Mick had arranged a Sunday evening redeye flight from Las Vegas to London. He’d spend Monday night at a friend’s flat in the capital, then hire a car and drive to Sheffield on Tuesday morning and spend a few days talking his mum off the emotional ledge on which she always found herself this time of year.

In order to help himself sleep on the plane, he scheduled a late Sunday afternoon workout with a friend down in Henderson. The friend was a jiu-jitsu black belt named Roberto Luiz, who owned a popular martial arts school near the Las Vegas Strip.

Mick met Roberto at his home, where he’d converted his garage into a makeshift gym. It was Spartan and bare bones, no fans or air conditioning, just a mat on the floor. Fighters lucky enough to swing an invite to Luiz’s home gym called it “The Sweat Factory.”

When Mick arrived, Roberto was practicing how to escape an arm lock with a muscle-bound, heavily-tattooed young fighter Mick recognized instantly; up-and-coming UFC star Burke “the Bruiser” Powell.

“Meu amigo!” Luiz greeted his friend in Portuguese as Mick walked in through the open garage door. They’d known each other since Luiz ran a hand-to-hand combat training seminar for MI6 recruits back when Mick had first joined the intelligence service.

Mick clasped hands and then hugged Roberto before extending a hand to Powell.

“Burke Powell, right? I’m Mick Merryweather. Nice to meet you.”

The Bruiser grunted, shook Mick’s hand, and turned away dismissively. He wiped his face with a towel and called Luiz over.

“Hey, this was supposed to be a private session, just you and me. Who’s the old guy?”

Luiz chuckled. “The ‘old guy’ probably knows a dozen ways to kill you with his bare hands. He’s ex-British Royal Air Force.”

Powell glanced over at Mick, who was stretching to prep for his workout. “He don’t look so tough to me. I don’t like having my training interrupted, and I wanted to go hard today. I don’t want to have to go half-speed for some guy chasing his glory days. I have a big fight coming up next month.”

Roberto cocked his head to the side and laughed. “Okay, BP. Have it your way.” He turned his attention to Mick, sitting on the mat with his feet in front of him, leaning down to touch his toes and pull his face to his knees. “Mick. Burke wants to spar with you, but he’s got a fight coming up, so he doesn’t want to get hurt. Go easy on him, yeah?”

Powell was infuriated, sucking down the remaining half of a bottle of water and tossing the empty into the trash can in the corner.

“Bullshit,” he said, stalking back out onto the mat while shadow boxing. “Don’t try to be a hero. When you need to tap, just do it. No shame in it. Then you can go home and tell your old lady you were on the mat with a future UFC champion. That ought to give her a thrill.”

Mick rose to his feet and leaned back, twisting slowly from side to side. “Sure thing, mate,” he replied.

In jiu-jitsu, the fighters grapple until one of them “submits” the other, forcing the opponent to tap the mat, or his opponent, signaling that they’ve given up. Usually it’s done to avoid being choked unconscious, having a joint painfully damaged, or when a bone is in danger of being broken.

Burke Powell had broken a sweat, was loose and in his athletic prime at twenty-six. If he won his next fight, he seemed likely to get a shot at the UFC heavyweight world championship belt before the end of the year.

Mick had just gotten out of an air-conditioned car, performed only some light stretching, and his thirty-nine-year-old body bore the wear and tear of a lifetime of rugby, military training, and real-life combat.

He also gave up two inches of height and thirty-five pounds of muscle.

Within thirty seconds, Burke Powell knew he was in trouble.

The two men circled each other under the watchful eye of Roberto Luiz, but as soon as they came together in a clinch, Mick dropped to a knee, shot in to grab Powell’s left leg, and sent him sprawling to the floor. With blinding speed, he swung his body up and around Powell’s defenses, hooking an arm around his throat and both legs around the larger man’s right shoulder.

Powell found himself tapping the mat frantically to stop Mick from dislocating his shoulder.

Luiz brought both men back to their feet, and Powell slapped himself across the face with each hand.

“Lucky,” he muttered under his breath.

Mick showed no emotion, standing ready to begin again.

The second time the two fighters clinched, Mick let himself be taken down with a hip toss, but when he hit the mat he pulled Powell’s arm close to his body, swiveling his hips and locking in a painful arm bar on his standing opponent. From flat on his back. The Bruiser tapped out again.

Powell stormed off the mat and slapped a full water bottle from atop a set of lockers near the trash can.

“Can’t wait to tell my ‘old lady’ how I got to train with a real-life UFC fighter!” Mick mocked his cocky opponent.

Powell glared at him. “Fuck you. What kind of shit is this, Roberto? Who is this guy, some kind of jiu-jitsu world champion ringer or something?”

“He’s just some old guy, remember? Mick, what color belt do you have?”

“Belt? Black. Absolutely. Got it at Brooks Brothers. Came with the last set of suits I bought.”

“You two are hilarious. This is a set-up,” Powell complained. “Whatever. But I started my career in kickboxing. Come down to ’Berto’s gym some time and I’ll wipe the floor with you in the ring.”

“Bad idea, brother,” Roberto interjected. “Mick’s hands are better than his grappling.”

“How about we just train, mate? I need a workout,” Mick said, walking over and extending a hand.

Powell shook it reluctantly, and the three men began what wound up being a grueling two-hour session, all three of them flat on their backs, shirtless and sweating, gasping for air by the end.

When they finally staggered to get towels and water, Powell expressed his new-found respect for Mick. “Dude. I need to work like this again, soon. What’s your schedule like?”

“Sorry, mate, I just drop in on Roberto now and then,” Mick explained. “I don’t train regularly anymore.”

“Training camp starts in two weeks for my next fight in California. In Big Bear. Can you come down for a weekend or something?”

“We’ll see. I’m off for a week back home, in the U.K., leaving tonight. In just a few hours. After that, I’d have to look at my schedule. Get with Roberto, he’ll hit me up, maybe we can do something.”

Mick thanked Roberto for the workout and put on a dry, sleeveless t-shirt. He figured he had enough time to drive home, throw some green stuff in his blender for a smoothie, have a quick shower, and head for the airport.

Just before getting on the freeway, he pulled into a gas station to grab a drink. He waved a red Camry in right before him and returned a courtesy wave from the blonde behind the steering wheel.