And then it’s over.
Nobody noticed.
But Pierce noticed.
I see the smirk on his lips, the glint in his eye.
We’re going to get out of this yet.
I know it.
“Ready?” Fallon calls, and he motions at the two fighters in the cage.
There’s Pierce, body tight, lean, not an ounce of fat on him. His veins bulge. His eyes blaze.
Across from stands the Russian, big, burly, a gigantic redwood of a man with enough heft to break through a solid concrete wall.
“Are you?” Pierce asks, looking at Fallon, but I know that he’s talking to me. His eyes flick to me for an instant, and I nod at him.
“Jesus Christ, mate,” Fallon says, laughing. “You’re bloody unbelievable.”
Pierce levels his eyes at his opponent. “Ready, Anton?”
The Russian gives Pierce a single, deep nod, and that’s when I see it on the top of his head, a huge scar running right down the center.
“What happened to his head?” I ask Fallon.
“He split it open in a fight. His skull.”
“Holy shit.”
“He finished the fight, too. Won.”
“Are you serious?”
Fallon turns around. “Dead serious. Blood was squirting out his head like a fucking fountain. It was one of the best fights I’ve ever seen. It was on the tape. Didn’t Pierce show you?”
I don’t answer him.
“Not looking good for your boy.”
I meet Fallon’s eyes. “Even with his foot he’s still the better fighter.”
“Get the fuck on with it already!” Fallon yells. He gestures at the Russian mobster, a tiny man, standing on the other side of the cage. He’s got goons with him, too, men in suits and sunglasses.
Pierce moves forward, and I notice his limp is gone. He’s not showing his weakness, even though it’s obvious. He’s not going to give his opponent any perceived upper hand.
He taps fists with Anton, and then they back up, and begin circling each other. I notice there is no ref, no doctor. This seems like a fucking cock fight… to the death.
Anton lunges first, covering enormous ground with massive strides. He kicks Pierce in the shin, sends Pierce stumbling backward, crashing into the cage.
But he pushes off the steel mesh, jumps off his hurt foot and punches Anton on the top of his head. Anton reels, shaking off the hit, rubbing his head and grinning.
This doesn’t seem like a disciplined fight. They look one moment away from just wailing on each other.
The Russian lunges again, and he wraps Pierce up, lifts him off the ground and squeezes. They’re wrestling, not fighting.
Pierce back-heels Anton’s knee, again and again, until he can squirm free of the barrel grip. He spins, throws an elbow into Anton’s chin.
And then he’s right up in Anton’s face, landing blow after blow into the burly man’s gut. He’s punching faster than I’ve ever seen him, hitting harder than I’ve ever seen him.
He roars, something primal, full of fury. He bends Anton over and knees him in the face, again and again. It’s six shots to the cheek before Anton pushes Pierce off him, and falls backward. His face is a bloodied, mangled mess.
But Pierce just goes even harder. He jumps onto Anton, rolls him over, tries to get him into a lock. He’s got his leg around Anton’s neck, and he’s holding onto his foot, pulling, pulling so hard it looks like he’ll choke the life out of Anton.
“Get him, Pierce!” Fallon yells. “Get that bastard!”
But Anton winds up his entire arm, stretched out, and lands a closed fist on Pierce’s hip. In an instant Pierce loses strength in his leg, can’t hold the lock, and Anton slips out.
“Come on,” I whisper, shaking my hands. My breathing is quick, my heart hammering. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, making my fingers tingle, making me feel like I’ve got all the energy in the world, like I could run like a sprinter or fight like a devil. Like I could get into that cage with Pierce and help him.
Pierce rolls the Russian over, and that’s when I see it, the leg lock. Pierce rolls again, grappling for position, and he finally slips his own leg beneath the Russian’s, and hooks it, twisting.
The Russian hits the floor with a closed fist. The thump is so loud I’m convinced that he’s left a dent in it.
Pierce twists, and he thumps the ground again.
“Do it,” I hiss, clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth. “Do it, Pierce.”
Pierce pulls and twists, and I see the moment it happens, the exact second ligament disconnects from bone. The kneecap twists to the side, along with the entire lower leg, and I instantly look away, feeling sick to my stomach.
It takes the Russian a moment to realize what’s happened, and then he lets out a droning moan of pain. It bounces off the steel walls, echoes for what feels like minutes. It’s a howl so long and loud that I tremble at hearing it. It’s haunting.