Hawk

This meeting with the Russians is starting to drag. I knew Yuri was a snake within five minutes of meeting him, so there’s no way we can trust him. I was sure that was the case even before I met him in person, and now it’s confirmed. I’ve yet to be proven completely wrong about anyone I’ve investigated online. Cross seems to have already come to the same conclusion about Yuri. We’ll have to watch our backs with this snake setting up camp in our backyard, but Cross is doing that thing he always does where he’s not letting on what he’s actually thinking.

“That’s a lot of guns you’re buying,” I say into the silence that follows one of Yuri’s monologues, in which he’s just repeated what he’s been saying all along. This guy thinks he’s a diplomat, but I’ve met enough examples of the real thing to know an amateur.

“Do we gotta worry about you coming against us?” I add, since my brothers sometimes need me to ask the questions no one else dares to ask because they’re not proper or some bullshit like that. My questions may not be proper, and this one sure shocked Yuri, going by the fact that his eyes are all glassy and sharp as he glares at me, but pointed questions always do a hell of a better job than beating around the bush.

Cross gives me a sharp sideways glance, but I only have eyes for Yuri as I match his cold, aggressive glare with a look of genuine interest. He’ll probably take me for an idiot who doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that’s what I want. I want him off guard and unsure what to expect next. It’s my preferred way of dealing with people I don’t know yet.

“I do not want my men wanting for weapons,” he says slyly. “We just arrived here to your lovely West Coast and we like to be safe.”

These Russians. They’re all the same. I remember my father did a lot of business with them for a while and he always complained how it’s like they know we know they’re full of shit, but they’re not even trying to hide it and aren’t the least bit apologetic about it. That’s what’s happening here. But their covert bullshit stinks just as bad as regular bullshit.

“You want to buy enough guns to arm ten times as many man as you claim to have with you,” I tell him. Yuri told us he has twenty men, but I already know he brought about fifty. He just doesn’t know that I know. “You understand why we’d be suspicious?”

Yuri’s eyes are angrier than Cross’ now, which I like to see. Cross brings me along to these meetings to ask the questions no one’s expecting, and I’m happy to oblige. We already had a talk about how I’d handle this situation, but it’s up to Cross what we’ll do in the end, and none of us will go against his decision, whatever it is.

I bet Yuri figured he’d have an easy time dealing with a bunch of bikers. And I admit that most of them are about as savvy as a bear, but he never counted on Cross. Up until now, Yuri’s probably only dealt with other fake-businessman mobsters who like to wear suits to disguise the fact that they’re just dumb thugs. I can see right through that façade. I was groomed to follow my father’s footsteps and become a real businessman, become one of the few who control all the wealth in this world, but I’ll take being a biker any day of the week. They’re wild and free, unburdened by any rules except the ones we make for ourselves, and living life exactly how man should live. An animal should be what it is, not try to pretend that it’s something it isn’t. And I’ll take following Cross over following anyone else I’ve ever met.

“I have twenty men to arm right now, and maybe I will get ten more if things turn good for me here,” Yuri finally explains, once he realizes I’m not gonna stop glaring at him until I get an answer. He’s also lying and I hate that. “I would like to arm them all at the same time and not have to keep coming back to you for more when we run out of something.”

“Fair enough,” Cross says. “But I’ll need some time to get all you’re asking for together. We’ll meet again in a week.”

I lean back and rest my head against my interlaced fingers, letting them iron out the details. What Cross is actually doing is not promising anything, although he’s fooling Yuri well. Cross can read people well, and I’m glad he caught on to this Russian’s bullshit as fast as I did. It’s better we don’t give them enough weapons to be a threat right off the bat. He lied about how many men he has and now that he mentioned bringing in another ten, I’m thinking he probably does have more coming, since there’s always some truth in the lies people tell.

I stop listening to them. Yanna’s fight starts in four hours and I got myself on the list as soon as I arrived to Vegas. This will be the first time ever that I’ve met any of my online crushes in person, and she’s been my longest lasting such crush by far. I’m not proud of the fact that I sometimes start lusting over women I find online, but I do spend a lot of time there, and it’s gonna happen, so I also don’t worry about it much. I wonder if Yanna’s gonna turn out to be exactly as I picture her. Or is she gonna be the first person I’ve met online to prove me wrong?

The sound of hands getting clasped pulls me back into the here and now.

“Good, I am glad we have a deal,” Yuri says as he clutches Cross’ hand in both of his meaty palms.

“And what will you all be doing in sin city tonight?” he asks, and I cringe because he sounds exactly like the stereotype Russian gangster from some blockbuster movie.

“Don’t know about the rest of them, but I’m going to see the ladies fight tonight at the Arena,” I announce, since no one’s answering his question and hell, I want everyone to know this.

I get the same exasperated sighs I always do from my brothers when I talk about female fighters, and Tank mutters something about how my dick will get in the way in that setting. But I’m happy to ignore it, since I heard it all before and it doesn’t faze me. They can keep all their girly-girls, I prefer a strong woman.

Yuri claps me on the back with so much force he nearly unbalances me. And here I was thinking he was a pudgy weakling. I guess even I’m wrong some of the time.

“In that case, I will see you there,” he says in a loud voice. “I always appreciated watching two women fight, and I will appreciate it a lot more here in the fabulous Las Vegas.”

There he goes sounding like a cliché again, but I’m thinking there’s more to what he’s saying. Maybe it’s that mean glint in his eyes, or the fact that he was a pro at fixing fights back in Russia, but I’m almost certain he’s not going to the Arena tonight just to watch the girls fight.

“Finally, a man who knows what’s good,” I say and bang him on the back too. Unlike me, he does buckle forward from the force of it.

I wasn’t wrong about him being a weakling after all. Just as I wasn’t wrong in assuming he’s someone we all need to watch out for. Including Yanna.

* * *

Yanna

The only time I’m not carrying a camera and filming, the only time when I’m completely free and living the moment is in the cage. Nothing else matters when I’m in the middle of a fight, not my name, not anything that happened before or has yet to happen. The only thing that matters is being the better fighter.

Fans and critics alike have described me as a cat when I fight. That’s how I got my nickname—Cat Fight. Sometimes I’d prefer something nicer, or at least fiercer-sounding, but it describes me perfectly. I’m just a stray cat, an outsider, trying to survive in the big bad world alone. I don’t remember what I was like before I had to start fighting after my grandmother died. Fighting is my life.

Dima was the first to call me a cat. He was passing in the street right after another homeless girl tried to steel my blanket. That girl was at least five years older than me, but the blanket was the only thing that might keep me from freezing to death during the night. Winter started early the year I ran away from the orphanage. And I fought for that blanket like my life depended on it, because it did. I won the fight and I won a new life too, because Dima offered me a room that night and the next day he started training me.

The bright lights in the arena are blinding and make everything sparkle. The crowd is screaming, but I hardly hear it. The only thing clear is my opponent, a Ukrainian fighter named Lina. The beads of sweat on her body are reflecting the bright lights, but her eyes shine brighter. She’s one of the favorites in this tournament, but her eyes are a huge tell—they flick in the direction her fist or her kick will go a split second before she strikes. Vlad figured out this out after analyzing hundreds of hours of her fights and he was dead on. It’s also gotten much worse now that she’s tired.

I have no tells and most of my strikes connect. But I’m tired too, and my head is still ringing from her last punch that I didn’t dodge in time.

Her eyes flick to the right even as she feigns left.

My fist connects with her temple and she goes down, spittle spraying from her mouth. That too is gleaming rainbow and silver from the overhead lights.

I skip back and wait, moving to the rhythm of the ringing in my ears, which is slowly fading.

Seconds tick by, then a minute. She doesn’t get up.

By the time the ref calls the match, I can already hear the roaring of the crowd again over the fading echo of the bells in my head. Those are gone by the time the ref grabs my arm and raises it high over my head, proclaiming me the winner. Lina is still on the ground and looks like she’s just sleeping peacefully.

I won! I’m one step closer to achieving my dream. But I can’t loose myself in that happy knowledge, because a man in the crowd is watching me like we’re the only two people in the arena. He’s not clapping and he’s not cheering. He’s just watching me like we’ve met before.

A crazy fan?

His gaze is unnerving and my head is spinning again as the adrenaline drains away and the aches and pains from the blows I received start creeping into my awareness.

I let it all float away on the sound of cheers and the knowledge that I won the first fight, that I started strong and will finish just as strong.

Vlad is giving me one of his wide smiles he only wears on the most special of occasions as he joins me in the cage, and it doesn’t fade even after he leads me out of the spotlight.

“One down, kid,” he tells me. “One down.”

That man is still glaring at me. I’m pretty sure he might be a crazed fan, since I do have some of those, but I’ll deal with it like I’ve dealt with everything else. Nothing will spoil the joy of my victory tonight. I won’t let it.