AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He pinched his lips into a line, as if he was holding back. The one-minute rest period was about to end.
“Your father made sure you had a place to land.” He said, off-handedly, before rushing out of the octagon, and the bell sounded for the second round.
What the fuck? My father? He was a dead man.
I had only known him for four years after my mother died. He had drugs in his pocket and the police put a bullet in his head. At least, that was the official story. I wasn’t above believing that his drunkenness may have led to his execution as well, but he was most likely killed because of his occupation.
Morosov was up, bouncing on the balls of his feet in the middle of the octagon. If he had been a real fighter, he would have taken the time I hesitated–that moment when I was consumed by thoughts of my father–and pummeled me. But he didn’t. Because he still saw this fight as a cooperative endeavor.
It was time to disillusion him of that fact.
I lunged with a one-two combo, landing a cross punch on his poorly guarded chin. He almost looked offended that I had hit him. It made me smile.
I threw out a series of punches, testing his defenses, then landed a hook to his ear. A confused expression crossed his ape-like face.
I dove into his defenses, using my shorter stature to get past his arms where he could no longer effectively punch. I landed an uppercut to his sternum, felt the squish of his belly in the soft spot below his ribs, and struck a knee into his inner thigh that made him shout in pain.
I laughed.This is why they needed to rig the fight. The man was terrible.
I cut my eyes to Vasiliev. Concern furrowed the thin lines of his down-turned lips. He fisted his armrest as if he was about to push onto his feet.
I lunged down, grabbing at Morosov’s thighs and sweeping them out from under him. His knees went one way, his shoulders went the other. His head crashed into the mat. His arms, which should have been defending his most - or, arguably, least - valuable asset, his head, went flailing. I took the chance to mount him. Before he could get his hands back up, I was improving his face.
A right-handed punch landed on his nose. The bone gave way with a satisfying crack. Blood came out of his nostrils. My left punched his brow. His head swung back and his eye socket broke. My right hand knocked him back the other way. He lost the fight to stay lucid when my left fist landed on his temple.
The referee should really try to break this up now.But as it was with the underground, they were slow to stop a good blood bath.
Another punch, and his nose bent out of shape. Another, and he lost a tooth. His eyes were fading, his head rolled back on the mat. Another punch and the back of his head hit an odd angle. One more and his head bounced on the mat.
Where is the referee? Why is no one pulling me off of him?
Another punch, and his arms went limp. He was gone. Maybe even dead.
I got off of him, smiling at his bludgeoned skull. I glared at the referee who was stunned. His eyes darted to Anton Vasiliev, then back to me.
This mother fucker was in on it. The referee was taking instructions from Vasiliev.
I stepped toward him, and he stepped away. I gave him an “Oh, please” look, before I took his right hand, placed it on my wrist and made him hold my hand up as the victor.
I spat out my mouth guard. “You son of a bitch, be glad I won’t kill you.”
“I have a family…” He stammered. “I can’t go against the bratva.”
“Your family has a coward for a father.” I told him while I smiled like a beauty queen.
I dropped our hands, then let out a yell from my chest, screaming from the bowels of my body at the end of my fighting career, at the men who had made it so, and the unknown that lay before me. I screamed a barbaric cry of hatred at the people in the suits in the crowd who would rig the sport that I loved.
The referee was scared, making himself small against the chain link.
When I was through, I glared at Vasiliev, and bared my teeth. Then I brought up my gloved hands and flipped him one, then two, middle fingers.
He jumped from his seat and, with a twitch of his hand and a guttural yell, his men were spurred into action.
Two men went after LeBlanc, ready with fists to take him down. LeBlanc started to fight them. I hopped out of the octagon, forgoing the door and simply jumping over the chain link. Immediately, five bodies in black suits surrounded me. I punched the nearest one in the face, and he took several steps back. Another tried to grab my hair, but I punched him in the throat.
Throat punching, even in the underground, was forbidden. Which is why it was satisfying to be able to do it now. No one ever trained to do them, so I relished the feeling of being able to do a forbidden strike. It was so effective.
It was like I was playing whack-a-mole, punching anyone who got close to me as I started fighting my way down the aisle. People were screaming, and I could barely hear it.
