Untamed (94 page)

“I got a nice place, out of the way.”

I nod my thanks at him. “Resources.”

Fletcher shifts in his seat. “Like what?”

“I need a gun.”

“Fuck, Duncan, I don’t know if I can get you a gun here. This is Australia, not America.”

“Can you try? Look, I’ll be poking around myself, but I figure you know people, more than me. I just got here, man, and if I’m going to protect my family against Marino, I’m going to need one.”

He takes a slow breath, and his brows pinch together. “Yeah. I think I got a couple of people who might be able to help you out. But I can’t risk anything. You meet them on your own.”

“That’s how I would have it,” I tell him.

“Do you want me to ask some of my boys to keep a lookout for Marino? They know the streets here, and if you give us a photo—”

“No!” I say. “Not the boys, leave them out of it.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t be telling them to go hunting, just if they see him.”

“Trust me, Pierce,” I say, leaning forward. “If these boys are growing up how I did, they’ll want to go looking. They’ll think it’s fun and cool. Don’t get them involved.”

Fletcher nods. “You’re right.”

There’s a moment of silence between us.

“He wants to take my boy, call him his own.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“You’re telling me.”

There’s a camaraderie between fighters, even the ones you fight. In the cage, you’re pit bulls trying to tear each other’s throats out. Shit, even right before the fight, before you even step into the cage, you’re enemies to the core.

But if one of us gets in trouble outside of the fight, it’s the other fighters you can count on more than anyone else.

Not your agents, your managers, your handlers, your whatever-the-fucks.

It’s the other men like you who take a beating for a living, who can come within inches of taking a life every single time they win a fight… who can come within heartbeats of losing their lives every time they lose a fight. Who risk permanent injury or brain damage every time they climb into the cage.

When you live on the edge, the only people who really understand are others who do, too.

Make no mistake, fighting is a controlled sport, not just a science but also an art. But when you’ve got your opponent in a Pace choke, and you’ve cut off all the blood to his brain, you’re a hair’s breadth away from taking a life.

The life of a man with a mother and father, siblings, a wife, kids, friends. A whole network of people you could steal him from if you lose your cool, go too far… miscalculate.

No fighter ever forgets that. It’s a weight on all our shoulders, something we try not to think about, like race car drivers try not to think about crashing.

Fletcher pulls a card from his desk, scribbles a number on the back.

“Get a prepaid, don’t use your roaming as anybody can track that. This is my number, it’s on twenty-four-seven. I’ll keep it off silent, call me if you need anything. Write down where you’re staying, I’ll have somebody leave a location in your mailbox to get the gun. Text me in a couple of days, let me know if it all worked out.”

“I appreciate it,” I tell him.

“Is there anything else?”

“One more thing,” I say. I sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose. “I need a gig.”

“You’re not out?” Fletcher gestures vaguely at my body. “You look like you haven’t been training.”

“I’ve lost some weight, yeah,” I say. “But I need the money. Can you put me in touch?”

“I know there’s an underground tournament coming up. Multiple rounds, some pretty seasoned guys but I think you’ll have a good shot. Winnings for second and third placers, too. Interested?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says. “You call me on this number tomorrow, I’ll have the details for you.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I start to get up when the door opens, and a pretty face appears in the crack.

“Oh, sorry!” she says, closing the door.

“Pen!” Fletcher calls.

She opens the door again and steps in. She does a double take at me, and then sticks out a hand. On her arm is tattooed a full sleeve; gnarled beanstalks disappear up beneath the sleeve of her t-shirt. I notice the same pattern on the top of her foot – she’s wearing flip flops. It’s intricate work, very impressive.

“You’re
Creature
,” she says excitedly, as if she’s announcing it to me. “Pierce has shown me loads of your videos. He’s a huge fan.”

I grin at her, then look back at Fletcher.

“A fan, huh?”

“Wouldn’t go that far, pal. This is Penelope Wordsworth.”

I exchange greetings with her, then glance back at Fletcher.

So
this
is the girl he got shot for.

“Talk later, yeah?” he says to me.

“Yeah.”

“If you catch some time in the future, come around the gym and spar with the kids. They’d love it.”

“Shown them my videos, too?”

Fletcher shrugs. “It’s an education.”

“When I get everything sorted, I’ll make it a point to.”

As I leave, I hear Penelope’s voice through the closing door.

“What was he doing here? You should have gotten his autograph to put up on the wall.”

Chapter Thirty Eight