Page 1 of Sin Bin

Prologue

Logan

Fifteen years earlier

Las Vegas, Nevada

“Fight, fight, fight!”

The rowdy chants of the crowd filled Logan Brassard’s ears as he slowly circled his opponent. Fisher was older, taller, bigger and stronger. But Logan wasn’t scared. After years of getting the snot beat out of him by grown men, not much scared him anymore.

“You little shit,” Fisher jeered, his voice tinged with laughter. “You really think you can take me?”

“I know I can,” Logan snarled.

Fisher spat into the grass and shook his head at Logan, circling him menacingly. “I’m gonna demolish you, kid. Gonna send you running back home to mommy. Oh, wait. You don’t have a mommy, do you? You don’t have a mommy or a home. Poor wittle baby.”

Logan put up his fists. “We talkin’ or fightin’, asshole?”

Fisher laughed scornfully as the crowd’s chants grew even louder and more demanding.

“Fight, fight, fight, fight!”

Fisher made the first move, lunging forward and swinging at Logan.

He ducked the blow and threw a punch of his own, smashing his fist into Fisher’s acne-scarred cheek.

Fisher stumbled backward as cheers erupted from the crowd.

Logan swung again, hitting him in the stomach. When Fisher doubled over, Logan tackled him around the waist and slammed him to the ground.

“Oof!” Fisher grunted as the wind was knocked out of him. Before he could catch his breath, Logan began pummeling him in the face and ribs.

The crowd roared with approval. “Bruiser, Bruiser, Bruiser!”

Fisher shouted curses and swung wildly until his fist connected with Logan’s jaw.

The blow stung, but in the heat of battle Logan barely even noticed. Gritting his teeth, he repeatedly landed vicious jabs as blood squirted from Fisher’s mouth and nose. The crowd egged him on, cheering and hollering as Fisher tried to block his hits.

Logan kept punching in a fury until he was stopped by Wyatt, the sixteen-year-old juvie who ran the weekly fights. He pulled Logan to his feet and raised his right arm in the air.

“We have a new champ!”

The crowd went berserk, half cheering and half groaning as high fives were slapped and money changed hands.

Fisher stumbled to his feet, holding his bloody nose. “I want a rematch!”

Wyatt grinned, counting a wad of cash. “Sure thing, Fish—”

“LOGAN!” an angry voice cut through the air like a boom of thunder.

Shit, Logan thought as a burly, light-skinned Dominican man came shoving his way through the crowd. He worked at the group home where Logan lived. His name was Santino Joaquin Peña Tavárez, but that was a friggin’ mouthful so everyone just called him Mr. T.

Wyatt and the other boys took one look at Mr. T and scattered like junkies fleeing the cops.

“Hey!” Logan called to their retreating backs. “Where’s my money?”

Before he could take off running after them, a massive hand seized his arm and jerked him around. Suddenly he found himself staring up into Mr. T’s scowling face.

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