14

Quincy

The underground parking lot in Hackney, where the fight with Rayden is about to happen, feels worlds away from my Primrose Hill home, even though it's only a couple of miles apart.

I spent a big part of my rebellious youth here, getting into fights with the local gangs who control this area. I turned my back on Amarlo and his wealth by dealing with criminals, and later thought I'd left it all behind when I joined the Marines. But life has a way of bringing you back full circle.

It's a reminder of how much things have changed when I park my refurbished Cadillac Eldorado near the Kebab Shop next to the lot, realizing I can't expect the car to be there intact when I return. This neighborhood may not have changed much, but I have. To be cautious, I pay the guy in the Kebab Shop to watch over it and also give some money to the teenagers hanging around to keep an eye out.

As I walk less than half a block to the lot, I pass by a makeshift memorial where a stabbing happened recently, a discount store, a corner shop with barred windows, and another that's closed down.

I give a hundred-pound note to a homeless man, who gratefully takes it and tucks it under his torn bedding before going back to sleep. The air smells of garbage and unwashed people.

If I close my eyes, it feels like I'm back in one of the rundown areas of the Middle Eastern country where I spent a lot of time on duty. The only difference is the cooler temperature here.

As I enter the car park, the smell of blood fills the air. It hits me then that I'm not facing Rayden in a controlled boxing match at the 7A gym, but in a no-holds-barred scenario.

When he asked me to select the date and time for the match, he conveniently omitted the venue—his own territory. This place reeks of past violence, possibly from gang clashes, with no surveillance to monitor what unfolds. The air hangs heavy with imminent danger, the echoes of previous altercations reverberating off the walls.

Thinking I was early, I find the crowd already pressing against the ropes encircling the makeshift ring at the lot's center. I push through to where Nathaniel stands, holding my gloves. He's agreed to be my cornerman throughout the fight, nodding towards me.

Without a word, I strip off my T-shirt and drop it on the ground, then sit in the chair in front of him. I slide on the gloves, which he adjusts and tests. There's no mouth guard or other protective gear—it's the rule in these underground Fight Club matches.

"You sure about this?" Nathaniel asks in a drawl.

I say nothing.

"He's going to destroy you," Nathaniel continues.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I mutter.

Around us, the crowd starts chanting. It takes a moment for me to realize they're shouting "Killer, Killer, Killer."

"Killer?" I frown.

"Yeah, newsflash: they're not rooting for you," Nathaniel snickers.

"Shouldn't you be out there supporting your brother?"

Nathaniel chuckles. "I thought so too, until I realized he's set this up on his home turf. He hasn't lost a match since he started these Fight Club bouts."

My muscles tense. I stretch my arms, crack my neck. I didn't realize I missed this aspect of my youth, but a part of me feels like I never left.

A ripple moves through the crowd, the chants growing louder. The spectators make way for Rayden. He charges forward and leaps onto the platform, clad in boxing shorts, boots, and gloves. His upper body is bare like mine, though I'm in jeans.

For the first time, I appraise him not as my nephew, but as my opponent. He's slightly shorter than me, but his chest and shoulders are solid as if carved from stone. I know he outweighs me. Seeing him without his usual attire, I realize I underestimated him. He's in peak physical condition. Unlike me, he shows no signs of aging—no grey hair on his head or chest. Unlike me, he carries the burden of a shattered heart, one I inadvertently caused by fulfilling my duty, but that means little to him. He's in pain, and allowing him to release some of that anger on me might provide him with some relief. However, it won't make the hurt any less.

Nathaniel follows my assessment, his expression turning serious. "He's going to pummel you."

And I welcome the absolution. “Maybe then, we'll be even.” At least, I hope so.
He sighs. "I know you’re going to let him thrash you, but for the sake of entertainment, try to last more than one round.” He shakes his head. “That would be an improvement on the ones who went before you."

Fuck. I glance at his face to see if he’s joking, and Nathaniel shakes his head. "It’s true."
Bloody fuck. Yes, I came here, ready to be beaten up. Doesn’t change the fact that I'm a fighter. I’ll have to curb my natural impulses to strike back.


Barren and Tyson shoot me hostile glares from the sidelines. Connor, standing beside them, flips me the bird. I'm clearly not in favor with the Carrington brothers, also known as my nephews. Despite that, I can't help but admire how they've united in support of their brother. They've grown into the kind of men I wish I knew better. Except for Nathaniel, who's taken a liking to me, the others might as well be strangers. And whose fault is that? It's mine for not making the effort to get to know them as they grew up.

"I'm rooting for you, mate," Sinclair says as he joins us. "I always side with the underdog."

He and the other members of the Seven started these fights in this parking lot back when they were rebellious schoolboys. It gained popularity and they decided to keep it going, with the stipulation that all proceeds go to charity. Entry to fight or attend is strictly by invitation.

Sinclair pulls out his phone, fingers tapping rapidly on the screen. Nathaniel's phone buzzes, and he looks down with a smirk. "Well, you're at least a good loser, you wanker. Get ready to lose some more money."

"Did you bet against me?" I retort sharply.

Sinclair looks sheepish. "Couldn’t pass up the opportunity of a fast buck. Just for shits and giggles, of course."
"Of course." I narrow my gaze on Nathaniel. "And you’ve been collecting bets from your brothers, I assume?"

Nathaniel’s grin widens. "And the assembled crowds. You’ll be glad to know the odds are one hundred to one against you."
"Thanks for the pep talk." I rise to my feet and brush past both of them, stalking in the direction of the ring. A series of boos greets me, but I keep going.
"I’ve asked Doc Weston to be on standby to treat you." Nathaniel, who’s on my heels, nods to where the doc is watching me with a sympathetic look on his face.
"There’s an ambulance outside?—"
I raise my hand.

Nathaniel, mercifully, shuts up when I say, "I won’t be needing it."
I don’t need that ambulance. I don't. Maybe if I repeat that often enough, I'll convince myself? I bounce on the balls of my feet, then duck and avoid a blow. What was I thinking, taking on a man younger than me? Rayden’s bloody good at this. And I’m a little rusty.
He bares his teeth, throws an uppercut which lands. The pain bursts across my jawline, but it's not enough to absolve me. I will never stop feeling guilty, even if I was only indirectly responsible for what happened to Rayden’s wife.

Another hit. This time he sinks that barbell-sized fist of his into my side. Pain sears up my spine. Sparks flash behind my eyes. I stumble back. Motherfucker. He definitely bruised a rib or two. I shake my head to clear it.

“Again” I yell at him. “Hit me again.”
Sweat pours down my forehead, stinging my eyes. He glares at me, eyes shooting darts of hate before he throws another punch.

This one smashes into the side of my head. Pain is a bullet that streaks down my spine. Fuck. I see stars. Feel myself sway, then manage to find my balance. Each breath I take sends a message of agony to my brain.

I shake my head to clear it, but that only sparks a fresh burst of torment in my bloodstream. Rayden glowers at me but makes no move to strike further.
“Do it! Throw another punch.”

When he hesitates, I throw an uppercut and make contact with his chin. It’s as if I’ve rammed into the side of a bunker as pain whizzes through my mind, but there’s not a grunt from him. Or a cry of pain. The man’s been silent. Grim. Not a single syllable escapes him.

He could be carved from granite, or from hurt. The kind of hurt that eats into you, slowly, surely, over the years, gnawing at you from the inside, eating up your flesh, settling in your bones, your teeth, until you taste it, smell it, see it in everything around you. Until it becomes you and you… become a shadow of your past, someone who sees a black hole in the future.
“Hit. Me. Asshole,” I bite out through gritted teeth.

He doesn’t move. Fuck. Can’t he see I deserve every blow? Every bite of pain? “I’m responsible for the suffering you're going through, or have you forgotten?”
An ugly look comes into his eyes. A growl rumbles up his throat. I can hear it over the screaming of the crowds. He bares his teeth, throws up his fist.

I dance out of reach. “That’s right. It’s all me,” I spit out.
Tension coils through his frame. He rushes at me, but I step out of the way. When he turns on me, I throw up my arm to block his next punch. “I didn't know—” I block his next punch. “We had an informer—” I duck his next hit. “He colluded with our enemies—” I jump back to avoid his next blow. “Led your wife’s team into a trap. If I'd known… I'd've stopped them.” I force out the words.

His shoulders bulge. Knotted ropes of muscle flex beneath his skin, then with a roar, he swings at me; I step to the side, and his knuckles graze my arm. Pain pinches my nerve-endings, but I shove it into that dark space inside of me where I can’t access it. The space I drew upon when I had to find my focus and give orders on a mission.

“I was the team leader," I pant, "I could have called off the strike.”

A muscle works at his jawline. A vein pops at his temple. Hatred distorts his expression, and he rushes me.

He punches me in the torso. I grunt. “That’s it. I deserve it.”
Another punch to my chest. The breath wheezes out of me. “More. Hit me more." It’s because of me you’re in pain. You need revenge for what I did to you.

He buries his fist in my side. I bite down on my tongue to swallow my groan and taste blood. “I made the decision to bomb the space," I taunt, "knowing they were there.”
Another noise, this time like the growl of a wounded animal, emerges from Rayden’s throat. He rains blows to my sides, my stomach, my chest, in such quick succession, it feels like I’ve been struck by a hail of canon-balls. Fucking hell! Sensations zing through to my pain centers in such rapid succession, I groan.
I’m pushed back until I hit the ropes, and still, he keeps coming. Fuck, fuck, fuck. At this rate I won’t survive another minute. I need to stay upright to get the rest of my confession out.
I try to get in a counterpunch, but he dances away, only to land another one in my stomach. The air rushes out of me. I grunt, blink the blood out of my eyes, and with what feels like superhuman effort, I throw my arms around his neck.

I try to smother his punches to get some control over the proceedings, try to get my breath and my energy back. My nephew is bloody good at this.

I stifle the pride that coils in my chest, tighten my hold around him and place my mouth next to his ear. “Listen to me, boy—” He struggles to get free, but I rein him in. “They gave up their lives so many more could live. You’d have done the same in my place. They knew what they were getting into when they enrolled.”

He makes a growling sound—half rage, half pain—in the back of his throat. For what it’s worth, at least he’s listening. “Nothing I say will ease your pain. I’ll go through life with the death of your wife and her team on my conscience. Even knowing I did my duty; I’ll never forgive myself.”

He flexes his enormous shoulders and breaks through my hold again.
He pushes on my shoulders and uses the leverage to take a step back. He swings his rear fist up in a hooking arc position which connects with my temple.

Spit flies out of my mouth. The world tilts. My face feels like I’ve run into a tank—or Rayden…

Same thing.

I crumple against the ropes. The fluorescent lights above waver in front of my eyes. I blink. Then Rayden’s grim countenance fills my line of sight. This is the time when a referee should be there, counting down to see if I'll rise, but there is no one to help me. I deserve to lose this match. I deserve to lay here bleeding. I deserve the agony that threatens to overcome me. The darkness that closes in on me. Rayden loved her and lost her because of me. I’ve never loved in my life. There’s no one waiting for me. No one I’d walk off this platform on my own strength for. No one?—

"Quincy!"

Her voice breaks through to me. It cuts through the self-loathing that consumes my thoughts. The hatred I've wrapped around myself like a cloak. The despair that traps me in its dark embrace.

"Quincy!" Her voice is louder now, drawn out.

I glance past Rayden's shoulder to where she stands near the ring. Fists clenched, shoulders tense, green eyes ablaze with... not hatred, but fear. Is it for me? A crack forms in the barrier I've erected around my heart.

She inhales sharply, clenches her jaw, and shouts, "Quincy, fight!"