that way. I felt her arms embrace me from behind as she planted a gentle kiss on my neck. "I'm so sorry you went through that, Logan. I can't even imagine how horrible it must have been, but you can't blame yourself. You did everything you could."
I didn't know how to reply. My breath was coming in fits and spurts now, and I realized I was crying. I blinked hard, trying to will the tears away. I didn't want her to see me like this, so fucking broken.
"It's not just that day," I said. "How many other times did that happen without me even realizing? How many other orphans did our war make? Even if you ignore the civilians, soldiers have kids too. I just don't know how to justify it anymore."
She exhaled slowly, seemingly lost for words. What did I expect? What response is there for this?
"A lot of the stuff I saw over there, I'm never going to forget." I continued. "It's fucking burned into my brain so deep that I see it even when I'm sleeping. Even now, some days the guilt is so strong I just want to end it. That's actually why I joined Final Blow. When Charlie came to me and suggested putting me in the ring, I didn't do it because I wanted to fight. I did it so someone would put me out of my misery. That first night, I showed up at the cage after an all-day bender. I hadn't slept, I'd polished off a bottle of Jack and I fully expected the guy who was waiting inside to put me on the ground, but as soon as fists started flying, my body just went on auto pilot, and before I knew it, he was the one who was down." I shook my head. "Couldn't even get that right."
I felt the overpowering desire for a drink, that unquenchable itching at the back of my throat that set all my nerves alight. If Grace hadn't been there, I'd probably already have been out the door and sprinting toward the liquor store. But the feel of her fingers against my skin, that soothing contact, held me back. She was still here. I'd given her everything, and she was still here.
She brought a hand up under my chin, tilting my head up until I was staring her right in the eyes. There was such compassion there, it was almost heartbreaking. "Remember what you said to me that night in the alley when I asked you how you coped?" she said. "You can't take responsibility for other people's actions. You didn't force the enemy to take hostages. You didn't command any attacks or drop any bombs. All you did was follow procedure and try to keep your men safe. Your team may have been present, but that doesn't make it your fault."
I desperately wanted to believe her, but the memories and tears were coming thick and fast now. Some things you just can't rationalize, no matter how logical they seem.
"I guess it's a case of do as I say and not as I do then, isn't it?" I managed to choke out.
"That's not good enough. You need to forgive yourself, Logan. You're a good man. Maybe the best I've ever met. You put your life on the line to try and make a difference. You went above and beyond the call of duty to help me, and you didn't know me at all. Those aren't the actions of a monster. They're the actions of a hero."
"A hero would have done something more."
We didn't speak again for the rest of the night. In spite of how raw the conversation left me, I was glad we'd had it. She had all of me now, all of the chaos and the anger and the guilt, and she hadn't flinched. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve her — in fact I was
damn near positive I didn't — but now that she was mine, I was going to make sure she stayed that way. Nothing was going to take her away from me.
Chapter Sixteen
Logan
Two days later, I was due back in the ring. My opponent was a local guy named Brock, an amateur who was a plumber by day. We'd fought once before, and I had won. From what I'd seen he was improving and would probably put up a good contest, but after the daunting prospect of taking on Caesar, it was a bit of a letdown. Still, I threw everything I had into my preparation. I wasn't one for half-assing things.
The morning of the fight, I woke with the familiar tingle of anticipation in my stomach. I love that sensation, like there's a potent electrical charge raging beneath my skin. It would be there for the entire day, heightening everything. Booze and drugs have nothing on that high. I went through my usual preparation, two light training sessions followed by some alone time in the gym as night fell. A lot of fighters like to psych themselves up with aggressive music before stepping into the ring, but I've always preferred silence. I already carry around all the aggression I need inside me. Calmness and focus is what I'm lacking.
At just before eight o'clock, I headed out behind the bar and into the fighters' room. It wasn't much, some dented lockers and a couple of hard wooden benches, but it did the job. Brock was already inside, preparing, when I arrived. We nodded to one another, but didn't exchange any words. That was normal. Ordinarily, most of the Final Blow guys were friendly enough, but on fight nights, everyone turned into the strong silent type. It's kind of hard to hold a conversation with someone who you'll be attempting to knock unconscious in a few minutes.
I began my warm-up, which mostly consisted of a series of rapid body weight movements — think television aerobics on steroids. A lot of people are still under the impression that the best way to warm up for exercise is with static stretching, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Stretch an elastic band too much, and it loses some of its spring. Muscles are the same way. If you're going to be doing anything where power is a factor — punching, throwing, swinging a bat, running, basically any form of sport — then you want your body to have all the elasticity it can. That's how you generate force. My goal when warming up is to get my blood flowing, my heart pumping and my muscles warm.
I did that for fifteen minutes, and then my name was called. A surge of excitement hit me. It was time.
The lights in the arena were almost blinding. I walked out across the floor and up into the cage, the roar of the crowd swelling like a jet engine in my ears. That noise tweaked something deep in the back of my head, but I forced it away. There was nothing to be scared of here but the man across from me. I knew what I was here to do.
My eyes went instinctively to the bar, to Grace. Just seeing her was like a fresh shot of adrenaline. She flashed me a nervous smile and then gave a little nod of encouragement. It was strange having her here. Fighting had always been so personal for me but, for the first time, I actually felt the urge to prove myself to someone else. This was me in my purest form. This was what I did best, and I was going to put on a show for her. I found a smile of my own and winked at her, and some of the tension visibly bled from her muscles.
The crowd cheered again as Brock stepped up to join me. He was always an entertainer and was well liked around these parts. As we went through the pre-fight ritual, I took the time to study him, running through what I remembered from our previous fight. He was a few years older than me and a few inches shorter, with hulking shoulders and the kind of stocky frame that is much more powerful than it looks. His fists weren't all that dangerous, but if he could get me on the ground it might spell trouble. He also had a penchant for flashy kicks, which was something I planned to use against him.
Charlie finished his speech. Brock and I touched gloves, and then the bell sounded and the world faded to a dull blur around me. There was just him, me, and thirty feet of canvas. He came in fast, launching himself at me with a rapid series of punches which I easily blocked and evaded. That sort of vicious opening told me he was really feeling the adrenaline tonight. I countered with my own attack, a string of lightning fast jabs designed to probe more than damage. He raised his guard, taking them on the forearm, and then darted backward. He didn't look rattled at all, which was impressive. If anything, he was quicker than I remembered.
With the initial formalities out of the way, we began circling one another. I continued to test him, searching for weaknesses, using my superior reach to keep him out of his comfort zone. We traded punches. None of his connected with any force, but I landed two good rights on his chest. That took some of the wind from his sails, but he kept coming, responding with a stinging kick to my upper thigh that sent a shock rolling through my body. There was a determined glint in his eyes, a kind of hunger I rarely saw in my opponents. Something primal stirred inside me. This was a real contest.
He advanced again, trying to crowd me, fists tearing through the air as I ducked and wove and defended. He knew his best chance was to find an opening and take me to the mat, and I foolishly gave him one. I put too much into my counter attack. Maybe I was trying to end it then and there, I'm not sure. In any case, I extended too far, my strike shooting out over his head as he dove in low. He slammed into me, knocking me to the floor, tangling his body around mine. The impact drove the air from my lungs.
The next minute was as intense as any in the fight. Ground work doesn't appear particularly exciting at first glance, more like a casual embrace than a vicious battle, but it's actually an intense contest of strength and technique. The goal is to get your opponent into a body lock, applying pressure either to one of their joints or their neck, forcing them to concede the fight. Even the tiniest mistake can give the opponent the opening that they need, and if you don't tap out fast enough, it can lead to serious injury.
