Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book One) (3 page)

F
our fights and four knock outs later here he was squirming in seat 43B. Bretten popped two Dramamine in his dry mouth and choked them down with the aid of a cup of stale water. He straightened up and inhaled deeply while rolling his shoulders. His back popped and he twisted to the left then right. He really wanted his orange juice and vodka. He supposed it wasn’t the best drink only two days before fighting in a much bigger gymnasium than the one in which he dropped Bobby Baker, but he still had almost ten hours on this metal contraption and didn’t plan on being awake for most of it.

The clang of the drink cart announced its approach. Bretten cranked his already stiff neck around to see a petite Korean flight attendant. A moment later he sucked down his first gulp of OJ and vodka and his eye lids grew heavy. He glanced at the now three rows gone Korean flight attendant and her drink cart. It sat idle at row forty.

* * *

The flight attendant leaned over to serve a rugged young man with close-cut black hair. He ordered orange juice too, but without the vodka. Rodrigo Cortez had a fight in a couple of days.

After a sip of his juice, he turned back to
Fight Masters: Bruce Lee and Beyond
. The book was a new addition to his massive martial arts collection. Even so, he had an idea of its content and smiled when he read Bruce’s familiar words about emptying your mind and being formless, like water.

Rodrigo took the advice to heart and tried to be water, ever changing with his environment, flowing.

The kid next to him, maybe 13 years old, smacked his gum loudly. Rodrigo looked his way. “You wanna piece?” the boy asked.

“No thanks,” Rodrigo said. “I got my fill of gum in high school, sold it to all the other kids and chewed it all the time.”

“Sold gum? Why’d you do that?”

“To pay for martial arts classes.”

“What, you didn’t have any parents?”

“Had a mom, but she was…” Rodrigo glanced at the kid trying to decide if he should be honest, “she was a stripper and strung out half the time.”

“Dude, sorry about that,” the kid said.

“It’s all good. She was unreliable and I spent a lot of time alone watching TV. I saw this man and started following his advice.” Rodrigo pointed to the words of Bruce Lee.

“That’s cool. Did you do martial arts?”

“Yeah, there was a gym close by. My mom gave me money sometimes, sometimes she didn’t. I had to make money so I went into the gum-selling business.”

“That’s cool. So what do you do now?”

“I was a writer, paid a little better than selling gum, but now I’m a professional cagefighter.”

The boy stopped smacking his gum and looked at Rodrigo once again. It seemed he was trying to figure out if his new friend was full of shit. “That’s kick ass man,” he finally said.

The kid was right. It did kick ass. Not that he was an adrenaline junkie or liked the pain that came with his profession, but fighting gave him the freedom that he didn’t have as a kid because he was able to take charge of his life.

In between training and watching Bruce Lee movies, he read books and soaked up the life and philosophy of Bruce Lee, Jeet Kun Do, and a number of other famous martial artists from Jackie Chan to Chuck Norris to Helio Gracie.

His mom knew he was training, and for some reason started calling him “Hot” Rod because of it. Rodrigo decided it was as good of a nickname as any once he started fighting.

By sixteen Rodrigo was participating in grappling tournaments and beating grown men. By seventeen he was lying about his age and winning real mixed martial arts fights.

After graduation he went to college only forty-five minutes from his home. The stretch of highway gave him a little bit of breathing room from his mom’s crazy life, and Rodrigo had to be the only freshman with a 4-0 professional mixed martial arts record.

He remained ambitious. He was in a hurry to break free of all constraints, to become his own man and live his life.

During his college years Rodrigo won seven more fights while losing only one. He’d gotten a small scholarship, but needed student loans so money was tight. He didn’t get a job like most college kids. Instead, he wrote a novel that was loosely based on his life,
Growing up a Secret Fighter
. The book almost made the bestseller’s list, so only months after early graduation the sequel,
Secret Fighter: A Life Lost
was published. It was even more popular.

Since he was 14 years old Rodrigo had sold thousands of pieces of gum, graduated from high school and college, wrote two successful novels, and compiled a professional mixed martial arts record of 11-1. “Hot” Rodrigo Cortez had piled a lifetime of excitement into a pretty short period of time in an effort to be able to do what he wanted, when he wanted.

With the funds from his two novels shrinking by the month he had to get serious about one or the other, fighting or writing.

Since he was sitting in seat 40A, angled on his right butt cheek because his left was throbbing, as Korean Air Flight 738 carried him toward another fight, it seemed he’d made his decision.

He glanced at his personal TV screen embedded in the back of the seat in front of him. The giant airplane was just southwest of Alaska, centered between the Bering Strait and the Aleutian Islands.

With every second he hurtled through the frigid night sky toward a new challenge. He was ready for it and knew he had to be. After a 12-1 start he dropped two fights in a row. The first was a tough decision loss. The second though, and his last time in the cage, was horrendous.

Tristan Holmes was twelve pounds lighter than Rodrigo, but he’d beaten him badly and sunk in a deep armbar at 1:32 of the third round. The submission shot torrents of pain that began in his elbow and raced through the rest of his arm until the former chewing-gum-dealing novelist tapped out.

As he remembered the fight, the mistakes he made, the punishing blows, the kicks to the ribs, and finally the submission, he rubbed his right arm.

C
oach Whit Daulton stood in the hallway of Seoul’s Hyatt Hotel and rapped on Tristan Holmes’ door. Through a brow thick with scar tissue, he squinted at himself in a full-length mirror. He frowned at the sight of the white flecks of hair around his temples before turning his attention downward. He was dressed in tight blue jeans, a white button down shirt with thin navy blue horizontal stripes, sleek black boots, and a black leather jacket. He knocked again a little bit louder.

He’d just done the same across the hall in an effort to rouse Brooke Simms. She opened the door just as Whit bent down to pick up the USA Today and felt the familiar pinch in his left knee.

“Moving slow old man,” Brooke said as she scooped up her own USA Today. “Anton really busted you up didn’t he?”

“Good morning to you too, and who won the fight pup?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah you did. I’ve seen it many times.”

They were talking about Anton Emelianenko. Whit had beaten his brothers, Igor and Wladimir, so Anton wanted a crack with a fight that wouldn’t end until somebody was KO’d or tapped.

The special rules made for a spectacular bout that took its toll on both men. Whit ended up with a broken forearm and damaged left knee, while Anton broke his fibula, a bone in his left foot, and a finger. After just over 47 minutes, Whit finished it with a triangle choke.

The Tokyo Times, Fighters Only Magazine, Yahoo Sports and a host of others considered the bout the best ever in the short history of modern mixed martial arts.

“Maybe you’ve heard,” Whit said, “but that fight led to my own candy bar—”

“God Coach, not your candy bar again.”

“You probably got stacks of them in your closet,” Whit said. “Matter of fact, you going to be able to make weight tomorrow?”

“Hilarious,” Brooke said as she rolled her eyes and smacked him on the arm with the rolled up paper. “Weight’s fine and your candy bars sucked almost as bad as the commercial.”

The
Whit Candy Bar
commercial, in tune with the theme of many comical Japanese commercials, ended with Whit holding one of the chocolaty treats, throwing a punch and smashing the lens, dropping the camera man in the process. Then with the broken camera pointing at his boots Whit leaned down and in a growling voice said, “Whit candy bars, pack a mean punch.”

“I liked the commercial,” Whit said. Then he cupped his hands against the hotel room door and said, “It’s five forty-five Tristan, out the door by six, get your lazy butt up.”

* * *

At five minutes after six, Tristan Holmes, blonde hair still wet, pushed through a group of Korean women and found Whit and Brooke in oversized chairs reading their USA Todays. “Six by my watch Whit,” he said.

“Your watch is a piece of shit.”

“Yeah Tristan, new sponsorship should mean new watch, or even a nice alarm clock so you don’t have to make excuses for being late,” Brooke said.

Tristan started to protest, but Whit held up his hand. “Alarm clock, or how about a wake-up call.”

“Fine, maybe I’ll get one of those fake Rolex’s while we’re here. Screw the alarm clock though. I’d rather use my phone or get that service where Pamela Anderson calls to wake you up.”

Whit nodded in admiration for the last idea.

After breakfast, Tristan and Brooke piled into the backseat of Mr. Pak’s official looking black four-door Kia sedan. They were off to a meet and greet at Osan Airbase. Afterward they were to return to Yongsan Army Garrison in Seoul to meet with the soldiers.

Mr. Pak cut into traffic and everyone settled in for the hour long drive. Whit had been their coach for almost three years now since Tristan’s dad, Scott Holmes, got out of the fight business altogether. Whit considered Scott a great coach, but he’d heard the rumors. Scott started drinking the hard stuff and seemed disgusted at the world. He alienated everyone, even his son and Brooke, the girl he’d saved from the streets when she was only nine years old. Whit didn’t know the cause of Scott’s crash, and figured if Tristan or Brooke knew anything they’d get around to telling him one day.

He felt the tension between the two. He liked Tristan, but sometimes wasn’t so sure about him. Whit couldn’t put his finger on it, but assumed it was because of his own affection for Brooke. He’d never had a daughter, but imagined if he ever did she would be just like her, a fighter before she ever should have had to fight. He knew much of her story. She did a good job of hiding the hurt, but sometimes Whit could see it in her eyes.

Brooke had become part of the family when Scott saved her, but once they were older Tristan and Brooke began dating. Supposedly after almost a year it had ended cordially, but now Tristan held some sort of unexplainable resentment toward her.

The drive to Osan was tame by Korean standards. They arrived at the gate, presented their passports, signed paperwork, and received their special visitor passes. The machine gun-clad Security Policemen were big fans and blushed like school children when Whit handed them autographed pictures.

“I bet they like my candy bar,” Whit said to Brooke as they entered the air base.

Brooke rolled her eyes and smiled.

T
he conveyer belt at baggage claim 3E churned as Bretten took in the strange surroundings. This was his first time outside of the United States and he didn’t have the slightest idea as to what Korea held. He didn’t even have a coach or a confidant to offer any guidance.

He glanced to his left and saw a tough looking young man about his age, an inch or two taller at maybe six foot, and fifteen or so pounds heavier. He was engrossed in
Fight Masters Bruce Lee and Beyond
.

“Bruce Lee fan?” Bretten asked.

A little foggy-eyed, Rodrigo looked up. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I noticed your book. Looks like you’re a Bruce Lee fan.”

“He only changed my life.”

“Changed your life?”

“Yeah bro, totally, he made me like water.”

“Cool,” Bretten said, glad the conveyer belt started spitting out luggage so he could get away from this nutcase.

Minutes later, luggage in hand, he made his way through the sliding glass double doors into a sea of waiting Koreans. He was told by one of the event coordinators to look for a man with a sign that displayed his name.

After some searching, Bretten found the sign. The man shifted his gaze, smiled and bowed deeply, “Ahn-yang-aha-sayo, Hello, I Mr. Kim.” Then he clasped his white cotton gloved hand around Bretten’s and shook.

The handshake ended and Bretten looked up and noticed that the Bruce Lee fanatic was shoulder to shoulder with him. He envisioned shooting in for a single leg if the guy tried the famous Bruce Lee one-inch punch. Instead the man bowed to Mr. Kim and introduced himself as Rodrigo Cortez.

They walked through the crowded airport and Rodrigo and Bretten introduced themselves.

“Bretten, not Brett?” Rodrigo asked.

“Naw, I’m named after a small village in Germany, my mom saw it on a road sign as she traveled through Europe one summer and liked the name, so it’s Bretten. How about you, not Rod?

“Hell no, sounds too much like a porn star name.”

The group circled through revolving doors and into the Korean sunlight. They slipped through a wall of cigarette smoke as it wafted from a group of taxi drivers. The two fighters headed for the first available taxi and one of the men came to life. Mr. Kim though, in his nice suit and white gloves said, “No, no, no, I your driver, professional number one driver, those tacshi drivers are much too danger, our car is over here.”

Rodrigo slapped Bretten on the back. “Hear that, professional, we’ve made it to the big time. Who are you fighting?”

“Hyun Min Cho,” Bretten said, “supposed to be tough.”

“Yeah he is, fought in
Pride
over in Japan for a couple of years. He’s something like 18-4, hope you’re ready. I’ve got Song Min Chu. He’s only had a few fights.”

Bretten wished he’d done a little more research before signing the agreement. It was less than half a year ago when he grubbed down two hot dogs and KO’d “Bone Crusher”. His stomach turned as he settled into the back of “Number one driver” Mr. Kim’s sedan, but at least figured he’d have some time to relax and gather himself. It was almost an hour to the Dong In Hotel. “Who’s cornering you, Rodrigo?”

“I’m solo, not big enough yet to have them pay for a coach to fly over too.”

“I’m in the same boat. Maybe we can corner each other?”

“Sure, like I said earlier, I’m like water.”

“What do you mean, like water?”

“Water is formless. It adapts to its surroundings. It’s perfectly flexible. Nothing can shake it.”

Mr. Kim gave Bretten little time to consider Rodrigo’s words. He turned and said, “Okay, ready, ready, Kap-shee-dah, let’s go!”

Bretten was ready to get to the hotel, but they were behind a bus and pinned between the line of taxis and the curb.

“Be like water, unshakable, I like it Rodrigo.”

“Water my friend, water.”

Mr. Kim mumbled under his breath, glanced over his right shoulder, jammed on the gas and cranked the wheels to the right. The sedan bounced up on the curb, slalomed through piles of scattered luggage, and just missed a man and his two daughters who clung to odd parts of a moped. If it wasn’t for the man’s expert driving and the girls’ perfect leans, they no doubt would have crashed.

Once by the parked bus, Mr. Kim mashed the horn and shot off the curb into a line of slow moving taxis. In an instant he was swerving in and out of the speeding traffic with a reckless abandon for all street signs and a total disregard for painted lines. He fit in seamlessly with the chaos. “So you two big fighters?”

“I don’t know about big,” Bretten said, “but yeah we’re here to fight.”

“Takes strong man to fight. I take good care for you,” Mr. Kim stared at them in his rearview mirror and cut off a bus as he changed lanes.

The event coordinator said it was almost an hour from airport to hotel. Mr. Kim pulled into the Dong In hotel only thirty minutes after hopping the curb and just missing the moped family back at the airport.

“Okay, okay, I help you. Later I take you to gym.”

Rodrigo and Bretten glanced at each other. Both were still squeezing the sedan’s ceiling handles.

“See, like water...” Rodrigo said.

“I think the water is down both my pant legs,” Bretten replied.

Mr. Kim gave both of them a puzzled look.

Often people become much closer when they experience a distressing event together. Mr. Kim provided Bretten and Rodrigo with such an event. In a matter of half an hour they’d formed a friendship that they knew would last.