Santa Olivia

Loup deflected them with ease, gauging his pace out of habit.



And then he moved, faster than lightning. Lashed out with a stinging right hook that landed square on her left ear, setting her entire head to ringing. It nearly knocked her off her feet.



But it didn’t.



He looked mildly surprised.



She connected with a sharp jab to the center of his chest, sending him staggering. Followed up with a flurry of body blows, stalking him, chin tucked low. He caught his balance and absorbed the punishment, going to a clinch.



The harried referee intervened. “Break it up! Break it up, now!”



They skipped apart.



It went that way for the rest of the round. Johnson used his reach to try to keep her at bay, moving constantly. It felt strange and exhilarating to fight someone who moved at the same speed as her, but it was frustrating, too. Loup slipped and ducked and caught his long-armed jabs, trying to get inside his reach with limited success. Still, when the bell rang, she was ahead on points.



The crowd that had been so noisy was eerily quiet, stunned into silence. In the corner, Floyd wore a grim look.



“We’ve got a problem,” he said to her.



“What?” Her head was still ringing. Miguel leaned over the ropes and pressed an ice pack to her ear while Kevin rinsed her mouth guard.



“You’re too goddamned fast and too goddamned short. The judges can’t keep score when you’re in tight working his body. You land six shots, they see two.”



“You want me to slow down?”



“No!”



“You gotta go for the knockout,” Miguel said. “I told you, it’s the only way. Go for it with everything you’ve got.”



“No.” The coach shook his head. “He’s too big, too strong, and damn near as quick as you. Not yet. We’ve got to stick to the strategy. Your only hope is to outbox him. Keep it up, wear him down. Work his body. Try switching leads. But at some point… I’m afraid Mig’s right.”



“Okay.” Loup nodded. “Just tell me when.”



Nothing changed in the rounds that followed. She tried switching leads and fighting as a left-hander, but it bought her only a few seconds of confusion on his part and slowed her down a fraction. Johnson’s height and reach worked to his advantage. He tagged her a couple of times; not solid hits, but they were showier than hers. His height made them easier to read, while her steady assault on his torso went overlooked.



In the fifth round, Johnson feinted for the first time, caught her by surprise, and opened a gash in her right eyebrow.



“Fuck!” Miguel swore. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”



“It’s okay.” Floyd pinched the split and smeared coagulant on it. “You okay? She okay?” he asked the medic.



“I’m okay,” Loup said.



The medic examined her pupils, checked the wound. “I guess she’s okay.” He sounded uncertain.



“Okay.” Floyd grabbed her shoulders. “Just keep it up. Don’t get careless; don’t underestimate him. It’s early. Remember, you’re winning this.”



Loup nodded.



It didn’t feel like it and she knew it damned well didn’t look like it. Johnson had gotten wary earlier, but now his confidence was back. His eyes gleamed. For the next two rounds, he launched a blistering, all-out offense, trying to open the cut above her eye wider. It wasn’t skilled and it wasn’t fancy, but it was brutal.



Remembering the first time she’d seen Kevin McArdle fight, Loup was careful. He’d had a similar injury, and it had forced a technical knockout. She fought two rounds of pure defense, protecting herself and failing to score points, visible or otherwise.



At the end of the seventh, the crowd had gotten over its initial shock. The soldiers were cheering. The Outposters were quiet.



Loup gazed at Ron Johnson in the opposite corner, watching his chest rise and fall, the sheen of sweat on his skin. “Coach? He’s starting to get tired.”



“Good.” He wiped her gashed eyebrow, applied a new layer of coagulant. “You?”



“No. Just hungry.”



“Then so is he. Keep it up.”



In the middle of the eighth, Johnson’s assault began to falter. Loup went back to pressing him: circling, darting, peppering his torso. It might not have showed where the judges were concerned, but all those body shots had to take a toll.



“Keep it up.”



It was in the tenth that the tide turned at last. Johnson was slowing. His footwork turned leaden and his punches lost force. He dropped his guard in an effort to protect his belly, and for the first time, Loup landed a head shot, throwing an uppercut that landed on his chin and snapped his head back. It would have knocked out anyone else.



When the round ended, the Outposters roared. She wasn’t tired, but the sound filled her with a rush of energy anyway, buoying her. Suddenly, the crowd mattered.



“All right, child.” Floyd gave her a hard, tight smile. “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.”



“What?”



“Turn it loose, Loup,” Miguel said. “Hit him with everything you’ve got.”



She stood for the beginning of the eleventh round. The ringing in her head hadn’t gone away. Her fists ached as though she’d been pounding a brick wall. The gash in her right eyebrow stung like hell and her left ear was hot and throbbing.



She felt good.



Johnson didn’t go down easily. He was strong and quick and fearless. But he was tired, and he was fighting an opponent who’d done nothing but train for this moment for years. Loup threw blistering combinations at him, driving him off balance, driving him staggering onto the ropes.



The crowd went wild.



The referee intervened. Loup stepped back. Johnson stood upright, moved slowly into position. The referee gave them the go-ahead. Johnson raised his guard. Loup feinted, then threw a blazing left cross that powered through his guard and knocked him down.



The referee began a count.



Johnson got up.



Loup knocked him down.



He got up again, slowly. Wavered on his feet. One eye was swelling and his nose looked crooked. His good eye looked clear and fearless and ruefully surprised.



Loup knocked him down again.



This time he stayed down.



The noise in the square was deafening. It was a wild, jubilant roar of exultation; no words, just a deafening chorus of ecstasy. People turned to one another, laughing, weeping, and embracing. In her corner, Loup leaned on the ropes, letting Miguel and Kevin and the coach tend to her, removing her mouth guard, giving her water, wiping away blood and Vaseline. They were all shouting, too.



“… did it, you fucking did it!”



“… never seen anything like it.”



In the opposite corner, Ron Johnson’s handlers were hovering over him. He’d gotten up on his own and seemed to be dazed, but okay. She hoped he was.



The noise washed over her. She closed her eyes briefly and hoped that Pilar would hear it and know it meant that she was okay, that she’d won.



She thought about Tommy, lingering over his memory.



When she opened her eyes, she saw the Santitos and everyone pressing close to her corner of the ring, eyes filled with tears. Loup smiled and reached out to them. They pressed closer, touching her gloved fist.



The judges made the decision official. In the center of the ring, Loup and Ron Johnson stood on either side of the referee. He raised Loup’s arm in victory. The cheers rang to heaven. And then the general descended, accompanied by four MPs. They surrounded her.



The crowd’s mood shifted precariously.



“You’ve got to say something to them,” the general muttered. “You agreed to this, child. If they riot, their blood’s on your hands.”



“Okay.”



In her corner, Miguel was holding her robe. He had tears in his eyes, too; so did Floyd and Kevin. Any other time, it might almost have been funny—three big, grown men in tears. Miguel helped her into the robe, tied the sash for her.



“Thanks,” Loup murmured.



All three nodded without speaking.



She walked to the front of the ring and waited for the crowd to quiet. They did, gazing up at her. The soldiers in the bleachers were quiet, too. There was only the ringing in her head, the rumble of the generator, and a faint, high-pitched noise the lights emitted. She wished she had Jaime to give her something clever to say. He and Jane had always come up with Santa Olivia’s best lines.



“I’ve gotta go with these guys,” Loup said simply. “It’s okay, really. Please don’t try to stop them, they’re just doing their job. I chose this. Okay?”



The crowd was silent, ominous.



“Seriously. Don’t worry about me. Just take care of each other, you know?”



There was a scuffle of activity behind her. Loup glanced back to see Father Ramon striding across the canvas, the skirts of his black cassock flaring. He placed his hands on her shoulders as though to claim her for the church and addressed the crowd in his deep, resonant voice.



“The child speaks the truth. Go in peace.”



It tipped the scales. The crowd didn’t disperse, but they didn’t riot, either. They stayed peaceable, wide-eyed and wondering as the MPs moved to escort Loup from the ring.



“Thanks, Father,” she whispered.



He crossed himself without irony, perhaps for the first time in thirty years. “God be with you, Loup.”



FIFTY



In sight of the crowd, the MPs were courteous.



Out of sight, that changed.



“Cuff her, goddamnit!” The general’s voice, vicious with anger and betrayal. “She’s dangerous!”



They wrestled her up against the side of an armored vehicle despite the fact that Loup offered no resistance, wrenched her arms behind her back, and bound her gloved wrists together with a durable plastic strap. Opened the rear door of the vehicle and shoved her into the cargo space.



Don’t trust, don’t believe. But don’t fight them, either.



The nightmare had begun.



Loup levered herself upright, bound arms strained and aching. A soldier in the backseat trained a pistol on her, the open mouth of the barrel like an unblinking eye. She tried smiling at him. He didn’t return the smile, only stared, eyes shocked and fearful.