Uncaged (An MMA Stepbrother Romance) (76 page)

Pierce is limping. The bandage around his foot, what must have been once white, is now completely red, and in his wake he’s leaving crimson footsteps.

“Fuck,” I whisper beneath my breath.

The cage they’re approaching looks like it’s been used for fights before, but not for a long time. There are dried blood stains on the floor, splatter marks. The steel cage is rusty. It’s insane that I’m wondering if Pierce has had
his
shots…

Pierce’s torso has got a shine to it. The lines of his muscles seem to cut deeper. He’s sweaty already, and I wonder if that’s because he’s in pain, because he’s nervous, or both.

I’m fairly certain they haven’t been letting him warm-up on a bike or treadmill.

Pierce steps into the cage, and they close it behind him. I see a deadbolt lock, but there’s no padlock. Fallon and the guard approach me, stand in front of me. I can see the black grip of a pistol sticking out of the back of the guard’s pants.

I can work with that. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to get the fuck out of here. I know it. These bastards aren’t going to keep me.

Pierce does his customary intro routine; he walks around the cage. I don’t know why he’s putting on a show. Nobody is watching. The burly Russian, standing in the center, simply eyes him with amusement.

I can see Pierce talking to himself. He thumps his chest twice. I know he’s trying to psyche himself up.

Then he looks around. But there is no crowd here, no stands. He looks around until he finds me.

We lock eyes. He closes his right fist, kisses where his thumb meets his forefinger. He extends his arm, straight out, and with knuckles facing upward, points his index and middle finger at me.

I’m taken back in time to when I first saw him fight.

The girls, once screaming, fell quiet.

The crowd, once booming, left deafening silence.

All eyes were on me.

I groaned to myself, and adjusted my cardigan.

I blink, dragged back into the present. I’m not wearing a cardigan, but I know he’s sending me a message, and so I make the same gesture. I fiddle with my invisible buttons, but this time with both hands.

That’s when I show him, briefly, just a flash. I separate my wrists, break the last thread of plastic binding them together.

And then it’s over.

Nobody noticed.

But Pierce noticed.

I see the smirk on his lips, the glint in his eye.

We’re going to get out of this yet.

I
know
it.

“Ready?” Fallon calls, and he motions at the two fighters in the cage.

There’s Pierce, body tight, lean, not an ounce of fat on him. His veins bulge. His eyes blaze.

Across from stands the Russian, big, burly, a gigantic redwood of a man with enough heft to break through a solid concrete wall.

“Are
you?
” Pierce asks, looking at Fallon, but I know that he’s talking to me. His eyes flick to me for an instant, and I nod at him.

“Jesus Christ, mate,” Fallon says, laughing. “You’re bloody unbelievable.”

Pierce levels his eyes at his opponent. “Ready, Anton?”

The Russian gives Pierce a single, deep nod, and that’s when I see it on the top of his head, a huge scar running right down the center.

“What happened to his head?” I ask Fallon.

“He split it open in a fight. His skull.”

“Holy shit.”

“He finished the fight, too. Won.”

“Are you serious?”

Fallon turns around. “Dead serious. Blood was squirting out his head like a fucking fountain. It was one of the best fights I’ve ever seen. It was on the tape. Didn’t Pierce show you?”

I don’t answer him.

“Not looking good for your boy.”

I meet Fallon’s eyes. “Even with his foot he’s still the better fighter.”

“Get the fuck on with it already!” Fallon yells. He gestures at the Russian mobster, a tiny man, standing on the other side of the cage. He’s got goons with him, too, men in suits and sunglasses.

Pierce moves forward, and I notice his limp is gone. He’s not showing his weakness, even though it’s obvious. He’s not going to give his opponent any perceived upper hand.

He taps fists with Anton, and then they back up, and begin circling each other. I notice there is no ref, no doctor. This seems like a fucking cock fight… to the death.

Anton lunges first, covering enormous ground with massive strides. He kicks Pierce in the shin, sends Pierce stumbling backward, crashing into the cage.

But he pushes off the steel mesh, jumps off his hurt foot and punches Anton on the top of his head. Anton reels, shaking off the hit, rubbing his head and grinning.

This doesn’t seem like a disciplined fight. They look one moment away from just wailing on each other.

The Russian lunges again, and he wraps Pierce up, lifts him off the ground and squeezes. They’re wrestling, not fighting.

Pierce back-heels Anton’s knee, again and again, until he can squirm free of the barrel grip. He spins, throws an elbow into Anton’s chin.

And then he’s right up in Anton’s face, landing blow after blow into the burly man’s gut. He’s punching faster than I’ve ever seen him, hitting harder than I’ve ever seen him.

He roars, something primal, full of fury. He bends Anton over and knees him in the face, again and again. It’s six shots to the cheek before Anton pushes Pierce off him, and falls backward. His face is a bloodied, mangled mess.

But Pierce just goes even harder. He jumps onto Anton, rolls him over, tries to get him into a lock. He’s got his leg around Anton’s neck, and he’s holding onto his foot, pulling, pulling so hard it looks like he’ll choke the life out of Anton.

“Get him, Pierce!” Fallon yells. “Get that bastard!”

But Anton winds up his entire arm, stretched out, and lands a closed fist on Pierce’s hip. In an instant Pierce loses strength in his leg, can’t hold the lock, and Anton slips out.

“Come on,” I whisper, shaking my hands. My breathing is quick, my heart hammering. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, making my fingers tingle, making me feel like I’ve got all the energy in the world, like I could run like a sprinter or fight like a devil. Like I could get into that cage with Pierce and help him.

Pierce rolls the Russian over, and that’s when I see it, the leg lock. Pierce rolls again, grappling for position, and he finally slips his own leg beneath the Russian’s, and hooks it, twisting.

The Russian hits the floor with a closed fist. The thump is so loud I’m convinced that he’s left a dent in it.

Pierce twists, and he thumps the ground again.

“Do it,” I hiss, clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth. “Do it, Pierce.”

Pierce pulls and twists, and I see the moment it happens, the exact second ligament disconnects from bone. The kneecap twists to the side, along with the entire lower leg, and I instantly look away, feeling sick to my stomach.

It takes the Russian a moment to realize what’s happened, and then he lets out a droning moan of pain. It bounces off the steel walls, echoes for what feels like minutes. It’s a howl so long and loud that I tremble at hearing it. It’s haunting.

Pierce lets him go, and the Russian sits up, and looks down at his own dislocated knee. His whole lower leg is turned the wrong way around. Already his knee – what’s left of it – is turning blue and swelling.

He’ll be lucky if he can ever walk properly again.

Pierce, still on the ground, whirls a kick at the side of Anton’s head. The smack echoes. Anton is thrown onto his side, unmoving.

“Shit, he did it,” Fallon says in front of me. He turns around and grins at me. “Damn, your boy’s good.”

Pierce staggers backward, hands on his hips. His torso is drenched with blood and sweat.

He looks at me, and bellows, “Penny!”

Time slows. Sounds blur. My hair is floating.

I reach forward, grab the gun from the goon in front of me. I flick the safety with my thumb, aim it up at the ceiling, and pull the trigger.

Bang!

The kick hurts, throws my arms up. I pull them down, squeeze the trigger again, and again, and again.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

I hear the screech of metal, the ping of impacts, and the high-pitched bouncing of ricocheting bullets.

Everybody drops to the ground.

I sprint toward the cage.

“Pierce!” I cry. I slap open the deadbolt, wrench open the hinged door.

Pierce grabs my hand. I feel the moisture between our skin. It’s blood.

“Come on,” he says, and he pulls me.

I’m in his wake, and I can smell his sweat. I can smell metal. I think he’s going to run away, but instead he runs straight to Fallon. He grabs the gun from my hand, and points it at him, and before I know what’s happening, he’s got his knee up by his chest.

“No!” Fallon yells, but it’s too late. Pierce brings his leg down hard on Fallon’s thigh. I see the leg bend grotesquely before I hear the flesh-dulled snap of his femur.

Fallon mewls out in agony, grips onto his leg with wide, terrified eyes.

“Fucking told you I’d break it,” Pierce snarls. He shoots toward the Russians on the other side. They hit the deck again. He rubs the grip of the gun hastily on my shirt, then tosses it, and grabs my hand again.

We run toward the large shutter-doors, but on the way Pierce pulls me to the side.

“Look away,” he says, and I do, and moments later I hear the sound of shattering glass.

Fire alarms scream to life.

There’s screeching grinding, metal on metal. The whole building rumbles. Heavy steel doors begin to lower from the roof. I look at them, confused.

“Come on,” Pierce huffs, and he tugs me forward again. The doors closing from the ceiling seem like blast-doors. They’re obviously designed not just to keep everything out, but to keep everything in.

It clicks in my head. This is a chemical plant! These are security measures to prevent outside contamination. It’s containment.

“Faster!” he roars, tugging me harder. I run as fast as my feet will take me, but we’re still so far away from the big doors.

“Come on, Pen!” he yells, and I try, but I’m at the edge, and if I attempt to go faster I might just fall.

The blast doors are shutting down fast, and I will myself, force myself to run faster. I was never a quick runner, I was never good at sports, but I push, I push, fuck if I push.

“Yes!” I cry as I clear the doors ducking. Just milliseconds later, and we’d have been crushed at the hip. They slam shut hard, shaking the ground beneath my feet. The whole plant must be in lockdown. Fallon, the Russian mobsters, they’re stuck inside.

I turn to Pierce, look up at him, and that’s when I see his face is completely red. The cut on his head has opened even wider, and it’s just pouring a torrent of blood out.

“Oh no,” I groan, and I want to tell him, but he looks away, tugs me again, and we’re running again, this time toward the collection of parked cars. They’re all expensive, all completely conspicuous.

Mobsters
.

“Which one?” I say, breathless.

“They wrecked my car,” Pierce growls. “Take the best one.”