Untamed (93 page)

“Motherfucker!”

The man swaggering toward me is huge, obviously takes care of his body, trains a lot. His long arms are perfect for fighting, and his low waist gives him a great center of gravity; right in the mid-point.

“Duncan motherfuckin’ Malone,” the man says, clapping his hands together, shaking his head in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing in my gym?”

Everybody training – and I mean everyone, from the young teenagers at the punching bags to the young men hitting the weights – turn their heads to us. I see the looks of recognition on their faces.

Damn it, Pierce Fletcher always did like to make a scene.

“Hey,” I say, sticking out two fists. He bumps them with his own, before taking my hand into his, gripping it tight and giving it a shake.

I see him check me out, the way a fighter sizes someone up. Traps, shoulders, neck, arms. Legs, feet, stance. Distribution of weight, balance, hands. Righty-or-lefty? Knuckles, how worn? Scars, demeanor. Confidence?

“I never thought I’d ever get to meet you.” He pauses, cocks an eyebrow, then turns around to face all the members in his gym. “What the heck are you all looking at?” he barks.

They all go back to training.

“Come on, come in the back,” he says, gesturing for me to walk with him.

“Nice set up,” I tell him.

The gym is great, modern, spacious, and brightly lit. It looks totally legit, and most of the people working out are just boys, young teenagers.

Some of them look like they’ve seen some shit. I know the type. It’s in the eyes. When they get older, they’ll learn to recognize one of their own, too.

“Thanks. Most of it is quite new.”

“You got a lot of kids in here.”

He nods. “They need somewhere to be.”

“All of them?”

“No,” Fletcher says. “But a lot do.”

“It’s good of you.”

“The training gives them self-confidence. You know, most won’t keep at it forever, but for now it helps.”

“I know first-hand.”

Fletcher regards me out of the corner of his eyes. “I heard that it was rough for you growing up.”

“Could have been worse.”

He shakes his head. “Bad home?”

“Not good.”

“But then Johnny Marino took you out, right? I read about that in an article.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Trained me.”

“Good man?”

“No. I heard you retired from the underground, but didn’t believe it. You were a force. Why’d you quit?”

“Shit got crazy in a real way.”

“Bad enough to make you stop fighting?” I ask. It doesn’t matter that he’s not being specific. Being an underground fighter always seems to attract trouble… not that that’s unexpected.

He regards me for a moment. “I wasn’t alone anymore. I had—”

“Someone to protect.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I lick my lips, wondering at the strange coincidence between us. Two underground fighters now both out of the game. Two with something to lose… something to save.

I notice then the fresh scar above Fletcher’s eye. It’s a fighting scar; he took a hit or a kick, and skin stretched and split on bone.

Then I pick up his slight limp. It’s barely perceptible, but there.

It’s part of my training to notice these things, the physical aspects of people, that it becomes second nature. I do it when I’m not in the cage. Everybody is measured up.

Fighters do it all the time, and they never miss it when someone does it to them.

“I got shot,” he tells me, understanding that I’ve caught on to the slight unevenness in his steps.

We meet eyes for a moment, and I wonder distantly what he got involved in.

“Any nerve damage? Ligament?”

“No. Went straight through, nicked nothing serious. Had to fucking fight on it straight after.”

“Jesus,” I say, frowning. Whatever trouble he got into was big if they shot him, then made him fight. But if there’s anybody in the world who could do it, it’s him.

Well, him and me.

We first started talking when I stumbled across one of his underground fight videos. His fighting style was haphazard and undisciplined, but fuck his natural talent was off the charts good.

After that, I started researching him, interested in what I could learn from his style. His first fight he danced around a man named Crazy Carl for twenty-two minutes, but beat him eventually.

A rook coming up against a seasoned fighter… the odds of winning are near nil.

Word quickly spread about him, and soon it was clear he was the best underground fighter in Australia, and one of the best in the world.

And if he ever decided to go pro, he’d be one of the best there, too.

But the pros aren’t for everybody. There’s too much bullshit to wade through.

Some people just like to fight.

From what I know, Fletcher liked to fight and fuck. Can’t say I blame him; the girls are always everywhere, fawning, inviting.

In a different life, it might have been me. But Deidre always had me snared, from the first moment I saw her.

We go into his office at the back, shut the door. He opens his mini-fridge, pulls out a small plastic cup, unmarked, plain white.

“Here.”

I smell it. “Homemade?” I ask him.

“Lipoic acid for glucose uptake, ginger root for focus and energy, sesamin for energy expenditure efficiency, and the usual shit, electrolytes, minerals, vitamins. Been using it for years. Give it a try, tell me what you think.”

I take a sip. It tastes bitter, and spicy from the ginger.

“Sesamin?” I ask.

“A sesame oil extract, supposed to aid in more efficient energy utilization; the metabolism of glucose. Trials inconclusive, but I tried a month on and a month off and found a difference.”

“Tastes like shit,” I tell him.

There’s a pause. Though Fletcher and I have conversed over email about fight tactics, and the evolution of MMA, we never really small-talked. It was always business.

“What brings you to Australia, Duncan? Specifically, to my gym?”

“A girl,” I tell him.

“Fuck, it was a girl I got shot for.”

“You know Johnny Marino, right?”

“By reputation. Both as a boxer ahead of his time, and also as a mob boss.”

“He once told me,” I say, remembering it vividly for some reason. “That girls unravel athletes.”

Pierce shakes his head.

“Anyway,” I say. “Something’s come up.”

“How can I help?”

“Marino is after me, after my girl, and after my baby.”

Fletcher’s eyes ice over. “Your girl and your baby?”

“Yes.”

“Who is your girl?”

“His daughter.”

“Your foster sister?” Fletcher asks without pause. It’s curious to me that there’s no surprise or disbelief in his voice.

“That’s right.”

“What does Marino want with your kid?”

“Does it matter?”

Fletcher pushes his lips together. “No. When’s he coming?”

“I don’t know. He could already be here in Melbourne.”

“Has he got a crew?”

“What do you think?”

“Can you go to the police?”

“Absolutely not. Dee’s here on a fake passport.”

“Shit,” Fletcher says.

“It’ll get ugly. Storm’s coming, I can feel it. And even if I’m wrong, and it’s not, I still need to be prepared.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“A safe house in case we need it.”