Hook and Shoot Page 20

  I bounced some more, switched leads a few times and threw a right jab, a lazy piece of shit, and paid for it.

  Zombi turned inside the punch and came around with a wild spinning backfist that went past my head, but his forearm smashed into my ear. I lost my balance and looked at the mat to make sure it was still down there. Zombi piled me against the cage and hooked his left arm over my head, got that forearm around my neck in a guillotine.

  “Wrist!” Vince said from somewhere.

  I grabbed Zombi’s left wrist with my right hand and tried to pull it away from my throat. It was welded in place.

  “Get some space,” Gil yelled.

  Air was hissing in and out of my mouth, and a buzz in my ear got louder. The blood trapped in my head flooded into my face.

  Fights can be won or lost in the gym, the prep room, the stare down. Sometimes the decision is made the first time you lock up with a guy, swap strength, and see what you’re dealing with.

  Toss him around or shrug him off, you think, All mine.

  He thinks, Uh-oh.

  I pried on Zombi’s arm as hard as I could.

  Uh-fucking-oh.

  Turned my chin toward his ribs so he couldn’t cut off both arteries, hooked my left arm over his right shoulder, and pulled. That took another millimeter of pressure off my throat and made Zombi hold me up.

  He seemed okay with that, started to back up so he could drag me face-first onto the mat and probably gator roll me or spin to take my back if he didn’t just bear down and pop my head off. I worked my legs around, got my left knee behind his right, and pushed my weight over it.

  When he started to fold I took a chance, let go of his wrist and dropped my right hand to catch his left knee and pick him up. In the fraction of a second it took to lift and slam him, Zombi squeezed hard enough to crack something in my throat. I planted him, my body perpendicular to Zombi’s and my knees against the right side of his rib cage. Sank some weight down and made sure I could still breathe. No good. My trachea was too busy fighting the back of my tongue. I tried for wheezing, got something close. When I swallowed there was a massive rebellion—ended up spitting a glob onto the canvas near Brubaker’s feet and saw blood in it.

  Zombi abandoned the choke and put his left forearm against my face to push me away. The stretch on my throat felt like it was getting flossed with barbed wire. I held on, stupid, determined to stay there just because he didn’t want me to.

  “Get up,” Gil said. An angelic voice of reason.

  I shoved off Zombi and got to my feet, registered a cheer from the growing crowd; nobody wants to watch three rounds of lay-and-pray.

  Zombi rolled to a knee, his face a stone mask. He studied me for a moment.

  What did he see? Weakness?

  He stood and walked forward. Hands raised, eyes dead. I pulled air in, flicked a jab, and whipped a left kick into his ribs, going for that juicy liver. The bastard was waiting for it—probably scouted the Burbank fight. He turned away and caught it against his belly, stepped in and snaked his left leg around my right, snagged me with an inside trip. My back scraped along the cage. I flailed, trying to stay up.

  “Don’t grab the fence,” Brubaker said.

  I quit fighting it, let Zombi take me down. Soon as my back hit the mat I exploded for a reverse, rolled and tried to keep his momentum going over so I could end up on top, but the cage was there. He bounced off it and landed in my half guard, his left leg trapped between mine.

  Gil and Vince were inches away, leaning on the apron.

  “Easy,” Gil said. “Breathe.”

  He could have made it easier and tried, “Levitate.”

  Zombi wedged me into the cage and sank his weight down. He was a lead blanket dipped in quicksand. He put an elbow into my diaphragm and a forearm across my throat, driving the air out and keeping it there. Black spots grew and burst halfway between us. I looked into his shark eyes and saw nothing. If I could have talked, I’d have thanked him. He was making me fight for my life.

  For survival.

  I winked and elbowed him in the face.

  Again, left elbow slicing across his temple. He eased off my diaphragm to raise his right arm to block. I elbowed that, thumped him sideways into the cage.

  He tried to pull back, put some punches in my face to keep me busy. I clamped my right hand behind his neck and kept him close. He leaned into my throat and I ignored it. Changed the angle of attack, tucked my wrist next to my ear, and brought an elbow straight down on his face again and again.

  Eyebrow, nose, mouth.

  Blood fell on me. He was cut.

  Blink now, motherfucker.

  He shook his head, sending a drape of blood onto the canvas. I shoved my right palm under his chin and pushed him away. He latched onto it and started to spin to my right for an armbar, but the fence was too close, no room.

  His weight shifted. I shoved him into the cage and pulled my feet back, got them under me. Stood up. He rose with his bloody face hidden behind forearms.

  I pummeled all of it. Hooks, uppercuts, power.

  Zombi covered and weathered and sprayed blood.

  Brubaker hovered, watching.

  I kneed Zombi in the stomach, tried to get those arms down. Again. He caught the second one, hooked an arm under it, and shot forward. I hopped backward and battered him with right elbows, slicing him once more over the left ear.

  We traveled across the cage. I hit the fence again, and he dropped to scoop me up for another takedown when the bell rang.

  He let go. Straightened up and looked me in the eye, no expression behind a veil of blood.

  “Looking good.” Gil knelt in front of my stool, holding my mouthguard and a water bottle.

  Hollywood wiped me down to see if any of the blood was mine. It wasn’t.

  Gil dumped some water on me. “Good pace, good explosions, fantastic elbows, I want more. More punches too but watch the kicks. When he turns to the side like he did to catch a kick, switch stances and attack the lead leg.”

  “Be ready for him to shoot on that,” Vince said. “Soon as you switch, bring a knee up, see if his face is there to meet it. At least make him think about it.”

  “Okay.” It was a ragged whisper, ended with a click.

  Gil whistled. “That guillotine was tight, huh? You’re fine. You can breathe? Good. Knock this asshole out, we’ll go get ice cream and talk like the Godfather. Elbows.” He stuck the mouthguard in, patted my cheek, and followed Vince and Hollywood out.

  All positive, nothing about how strong and balanced Zombi was, how I got smacked by the backfist and let him get an arm around my neck while we were both still fresh and dry, no sweat to help me slip out.

  Brubaker walked to the middle of the cage.

  “Woody,” Gil said.

  I looked at him through the cage.

  “Who the fuck does this guy think he is? You’re smashing him.”

  I smiled, was turning away when I saw a red tuft sprouting from the pad along the top rail of the cage. The blow dart had missed me by about a foot.

  Shuko was here.

  “Fight!”

  I moved forward and scoured the apron for any sign of Shuko, searched the front rows for Eddie and Burch to let them know. Didn’t see Zombi shooting in until he had both legs wrapped up.

  I sprawled, pushed my hips into him and threw my feet back, planted some elbows in his shoulder blades. He drove me against the cage to bring my feet in, dropped to a knee, and yanked at my legs.

  All I could think about was Shuko spitting a dart into me through the fence or rising from across the cage. Nothing I could do while he took aim and put one in my chest so the toxins could get right to work.

  I panicked. Thrashed and beat Zombi’s head and pummeled his back with double hammerfists, some kind of howl coming out of me. He dropped lower. I fell over him and grabbed his left ankle, stood and tore that leg out from under him, tried to touch his heel to his kidney.

  He let go. I shove
d him, sprinted away from the cage, and kept moving, sidestepping around the perimeter to be a moving target. For Shuko, anyway. Zombi just stood there and waited for me to dance into his web.

  I heard Vince: “The fuck’s he doing?”

  Didn’t hear Gil’s answer, if he had one.

  I yelled, “Shuko.” The whisper flew six inches and died. My throat checked out, left a note it would be back in a few days. Maybe.

  I came around to Zombi. He was leaking again, blood framing his face from cuts over his right eye and left ear. He raised his hands. I smacked him with a jab and kept moving, left him standing there with a tiny wrinkle between his eyes. Felt a slight boost for causing a look of utter confusion.

  “Engage fighter,” Brubaker said. “Engage or I take a point.”

  The ref. A train of thought steamed past: Can’t tell Burch tell everybody cause panic ruin Warrior piss off Eddie fuck it. I made the time-out sign, ran to the dart, and pointed at it.

  “Stop, time!” Brubaker hustled over. “What’s the problem?” He pulled at the padding for rips or foreign substances, then brushed over the red plume and plucked the dart out.

  I gripped his arm. “Don’t touch the steel.”

  “What? Speak up.” He pinched the dart between a finger and thumb, peered at it, and carried it to the gate.

  The fight would be a no contest; I didn’t know what that meant for Eddie and the Yakuza, but it didn’t matter. The crowd would boo and forget about it as soon as the next fight kicked in.

  Brubaker showed Hollywood the dart. Beyond them I saw Burch standing at his second-row seat. Eddie was beside him, eyes wide. Burch plowed over Eddie’s shoulder and jerked him to his feet. I searched for any sign of Shuko and lost Burch and Eddie when they ducked into the aisle that led to the prep rooms.

  Gil checked to see what Brubaker had, turned to me, and tapped his neck where Burch had been stuck with the darts. I nodded. He duckwalked back to his spot.

  I caught a glimpse of Brandenberg sitting with his hand over his mouth. His eyes betrayed the grin hiding back there, the same shit eater from all his billboards. I wondered if it would look the same with no teeth.

  Argo was leaning into the group of Japanese men next to him, talking and chopping the air while they looked serious and scanned the crowd. One of them had a cell phone to his ear, hopefully calling in some kind of Shuko-killing army.

  At the gate Hollywood produced a hard plastic container.

  Brubaker dropped the dart in and closed the cage, turned to wave for the stoppage. “All right, guys, fight!”

  “Huh?”

  Zombi walked toward me. I stepped right, stalling, pictured myself climbing over the fence and running out of the arena.

  Zombi cut me off. I moved left, spotted Gil and Vince on the apron, hands up and out: What the hell? Saw myself yelling at them to throw in the towel, anything to get out of the cage.

  My stupid pride wouldn’t let me.

  Run? Come on.

  You know how to get out of here.

  Not over. Not around.

  Through.

  Zombi stepped in front of me. I tore into him like he was a piñata stuffed with strippers. Four punches landed before he knew what was happening. By then he was skating backward, covering up. I chased and bashed him with hooks and straights that split his hands to snap his head back.

  He hit the fence and couldn’t run anymore. I flurried him with punches, head and body from all angles. He blocked and slipped most of them, tried to counter but paid for it every time he took a hand away from his face.

  I dialed back on speed and cranked the power, thudded a right hook against his ribs, and rocked him sideways with a left elbow that splashed into the cut over his eye. Again.

  He started to drop.

  I followed him down with a left cross to the temple that would’ve killed a horse. I was smashing him. I was a punch away. He was dead.

  Then he earned his nickname.

  Zombi dove, hooked my right ankle, and braced it while he drove a shoulder into that knee. I tipped back, tried to roll into a reverse somersault but he kept that ankle pinned and spun around on top of my leg, wrapped it between his thighs, and pulled my ankle into his left armpit.

  He fell onto his right side and leaned back, pushed his hips just above my knee to hyperextend the joint. I turned my face into the canvas and roared, my throat allowing only a shredded rasp.

  Brubaker crouched next to my head, searching for any sign of a tap or verbal submission. I bit into my mouthguard. Zombi’s neck was right there, begging for a rear naked choke. I moved an inch toward it and felt my knee twang, pop. I backed off and Zombi dug in deeper.

  I watched my left hand come across to tap his shoulder, submit. Commanded it to stop. It kept going.

  Crossed over my chest, on the way down, palm open, fingers spread.

  Stop.

  It did not.

  I tried something else. Closed the fingers into a fist and let the arm go, gave it all the speed it wanted to tap.

  And I did tap.

  Tapped a looping hook into Zombi’s left ear hard enough to bounce his head off the canvas. Once, twice, again. He didn’t appreciate it. Scooted away out of arm’s reach and had to curl toward my knee, let it bend the right way.

  The relief made me roar again. I punched him in the head once more and got my left foot against his spine, pushed and stomped and pulled my right leg until he was wrapped around my shin, ankle.

  I flashed on Vince, back at the gym doing sadistic puppet work with my feet, ankles crackling while toes weathervaned around the room.

  Between the sweat and blood I was slippery enough to yank the foot out of Zombi’s armpit. Got to my feet and rushed in to butcher him. My right knee wouldn’t bend. Zombi dodged, rolled, stood, and ran to regroup.

  When he squared up I closed in. Looked past the swelling and blood into his eyes.

  He was scared.

  The bell rang.

  “Sit,” Gil said.

  I shook my head, kept pacing in front of the stool, thumping along on my stiff right leg. “Moving target.” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him with me.

  Hollywood stood in one spot and wiped me off when I walked by.

  Gil said, “You can’t think about Shuko now.”

  “Maybe he followed Eddie out.”

  “Yes, they can handle it. You try to handle both fights, you’ll lose the one you’re in. Zombi’s in front of you now.”

  I pushed Shuko and his blowgun and swords away, looked across the cage; Zombi’s corner looked like a trauma unit. “He’s breaking.”

  “Jesus, you sound like shit. Looking great, though. He doesn’t want any more punches. How’s that knee?”

  “Fine.”

  “Woody.”

  “Hurts like a motherfucker.”

  “He knows so get it away from him. He’s gonna keep his distance and look for a way in to wrap you up. Use your feet and your jab. Don’t leave anything hanging out to dry.”

  Vince put an arm around my shoulder. “Those elbows are massacring him. Keep it up but don’t bring ’em past your centerline. He’s waiting on that, trying to push it all the way past and going for an arm triangle. So bring ’em back as fast as they come out.”

  “Got it.”

  “And don’t let him sugar foot you again. Don’t pounce for the kill ’less you know for damn sure he’s on his dying breath.”

  “Okay.”

  “Gil, this guy sounds like my aunt Vera.”

  Gil dumped some water down my neck. “You could do this all day, but you only get five more minutes of fun.” He saw the look in my eye. “Less?”

  “Less.”

  He smiled. “Nap time for Zombi.”

  The cutman did a brilliant job sealing Zombi up, but he had to know his art was temporary.

  The crowd cheered our last round, ready for it to be as good as the first two. I planned for better and much shorter. Came out in a left lead to protect my
right leg, felt like dragging a telephone pole. Zombi walked forward in a slower, heavier version of his first-round self, flat-footed with no head movement.

  I stepped toward him. He slid back and shifted right, staying out of reach. I cut him off and chased with a hook, missed. Cracked a short left kick into his inner thigh. His hands dropped to grab it but didn’t get there in time. I put a right cross over his ear and watched the blood roll out of that cut, saw his knees buckle.

  I forgot about my cracked throat and dead leg. Everything slowed down. The threat in front of me was almost eliminated—a little push and he’d go over the edge. I tunneled in on his head, threw a left jab and dove forward, whipped a right elbow with so much bad intent it deserved a reality show.

  Zombi dropped. Before the elbow hit.

  He ducked under and stuck his head behind my right shoulder, hooked his right arm around my neck, and clamped his hands together between my shoulder blades. Stepped around, squeezed, and drove his head up, trying to choke me with my right arm. Just like Vince said he would.

  I shoved my right arm away with my left, got a little space, and turned away from him.

  Gil and Vince harmonized over the crowd: “No.”

  Zombi slithered around and jumped onto my back, wrapped his left arm under my chin and left leg around my waist, folded his right knee over that ankle to lock me in a body triangle.

  He squished my guts and tried to choke me with the left arm while he pulled his right arm out and over my shoulder. I caught that wrist with both hands like it was a cobra lunging for my face—let it go and he’d trap his left hand in his right elbow, sink the rear naked choke, and make me tap or pass out.

  I pushed his wrist away. Zombi sawed his forearm across my neck and somebody poured hot broken glass down my throat. I could hear him breathing behind my ear, snuffling through the blood dripping off his face onto me.

  He released the body triangle long enough to stomp my right knee. When I tipped that way he ripped his wrist free and locked the choke.

  I spun to shake him off.

  Saw Brandenberg clapping his thin, tan hands.

  Argo reaching out to the Japanese men, congratulating them.

  Black crept in at the corners. In the darkness Shuko’s shadow crouched, waited.