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“Only been here three weeks, and I already hold the top spot.” Mamba puffed out his chest. He’d lost his freedom, he’d lost his ride, but he was damn proud of his fighting skills. “Haven’t been beat yet.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Mamba waited to force Samson to speak first.
“We run a few nightclubs in Manhattan. High-end shit. The kind of places where celebrities and politicians hang out.” He dragged deep on the smoke. “We’re looking to branch out in Vegas and bring our ideas to Sin City.” Samson pulled a face.
Mamba couldn’t picture Samson in some high-end Manhattan club. He looked more like he belonged straddling a Harley while swigging from a bottle of beer or carrying out a hit on some unlucky sucker.
“And what does any of that have to do with me or underground cage fighting?”
“Used to be easy money back in the day, then the NYPD started cracking down, closing down our fight basements, handing out heavy fines, and even jailing a few guys. Not worth the bullshit, but we hated giving up the scratch.”
Mamba nodded. “I get that.”
“On one of our trips out here, I caught a fight in Vegas at the warehouse over on Valley View.”
“That’s where I fought.”
“Exactly. We liked the way you looked, knew you were hooked up with the Serpents, but when we got around to looking you up, your president, Cobra, told us you were down here.”
“He tell you why?”
“Gave me the short version.” Samson shrugged. “Like any story, I’m sure there’s more to it.”
Samson’s rough exterior belied his savvy words. The guy had been around, and probably had no trouble throwing a fist himself if warranted.
“And where do I fit in?”
“You got a following, you’re good, and you might be just what we need to get this started.” Samson stubbed out his smoke in the overflowing ashtray on Razor’s desk. “And there’s nothing like watching the money roll in when the deal is right.”
Mamba understood that. Before he hooked up with the Serpents, he’d been a top earner. Sure, he blew most of it on bullshit, but there was definitely money to be made.
“We’ve got a nice spot in Searchlight. We renovated an old-time western bar that went bust. The owner was looking to dump it, so we pumped some money into it, and we’ll advertise it as a dive bar. It’s a great stopover between Vegas and Laughlin and just enough off the grid that nobody pays attention when we run fights a few nights a week.”
“Sounds like you got it all figured out.”
“All we need are the fighters, and that’s where you come in.”
“Razor’s gonna let me go?” Shit, that comment transformed him from prisoner to slave.
“For a price.”
Yep, now he was a fuckin’ slave.
“You help us get this off the ground, and it’ll be good for all of us.”
“Cobra know about your plans?”
“Hit him up with the idea first. Thought he might wanna dip his fingers into it, but he said they got enough going on in Vegas.”
Typical Cobra, keeping shit tight.
“He knows you’re gonna be using me?” Mamba didn’t usually fish for information. Normally, he just spit out what he wanted or didn’t want, but maybe it was time to make a change.
“He knows. Says he’s still not ready for you to come back to Vegas yet, but he’s willing to let you ride again.”
Thank fuck for that.
