Hook and Shoot Read online

  “Move on,” Burch said.

  “No, I want to make sure no one in this room is delusional. It’s a requirement of mine. Who have you been fighting?” He checked each one of us.

  “Omori and the Dojin-gumi,” I said.

  “Right. One family. That’s it.”

  Eddie said, “It still makes no sense.”

  “Which part?”

  “The Yakuza doesn’t want me dead, but the Dojin-gumi is a Yakuza family.”

  “Is it?”

  Eddie looked at Burch, me. Blank faces all around. “What does that mean?”

  “I should be charging you for this. This kind of disclosure, what’s it worth?”

  “Walking without a limp seems fair,” I said.

  Burch nodded.

  Argo checked his watch. “Okay. Let Uncle Howie enlighten you for a bit at the request of my clients. They want the Zombi fight to happen. They want you all focused and ready. Otherwise, I’d wish you good luck and let you go back to hiding with your used-up whore in that cave you call a gym.”

  Burch’s jaw clenched. I heard his knuckles crunch.

  Argo said, “The Dojin-gumi was expelled from the organization after Mr. Wallace’s fight with Junior Burbank. But you can’t take all the credit, son. It was that plus Omori letting the Brandenberg girl get snatched by Eddie and Mr. Burch here. Guy lost so much face he’d need Mount Rushmore to get him back to zero. So the family was out. Omori went old school, committed seppuku. Slashed his own bowels out and had his eldest son finish the job, took his head off with one swipe.”

  “Goddamn,” Eddie said.

  “The sons swore a blood oath to kill all of you. That’s who you’re up against.”

  “How many sons?” Burch said.

  “Three. Three whole men, and you thought you were against an army.”

  I said, “That’s wrong. The night they killed Lou there were six. At least.”

  “First, I have no knowledge of anyone being murdered. Let’s get that on the record. Second, you must be mistaken. This family is born and bred to kill people, so I imagine they can be overwhelming, confuse you.”

  “I wasn’t confused,” Burch said. “Woody’s right. I put at least two down when we found Lou, on top of the two brothers already cold and stiff. Your numbers are wrong.”

  Argo shrugged.

  “Mercenaries,” Burch said.

  “Not possible,” said Argo. “This family does not work with outsiders. They’re insular to a fault, one of the reasons there are only three of ’em left. But listen, I haven’t even told you the best part yet.”

  Eddie said, “Is it something about the Yakuza killing this shitty family? That would be pretty good.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “They’re allowing this clan to come after me?”

  Argo looked at the ceiling. “How to put this. I spoke before about how silly you were to think the entire organization is trying to kill you yet failed. Ridiculous. Well, they are trying to kill the Dojin-gumi. And they cannot.”

  “Shit,” Eddie said.

  “Indeed. The sons are taunting them, letting them know, hey, this is what we’re going to do and you can’t stop us. It’s been frustrating.”

  “Son,” Burch said.

  “Sorry?”

  “You said sons. If there were three, they’re down to one.”

  “Again, I have no knowledge of any deaths, but that’s the part I was getting to. Now, I only get the information my clients want to share, so I don’t know the details, but apparently the eldest son had a confrontation with Mr. Wallace outside the casino.”

  Shuko, the window knocker. “He and I had a talk.”

  “Whatever you talked about, he’s unhappy. According to my clients, he feels you’ve all had your chance to die honorable deaths. He’s going to wait, make sure everyone sees you suffer. This whole week you’ve been in your little bunker, and no one has been trying to kill you. Great, huh?”

  We didn’t say anything.

  Argo said, “I think Mr. Wallace can answer this best. Is it better to think you’re going to be killed every day? Or to know when it’s coming, like a scheduled fight? It’s probably different for your death, though. I mean, how do you train to die?”

  “He’s coming for us during the Zombi fight,” I said.

  Argo winked. “For some reason he seems fixated on putting you on ice—no, in a freezer. What’s that about? Is that some kind of fighting term?”

  I heard the lid thump shut and felt my arms and legs clamped against me. Wondered how quickly a person can go insane.

  Argo looked at Eddie. “Last chance. My clients are going to get a piece of Warrior whether you’re alive to see it or not. Let’s work something out. Maybe they can try a little harder to stop this crazy bastard.”

  Eddie didn’t move, didn’t talk.

  Argo stood. “Enjoy the next week, gentlemen. Look for me at the fights. I’ll be in the front row, wearing the blood-proof poncho.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Eddie took his time packing everything—the laptops, papers, Warrior backdrop rolled up and back in the tube. Burch was slumped on the couch, exhausted.

  I stood in the doorway to the kitchen and told myself I didn’t need to lean against the frame to feel something solid.

  Vanessa slid past me with a warm cloth for Burch. When she knelt next to him, he caught her hand. “Omori’s dead.”

  She froze, water dripping on the couch. “How?”

  “Offed himself, too much shame. Coward.”

  She stared at the blank wall, saw something there none of us could imagine. Her knuckles turned white around the steaming cloth. Water ran onto Burch’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice, kept his eyes on Vanessa.

  “Good.” She touched the cloth to Burch’s forehead.

  Eddie kept his voice soft, told her, “They’re cut off from the Yakuza. It’s just the Dojin-gumi coming for us.”

  “Just. Where are we going?”

  “Home. Too much to do and I’m going nuts in here.”

  Burch said, “We can’t base any actions on what Argo says. He could be working for the Dojin-gumi.”

  “They all know we’re here,” Eddie said, “so what’s it matter?”

  “This could be a ploy to get you out for a public killing.”

  Vanessa put her hand over her mouth.

  Eddie said, “Burch, you’re still in fantasy land. Anytime he wants, this Shuko guy can come through the door and drag me into the street, chop my head off.”

  “That’s incorrect,” Burch said.

  “Vanessa, what’s the deal on him?”

  Burch sat up. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t ask her to talk about it.”

  “He’s a demon,” Vanessa said, her voice dead. She eased Burch back down. “A demon.”

  Eddie leaned close. “Woody, you saw him. What do you think?”

  “I think I won’t get the chance to blindside him again. I should have stomped him out for good, ended this.”

  “You didn’t know he was the last one.”

  “Is he? Burch, you see Argo’s face when I mentioned Lou getting killed?”

  “Enough. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “It’s okay,” Vanessa said. “This needs to end, the sooner the better.”

  Burch let out a breath. “I didn’t see his face. I was behind him.”

  “Guy had no idea what I was talking about.”

  “Well, he has no knowledge of any deaths. He said so. Twice.”

  “Yeah, bullshit. That was deniability for the two sons you put away. We start talking about the swarm of guys who killed Lou and ambushed us, he gets all fussy about how that’s impossible, not with this family.”

  “The blow darts were Dojin-gumi.”

  Eddie looked between us. “So Argo’s lying or he’s ignorant. Doesn’t matter. But your faces tell me there’s something else.”

  I said, “This last son. Shuko. He’s getting help from somebody.�
�

  The limo was packed, idling in the front lot. I stood with Gil and Eddie at the front of the gym, where I’d first seen Burch come through the door. Give me that moment again, I’d lay bricks, dig a moat, light a ring of fire. By the look on Gil’s face, he’d buy the matches.

  Eddie saw the look, put his hand out anyway. “Sorry we took up your back room and stepped on your dick all week. But business had to get done, you know?”

  “Any of that business involve our contract?”

  “Ah, that. I’m afraid all negotiations are on hold pending the outcome of this weekend.”

  “The outcome,” I said. “Meaning whether you’re alive or not?”

  “We,” Eddie said.

  “You should wear snakeskin suits. Save everybody the hassle of guessing.”

  He shrugged. “Game face. Your full contract isn’t signed yet, but we’re locked in for the Zombi fight. It’s the one thing I’m sure of right now—you will be fighting him on Saturday. So please fucking reassure me: You got this?”

  Fighting a man I didn’t know how to beat and waiting for a man no one could kill.

  Zombi, the tip of the Yakuza spear, ready to drive into the heart of Warrior and bleed it dry.

  Shuko, maybe crawling out from under the cage to hamstring me, cut me down before anyone can stop him.

  Lying to Eddie was easy. “I got this.”

  “We,” Gil said.

  I almost believed him.

  Train. Eat. Sleep.

  Try to sleep, anyway.

  Sunday night I dreamt I was fighting Zombi in Tezo’s pit, Tezo standing above us with chunks of his swollen head shot away.

  “Well?” he said. Blood and cold water poured out of his skull into the pit.

  Shuko was hiding in the filth along one wall, half-buried in a puddle of piss and hair. He stayed very still, just his eyes whirling. I didn’t look directly at him—that was his cue to emerge.

  I stared across the pit at Zombi, standing there in his press conference suit with a gold medal hanging from a snake around his neck.

  He bowed.

  I bowed, saw I was standing in the claw-foot bathtub, half-full of stagnant water and trash.

  “My poor feet.”

  I straightened up so I wouldn’t have to see them down in there. In my peripheral vision I watched Shuko slip something out of the puddle and slide it onto his face. It was Gil’s face, the edges straight and raw from Shuko’s blade. It was much thicker than I’d expected, maybe just swollen from the puddle.

  “You can’t get me,” I said.

  Gil laughed. “What do you call this?”

  Monday morning I slopped into the cage with Gil and the Snarl brothers and one of the guys they’d been bringing in, a wiry pole of beef jerky named Ronald.

  “Technique and conditioning the rest of the week,” Gil said. “We can’t risk you getting cut.”

  This was good. Get lost in the movements, the kind of discomfort I could get comfortable in.

  Vince said, “No problem. We can dig into the real shitty stuff, the dirt, case this Zombi cat pulls any of it.”

  I froze, mouthguard half in. “What the hell have we been doing so far?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Gil said. “Show me some nasty.”

  Ninety percent of what they did to me would get Zombi disqualified in an MMA fight. The other ten was legal but might make the ref vomit.

  I almost hoped Zombi would try some of it. I’d never wanted to win that way, but considering I’d been ready to toss the fight a few days earlier, I wasn’t feeling picky.

  After a break Gil set up a circuit for me and the catch wrestlers, a bastard workout he called Dante’s Inferno. He put a barbell loaded with three hundred fifteen pounds in the middle of the mats and had us spread out and jog around the edges.

  “Lunges,” he called.

  We lunged, one knee dropping to kiss the mats, hands up and chins down. Drive up; open the hips.

  Gil said, “Dead lifts, Woody, eight reps. Everybody else, burpees.”

  I sprinted to the barbell, gripped it shoulder-width, and set my feet. Ripped it off the floor and let it hang from my arms like they were cables. Set it down and pulled again, again.

  Vince and Robbie and Ronald stopped circling and banged out burpees, dropping to touch their chests and thighs to the mats, then springing to their feet, jumping and clapping overhead.

  “Eight,” I yelled.

  “Shadowbox backward.”

  We circled again, shuffling backward. Slipping, bobbing, weaving, jab-cross-hook. I saw Zombi stalking after me, stepping into the punches. I felt the impact, watched him react to it.

  Hard as I tried, I couldn’t get him to blink.

  Gil said, “Vince, dead lifts, eight reps. Rest of you, tuck jumps.”

  Vince took a few deep breaths over the bar, then got to work. We stood in place and jumped as high as we could, pulled our knees to our chests at the top of the jump. Vince put the bar down after four reps and shook his arms out. Around the mats the jumps were getting slower, turning into hops.

  “Eight,” Vince said.

  “Push-ups.”

  I didn’t bother counting.

  “Ronald, dead lifts, eight reps. Peanut gallery, bear crawl.”

  We circled on all fours, hands and feet, scampering after the heels ahead and fighting for air, cores locked down for stability.

  “Eight.” Ronald’s face was an alarming shade of red. He tilted his way into the circle and tried to join the bear crawl, ended up with some kind of camel/ crab hybrid.

  Gil called Robbie to the bar while the rest of us planked out, rigid on toes and elbows, dropping sweat and curses onto the mats.

  “Eight,” Robbie said.

  “Shake it out.” Gil pulled weight off the bar, got it to two twenty-five. After one minute of rest, he said, “Shadowbox forward. Go.”

  Zombi retreated from me, shot for my legs. I kneed him in the face and rocked him with an uppercut. He just stared back.

  “Woody, hang cleans, eight reps.”

  I pulled the barbell up and let it hang, the weight feeling much lighter compared to the dead lifts. That didn’t last long. I bent at the waist, let the bar drop to mid-thigh, then shot my hips forward. Shrugged the barbell up and pulled, got it chest-high and threw my elbows underneath, racked the bar across the front of my shoulders.

  Reversed the process, yanked it up again. My forearms screamed.

  “Eight.” I couldn’t open my grip to let the bar go. Had to put a foot on it and shove myself away.

  Everyone ran through the hang cleans while the circle suffered. Squat jumps, shrimping, frog hops. If a guy failed on a barbell rep Gil sent him back to the circle—for safety, not as punishment—but nobody wanted it to come up.

  Another minute break, then Gil stripped more weight off and called for power snatches, taking the barbell from floor to overhead in one explosive movement. The hundred thirty-five pounds felt like a truck axle.

  We spiraled down the circles of hell. Split squat jumps, backward sprawls, more burpees.

  “Eight,” Robbie said. It sounded thick, pushed through a gag reflex.

  Guys dropped to the floor like strings had been cut. I closed my eyes, rocked side to side on my back, and fought for air, the burn in my lungs scoffing at the lactic acid in my legs.

  As I cooled off I knew another layer of armor had been forged, body and mind.

  Another level of pain I could go to, settle in, and survive.

  No, thrive.

  I felt great.

  Opened my eyes and saw Zombi standing over me, no expression or damage from the shadow fighting. Shuko’s shadow stood next to him, leaning on a sword.

  “You done with him?” Shuko said.

  Zombi nodded, bowed, and turned away.

  The week slipped by, hours broken down to either work or rest. During work I felt like a beast; at rest I felt it was all just preparing me for the slaugh
ter.

  Burch checked in each night, his voice stronger but still hollowed out. The calls were all the same: “Everybody still alive?”

  “Yes,” I told him.

  “Same here. Any unfriendlies hanging about?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Cheers.”

  Click.

  Eddie didn’t send an interview crew like he had for the Burbank fight. He wanted Zombi—and possibly me—to come and go as quietly as possible. I didn’t know if we’d even be on pay-per-view, maybe slipped in before the prelims when the stands were still being swept.

  Shuko was either keeping his word about Saturday or lulling us. Three times I made it all the way to my truck, keys in the ignition, ready to drive to Argo’s office and find a ceiling fan to put his face in until he told me where to find Shuko. At least find out if Argo was lying about not working with the Dojin-gumi. Each time I gripped the steering wheel, thinking, Then what?

  My house was already full of trouble. No need to go begging for more. Eddie was right; the only thing I knew for sure was who I was fighting Saturday night.

  Thursday I pulled Vince aside. “If you were me, how would you go at Zombi?”

  He crossed his arms and tugged his lower lip. “In sparring, what’s the hardest you’ve hit me?”

  “Fifty percent, maybe less.”

  “Okay, fuck off. I can’t chew anything tougher than deli meat.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Your natural style is all straight lines. Right at him, right through him. Problem with that is the more you throw at him, the more opportunities he has to catch something. Combine it with his judo, your straight lines got a good chance of getting tossed and bent. That’s option one.”

  “I gotta tell you, option one sounds pretty terrible.”

  He put a hand up. “I apologize. I should have said the worst one first. Two, you take his style and go beyond it. Not just imitation, I’m talking mimicry. You become him and therefore know what he’ll do next, beat him to it.”

  “I only see one flaw.”

  “Your catch wrestling sucks. There’s no way you can pull it off.”

  “So it’s not really an option.”

  “Well, nobody wants to feel cornered. I figured you’d take option one anyway, no matter what two was.”