Hostage (3 page)

Dan wiped the sweat off Connor’s face
with a towel. ‘See the guy in the second row?’

Connor glanced towards a man in his late
forties with silver-grey hair trimmed into a severe crew cut. He sat among the cheering
spectators, a tournament programme in one hand, his eyes discreetly studying Connor.

‘He’s a manager scouting for
talent.’

All of a sudden Connor felt an additional
pressure to succeed. This could be his chance at the international circuit, to compete
for world titles and even
earn sponsorship deals. Besides his own
ambition, he was keenly aware that his family could do with the money.

The bell rang for the third and final
round.

‘Now go win this fight!’ Dan
urged, giving Connor an encouraging slap on the back.

Popping the gumshield into his mouth, Connor
stood to face Jet – determined to win more than ever.

His opponent bobbed lightly on his toes,
seemingly as fresh as in the first round. The crowd whooped and hollered as the two
fighters squared up beneath the white-hot glare of the ring’s spotlights. They
stared at one another, neither willing to show the slightest sign of weakness. As soon
as their gloves touched, Jet launched straight into his attack – a blistering
combination of jab, cross, jab, hook.

Connor evaded the punches and countered with
a front kick. The ball of his foot collided with Jet’s stomach and his opponent
doubled over. Keeping up the pressure, Connor trapped Jet against the ropes with a
torrent of punches. But Jet refused to back down. With the ferocity of a cornered tiger,
he blasted Connor with multiple body blows. Each strike weakened Connor a little more
and he was forced to retreat. As he stepped away, Jet caught him with a crippling shin
kick to the thigh. Connor buckled, opening himself up to another hook punch. Jet threw
all his weight behind the attack. At the last second, Connor ducked and the fist glanced
off the top of his head.

Realizing he’d been lucky to escape
the hook this time, Connor now knew Jet was gunning to knock him down with
that
punch.

Like two gladiators, they battled back and
forth across the ring. Sweat poured from Connor’s brow, his breathing hard, his
blood pumping, as the punches and kicks came thick and fast. Connor felt his energy
ebbing. But he couldn’t give up now. There was too much at stake.

‘Stay light on your feet!’
bawled Dan from his ringside corner.

Jet launched a roundhouse to the head.
Connor double-blocked it with his arms and countered with a side-kick. Jet leapt away
then immediately drove back in, fists flying. The crowd was now going wild at the epic
to-and-fro of combat. Connor’s name was chanted to the rafters by his friends from
the Tiger Martial Arts Dojo: ‘CON-NOR! CON-NOR!’

Jet’s supporters screamed back with
equal ferocity. The shouts reached fever-pitch as they entered the closing seconds of
the bout. Connor realized if he didn’t knock Jet down, his opponent would likely
win on points. But exhaustion was getting the better of him.

‘
Don’t drop your
guard!
’ Dan screamed at him in frustration from his corner.

Jet spotted the gap in Connor’s
defence and went for it. Jab, cross …
hook!

But Connor had been feigning the weakness to
draw his opponent in … and Jet had taken the bait. With lightning speed, he sidestepped
the attack and thrust in a jab, stunning his opponent. Then, whipping his rear leg
round, he executed a spinning hook-kick. Jet never saw what hit him as Connor’s
heel connected with the side of his head. Jet’s black gumshield
shot out of his mouth and he crashed to the deck in a heap. A second later the bell
rang to end the fight.

A dazed Jet staggered to his feet, helped by
the referee. Connor bowed his respect to his opponent, who gave a begrudging nod in
return. The presiding judge stepped into the ring. Clasping a microphone, he announced:
‘The UK title for the Under Sixteens Battle of Britain Kickboxing Tournament goes
to … CONNOR REEVES!’

The crowd roared in celebration as Connor
was presented with the trophy, a silver figure of a kickboxer atop a column of white
marble. Connor felt a wave of elation and raised the prize high above his head in
acknowledgement of his supporters.

Dan gripped him round the shoulders.
‘Congratulations, Champ!’ he said, grinning. ‘Your father would be so
proud of you.’

Connor looked up at the glittering trophy
and at the cheering spectators. He dearly wished his dad could have been by his side to
share this moment. His father was the one who’d encouraged him to start martial
arts in the first place. It had been his passion – and it was Connor’s too.

‘I have to admit, you had me worried
there for a second,’ said Dan.

‘Feign and fight,’ replied
Connor. ‘You taught me that trick, remember? So you deserve to hold this as much
as me.’

Passing Dan the trophy, he glanced towards
the second row and was disappointed to see the silver-haired man had gone.

‘Wasn’t the manager impressed
then?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about
him,’ Dan admitted with a playful wink as he brandished the trophy.
‘I’ve no idea who that man was. I just wanted you to fight at the top of
your game – and you did!’

A chill wind hit Connor as he emerged from
the ExCel Centre in the London Docklands and headed for the bus stop on Freemasons Road.
The grey February sky was unforgiving, the tail end of winter refusing to loosen its
grip. But not even the dismal weather could dampen Connor’s spirits. He was the UK
Kickboxing Champion and had the trophy in his kitbag to prove it. He couldn’t wait
to show his gran – she was his biggest fan, after all.

Pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt,
Connor shouldered his kitbag and crossed the bridge spanning the Docklands Light
Railway. He dodged the traffic on the opposite side and was passing a row of boarded-up
shops when he heard a cry for help.

Halfway down a littered alley, he spotted a
smartly dressed Indian boy surrounded by a gang of youths. It was obvious that a man
heading for the train station had also heard the cry. But, averting his gaze, he hurried
past the scene.

Scared of being knifed
, thought
Connor.
And who’d blame him?

But Connor couldn’t walk away.
The
strong have a duty to protect the weak
, his father had taught him. That was the
reason his father had joined the army. And why he’d encouraged Connor to take up
martial arts. He never wanted his son to be a victim.

The gang leader shoved the boy against the
alley wall and began to rifle through his pockets.

‘Leave him alone!’ shouted
Connor.

Almost as one, the gang turned to face their
challenger.

‘This ain’t got nothing to do
with you, mate,’ said the leader. ‘Leg it!’

Connor ignored the warning and strode
towards them. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’

‘This loser ain’t got no
friends,’ the boy said, spitting at his victim’s feet, clearly not believing
Connor’s bluff.

Drawing level with the gang, Connor
eyeballed the leader. Dressed in baggy jeans and a Dr Dre T-shirt, the lad was a good
few inches taller than him and well built. With a broad chest, bulging biceps and fists
like hammers, the boy could easily play front row in the school rugby team.
If he
still goes to school
, Connor thought
.

The rest of the gang – two boys and a girl –
were less intimidating but still dangerous as a pack. One boy in Converse trainers,
baggy jeans and a grey hoodie held a skateboard, his face pockmarked with spots. The
other wore carbon-copy baggy jeans, a puffer jacket and a red Nike baseball cap, tipped
at a ‘too cool for you’ angle on his bleached blond hair. The girl, who was
Chinese with a jet-black bob and a piercing through her nose, wore dark
eyeshadow, emo-style, and Dr Marten boots. She shot Connor a hard stare.

‘Let’s go,’ said Connor to
his new friend, keeping his voice low and even. He didn’t want to show how nervous
he really was. He might be trained in kickboxing and jujitsu, but he wasn’t
looking for a fight. His jujitsu teacher had drilled into him that violence was the last
resort. Especially when outnumbered four to one –
that
was just asking for
trouble.

The Indian boy took a hesitant step towards
him, but the gang leader planted a hand on his chest. ‘You’re going
nowhere.’

Frozen to the spot with fear, the boy looked
to Connor in wide-eyed desperation.

A tense stand-off now ensued between Connor
and the gang. Connor’s eyes flicked to each gang member, his kitbag at the ready
to protect himself in case one of them pulled a knife.

‘I said, leave him alone,’ he
repeated, edging between the gang and their victim.

‘And I said, mind your own
business,’ replied the leader, launching a fist straight at the boy’s
face.

As the terrified boy let out a yelp, Connor
moved in and deflected the punch with a forearm block. Then he took up a fighting
stance, fists raised, defying the gang to come any closer.

Glaring at Connor, the leader broke into a
mocking laugh. ‘Watch out, everyone! It’s the Karate Kid!’

Don’t laugh too soon
, thought
Connor, unshouldering his kitbag.

The leader sized up Connor. Then he swung a
wild right hook at Connor’s head. With lightning reflexes, Connor ducked, drove
forwards and delivered a powerful punch to the gut in return.

The unexpected strike should have floored
the gang leader, but he was much stronger than he looked. Instead of collapsing, he
merely grunted and came back at Connor with a combination of jab, cross and upper cut.
Connor went on the defensive. As he blocked each attack, it became blindingly obvious
the lad was a trained boxer. Having underestimated his opponent, Connor rapidly
reassessed his tactics. Although Connor was faster, the gang leader had the advantage of
power and reach. And, without gloves, this fight had the potential to be deadly – just
one of those sledgehammer fists could land him in hospital.

The bigger they are, the harder they
fall
, thought Connor, recalling how in jujitsu a larger opponent could be
defeated by using their strength against themselves.

As the gang leader let loose a vicious
roundhouse punch to his head, Connor entered inside its arc and spun his body into his
attacker. Redirecting the force of the strike, he flung the lad over his hip and
body-dropped him to the concrete. The leader hit the ground so hard all the breath was
knocked out of him. The gang stared in disbelief at their fallen leader, while the
Indian boy could barely suppress a grin of delight at seeing his tormentor squirm in the
dirt.

‘Get … him!’ the leader wheezed,
unable to rise.

The boy with the Nike baseball cap charged
in, executing a flying side-kick. Connor leapt to one side before realizing
his new friend was right behind him. With no time to spare, Connor
shoved him out of the kick’s path.

Nike’s foot struck the wall instead.
Incensed, he turned on Connor and launched a furious succession of spinning kicks.
Surprised at the boy’s skill, Connor was forced to retreat. As he backed away,
only instinct – born from hours of sparring – warned him of a simultaneous attack from
behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Hoodie step forward and swing the skateboard
at his head.

At the last second, Connor ducked. The tail
of the deck missed him by a whisker and struck Nike full in the face instead. The boy
fell to his knees, semi-concussed.

Hoodie, horrified at his mistake, was now an
open target. Connor took advantage and shot out a side-kick. But the boy reacted faster
than Connor expected and held up his deck as a shield. Having broken wooden blocks to
pass his black-belt grading, Connor knew the right technique. Gritting his teeth, he
drove on through – the board shattering rather than his foot. From there, it took Connor
a simple palm strike to floor Hoodie.

With all three boys out of action, the girl
now advanced on him.

Connor held up his hands in peace.
‘Listen, I don’t fight girls. Just walk away and we can forget all about
this.’

The girl stopped, tilted her head and smiled
sweetly at him. ‘How nice of you.’

Then she punched Connor straight in the
mouth, splitting his lip. With barely a pause, the girl followed through with a kick to
the thigh, her heavy Dr Martens
giving him a dead leg exactly where
Jet had struck him earlier in the bout. He crumpled against the wall.

‘I fight boys, though!’ she said
as Connor, stunned and hurting, tried to recover his balance.

The girl went to kick him again, but rather
than retreat Connor moved in and caught her leg in mid-swing. Struggling to free
herself, she struck for his neck with the edge of her hand. But Connor grabbed hold of
her wrist and twisted her arm into a lock, forcing her to submit. The girl squealed in
pain.