Page 86 of Retaliation

“Whoever can beat me tonight will receive a total of twenty thousand dollars.”

The crowd erupted in applause. The guard she handed the briefcase to in the hallway climbed into the ring and opened it to show the crowd its contents gleaming under the harsh lights of the arena. The sight sent the crowd into a frenzy.

“The rules are simple,” she announced, her voice cutting through the chaos with a steely edge. “It’s a knockout tournament. Fight until you’re knocked out, or tap out. No weapons, no foul play. Standard ring rules apply. Anyone caught breaking these rules will be handled accordingly.”

Her gaze swept over the sea of faces, locking onto those of the fighters in the crowd, but not seeing the dark irises she was looking for.

“You fight me,” she continued, her tone brooking no argument. “And the tournament ends when I’m knocked out.”

Her challenge was declared, daring anyone to step forward and face her in the ring.

A hush fell over the crowd as she surveyed them, her eyes narrowing as she searched for potential challengers.

“You can place your bets at the beginning of each match, and no one else may enter the ring. Am I making myself clear?”

The mass cheered in acceptance.

“Any takers?” she called out, her voice ringing clear and commanding.

She scanned the crowd again, but there was still no sight of Scorpion. Did Gunnar lie to her to lure her onto enemy turf? She couldn’t accept the thought. Not after he helped to save her territory.He’ll show, she said to herself.

The first volunteer stepped up to the ring.

“We’ve got ourselves a challenger,” she called into the microphone. “Let the fight begin!”

Pulling on the microphone, she sent it ascending into the darkened ceiling and pulled off her cloak, throwing it over the arm of the guard stepping out of the ring with the cash.

Her opponent vaulted over the ropes, tossing his red hoodie onto a corner post with a casual flick. He spat to the side, a mixture of nerves and bravado evident in the gesture, before raising his fists to chin height, a silent signal that he was ready to begin.

As she and her opponent circled each other, the tension in the air crackled, their movements mirroring those of predators sizing each other up before the kill. Then, in a heartbeat, the dance of combat began.

With a lightning-fast strike, her opponent aimed a punch straight at her face, his vision clouded by the promise of victory, dollar signs in his eyes. But her instincts were sharper than his ambition. She sidestepped his blow effortlessly, watching as he stumbled forward, off balance and vulnerable.

In that split second, Poison seized her opportunity. Her fists blurred with speed as she unleashed precise strikes, each one finding its mark with deadly accuracy. With every punch, she drove him back, her blows relentless and unforgiving.

Then, with a final, decisive right hook, she sent her opponent crashing to the ground like a fallen tree. She stood over him for a moment, her chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline, before straightening up and fixing the crowd with a fierce glare.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she roared, her voice echoing through the arena. “Come on! Give me a real challenge!”

THIRTY

Poison didn’t have to wait long before another opponent swaggered up to the ring, his presence met with a flurry of activity as the crowd hurried to place their bets. As he climbed into the ring, he attempted to rally some enthusiasm from the spectators, but their response was less than welcoming. They began to boo him mercilessly, their disdain clear in the thunderous chorus of disapproval. In response, he defiantly flipped them off, a crude gesture that elicited a chuckle from Poison. It was clear he wasn’t exactly a crowd favorite in the underground.

Turning his attention to her, he began to bounce on the balls of his feet, his movements fluid and calculated. His face betrayed his annoyance at the crowd’s reaction, but he maintained his focus, stretching his arms and neck muscles with deliberate precision. It was obvious that he preferred to rely on his legs rather than his arms, obvious in the way he kept himself light-footed and agile. His hands remained at hip height, a clear indication that he had no intention of engaging in very close combat. He didn’t bother to clench his fists, a sign that he was a kicker through and through.

In the blink of an eye, she processed all this information. Like her opponent before him, he was too eager to seize the prize money, his focus scattered and his strategy flawed. As he launched a kick toward her stomach, she effortlessly sidestepped, her movements graceful and exact. With a fluid rotation, she delivered a punishing roundhouse kick, the heel of her foot finding its mark with lethal accuracy.

The force of her blow sent him hurtling to the ground, his body crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut. He lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious and defeated, his face pressed against the cold surface. If her kick had been any more powerful, it might have snapped his neck like a twig. But for now, he was simply another fallen opponent in her relentless quest.

The stadium fell into a momentary hush, a fleeting silence filled with expectation, before erupting into a deafening choir of cheers and chants, each repetition of “Poison” reverberating through the air like a battle cry. It was a testament to her dominance, her prowess in the ring. With each opponent she defeated, the fervor of the crowd only grew, a symphony of adulation.

But amidst the triumph, Poison’s mind raced, her eyes still scanning the sea of faces for a familiar figure, a hint of recognition in the throng of spectators. Yet, amid the swirling mass of bodies, Scorpion remained nowhere to be seen, a phantom presence that eluded her grasp. The arena was teeming with outsiders and nomads, their faces unfamiliar and indistinguishable from the rest.

Her third opponent emerged, a towering figure with a commanding presence, his imposing frame casting a shadow over her. But like those before him, he was swiftly dispatched, his form collapsing under the weight of her relentless assault. With practiced precision, Poison seized upon his vulnerability, her arms wrapping around his neck in a vice-like grip until he crumpled to the ground like an empty sack.

As her fifth opponent was carried away, unconscious and defeated, Poison found herself breathless but unscathed, her determination unwavering. Each opponent was a puzzle to be solved, a challenge to be overcome, and she met them with unwavering resolve. Yet, as she stood in the middle of the ring, arms outstretched in a defiant gesture, a pang of disappointment gnawed at her insides.

“I’ve beaten five of your so-called best,” she thundered, her voice cutting through the din of the crowd, her accusatory finger pointing toward the masses.

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