Blindside Read Free Page A

have enough left over to buy drugs for the next round.
    The client took a couple of shuffles forward, jabbing the air with both fists, pectorals flexing under trendy tribals. Elbows too high above his ribs, he shot off a few practice crosses before a mile-wide hook sent Mac into the cage wall. The crowd roared in sync with the rattle of steel, whiskey and bile a foul combination in his mouth. He let himself hang on the cage for a moment, a confidence builder for the opponent and a tense moment for the fans.
    The bursts of pain, the black spots in his vision were par for the course in his chosen vocation.
    “Got all the proof you need?”
    The guy gave a sharp nod to go with his sharp smile, then raised his gloves. “Let’s go.”
    A tap of gloves as if they were honest sportsmen.
    Without wasting time after the bell, the client laid quicksilver punches at Mac’s elbows, pushing him back against the wire. “Come on, muthafucker.” Spit flew with each word. “What can you do?”
    A kick to his ribs got Mac to pay attention. A barely missed back-fist was followed by a knee aimed at his gut. Good thing New York hadn’t wised up to lining their cages with barbed wire.
    “Come on, come on! You’re givin’ up already? ” The client hopped from side to side then wheeled a high and useless hook kick. “Aren’t you some sort of hero? Or, with your shit gone, can you barely fight?” Each word hissed through the black mouth guard shiny with saliva.
    An elbow in his gut had the stands going wild. Mac blocked a foot aimed in a too-high kick and shoved the man a few steps back, gaining a second to get up, letting the whistles and the boos wash over him. Tonight, he’d lose, and all his haters would get a show worth their money.
    A hand swiped over his stinging mouth came away with blood.
    “Jesus, you’re nothing. You got a black belt in run-Fu?”
    Mac meant to lose tonight—not every fight, but the first and last match would be those his fans would remember. His power frozen in his veins, he had nothing but regret and skill, bruises like badges of courage.
    Three more rounds, two minutes each, the pain’s edge dulled but never quite blocked out by whiskey. Instead of waiting for a KO punch, he drew the fight out to keep the fans chanting for blood.
    Another kick, another defensive elbow. A short jab into his chin sent Mr. Tribals into the mesh, the cage shuddering under the impact. The air drowned in shocked and sudden silence.
    “Get up.”
    Nothing but that same quiet, his opponent’s gaze an empty stare amidst the growing hum of derision from the crowd.
    “Come on, get up.”
    Eyelids rapidly blinked before closing shut. The boos and whistles swirled, this time not for Mac, but for the asshole who couldn’t last more than ten minutes in a cage fight. Good thing they both got their pay upfront.
    Despite the unexpected win, he lost the last fight of the night as planned, giving the fans something to talk about for next stop in Boston. Another ten thousand dollars in his pocket, Mac found the nearest quiet bar with its low murmur of the news and patrons brooding into their Irish coffees. More cop layoffs throughout the country. Strangely enough, homicide rates kept inching up.
    “Slow night for you.” Amusement in a rough familiar voice–the guy must’ve followed him here from the arena. Are you really a super hero? Did you really kill those people and give up your mask? I have this great business idea, not exactly legit but ….
    Mac would’ve gotten up if the man didn’t stop him with a gloved hand on his arm, spot on the fresh bruise blooming above his elbow.
    “I need your help.” He finished off his drink, his face hidden by a Dodgers cap, his posture of sweeping the room for exits and troublemakers screaming law enforcement.
    “I’m out of the helping business.”
    “Not what you used to say.” A small, sharp smile, toothy enough to spark a jolt of recognition.
    “Commander Williams.”
    “My men