Page 6 of Steel Rain

When I left the Army, all of those “battle buddies” and colleagues just disappeared into the mist. When we no longer had work in common, there was nothing to hold us together. But Guile and I had the octagon. We had martial arts. It was the glue that could hold us.

He must have seen the desperation in my eyes because he eventually pulled some strings, and they let him bring me in as an opponent. He used all of his charm, and his clout as one of the handsomest fighters in the underground. He brought in big bucks - mostly in women. A bachelorette party once showed up and threw their bras at him after he won and bounced their freed mammary glands to the thrill of everyone around.

Now, even guys showed up in his corner, just in case it happened again.

I looked at my friend from behind my fingerless gloves. His lips puckered out from his yellow gum shield, his close-cropped hair still the same style as it had been when we were in the Army. He gave me a slight nod, a friendly show of companionship and respect. Then his fist came out in a quick jab. I dodged, letting it glance off my shoulder.

I jabbed back, and he blocked with a twist of his hip.

We circled each other, our bodies bouncing, staying light but rooted. I could almost hear his voice in my ear, coaching me through this. It was like we were doing an exercise, going through drills together. He tried to shoot low, to take me off my feet, his arms circling my thighs. I twisted out of it with a bend of my knee and I pulled back.

He rose to his feet and we smiled through our stupid looking mouthguards.

Chapter 4

Ajax

Thetwofighterstouchedgloves, and I caught the briefest hint of a nod between them. They weren't rivals. They were cooperative. Comrades, maybe? Did they train at the same gym? Were they friends? More than friends?

Would a man sign up to beat up his girlfriend in the octagon? I wasn’t sure.

A flare of jealousy ignited in my heart when I watched them exchange a little smile, silently communicating in ways that the less observant audience member would miss.

"Come on, Sinead!" Eoghan cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed.

SoSinwas a Sinead? Like the singer? How interesting. So, the Irishdidknow her.

I touched the karambit tucked into my belt. It was a small knife with a hooked blade like the shape of a claw no bigger than the palm of my hand. It was a knife with a singular purpose – fighting. This particular blade had an eagle and anchor etched into the hilt. The symbol of the Navy SEALs. I had carried it ever since I hung up my boots.

Guile jabbed, she dodged. Then she punched, and he dodged. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The whole thing had an air of familiarity, like they had rehearsed that precise move a hundred times. They were doing it over and over again.

"For fuck's sake, wallop him!" Eoghan screamed, and the crowd around us echoed the sentiment. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs at the ankles and did a spectacular impression of a petulant child before his eyes clouded with darkness and his features took on a sinister edge. "This better not be rigged, because I will burn the place down."

I didn't doubt it. For all my fondness of the slightly unhinged Eoghan, I knew that beneath his often cool, and easy manner lurked a dark, unhinged psychopath.

For their sake, I hoped this fight wasn't rigged. The men in suits were capable of extreme violence and were incredibly willing to create their own blood sport if they felt cheated.

Sin dodged, her black hair weaving through the air. She landed an uppercut on Guile's sternum. He wheezed, but still retaliated, landing an elbow to her shoulder. There was a quick mess of fists and arms before the two of them separated again, and circled like wolves, prowling with their teeth bared.

"It doesn't look rigged," I said with a little relief.

"Yes, well, maybe I won't commit arson today after all." Eoghan said it with such a straight face that it was both funny and disturbing.

"That’s a relief," I grumbled under my breath.

Eoghan didn't hear me. Or, at least, he pretended that he hadn't.

The stadium shook with the thundering cheers as the woman crouched. She kept her body low, ready to strike. Her powerful arms snapped forward with lightning speed and she deftly swept her opponent's legs out from under him. He threw his weight forward, trying to use the force of his body to stop her progress. But she saw it coming. Guile grunted as she put her weight into him, using her momentum to turn into a human missile. He kicked, she flew. I must have blinked, because in the next instant, they were both back on their feet, panting and out of breath.

The bell sounded, signaling the end of the round and the two of them separated, moving to opposite corners.

Guile's coach came to give him a stool to sit on. His coach started to wipe at a cut on his brow.

She stood alone, crouched with her back against the chain link.

No one had trained her for this specific arena, and she was holding her own. That was fascinating. A show of rare, natural talent.

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