Page 6 of Reckless Pawn

He intended to kill the man.

Slowly.

With glee.

What little intel he'd been able to gather thus far indicated Frank was indeed the one who had sold Izzy into the sleazy sex operation they were trying to take down.

What wasn't clear was why. There were whispers about a big deal with Izzy's former fiancé that didn't yet make sense. Marco Scutari had his hands in everything, including business interests in nearly every country across the globe. What he needed from Frank still remained a mystery.

When the club raided and rescued Izzy from the slave house, they'd taken out every perp running the place. This had enabled them to slow down the operation's progress, but not stop it. The men they later discovered were nothing more than hired guards who were easy enough to replace. With both Marco and Frank in play, the show would go on.

However, forcing the man ultimately in charge of all security operations for the mafia in Seattle to shuffle the men he trusted from one operation onto another left an opening he hoped to slide into. Getting in, however, was taking a hell of a lot longer than he expected.

With a desperation for progress filling his already dark soul, he'd decided to sweeten the bait and use Mazzeo's love for a good dirty fight and a sure bet to get him closer to his mission goals.

For weeks he took on every opponent who would fight him to get to this level and as expected when he finally came up against one of Frank's favorites he was told to take a dive. The man who visited him the night before last had assured him that by doing so Mr. Mazzeo would be grateful. And as such would be his new friend. Apparently the illustrious Mazzeo mob boss liked to reward his friends when he saw fit.

Houston only hoped that'd work out sooner rather than later. He couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out for the remaining missing college girl the club still sought.

And of course there was Izzy and her current status. The longer she stayed with the club, the worse things would get. It was up to him to get her out of there.

"No, I haven't seen him yet."

"Then we keep fighting." Houston spat, more blood than saliva hitting the bottom of the bucket.

"Fuck. Then for the love of Christ stop letting that punk ass wanna be fighter hit you so damn much. You're going to fuck up your ribs again. Avoid him. It's not as if you can't do it."

Houston tried to smile around the swelling and winced when it hurt too much to follow through. "Gotta make it look good. Got orders."

"Orders aren't going to do you much good if you're dead from a blow to the head or if you re-injure your chest." Mac held up his hands before Houston could protest. "I know. I know. But for fuck's sake could you at least wipe that smarmy smirk off his face? I'm sick of looking at it."

Houston glanced over at his opponent who was indeed gloating. Bastard was probably in on the whole thing and knew he was guaranteed a win.

"Sure thing, boss." He shoved the useless guard back in his mouth and stood for the next round.

They moved to the center of the ring, circling each other. The big guy garbled something, but his speech came out low and slurred. Houston took that moment of distraction to strike. He jabbed right, then left, hooking his opponent with enough force his entire body swung backwards, forcing him against the metal links.

Here in the underground they had a bastardized version of fighting that ran somewhere between boxing and mixed martial arts. None of it regulated and some of it illegal.

Houston didn't hesitate. He pounced with a succession of blows to his opponent's ribcage and kidneys. This was the moment he waited for in any fight. That glorious time when the tide had turned in his favor and he knew without a doubt he could end it. Only this time he couldn't go that far and it scraped roughly against his pride.

This fall was going to hurt in more ways than one.

Reluctantly, he slowed, allowing the current champ to catch his arm and jam an elbow into his ribs. That singular blow knocked the wind out of him and sent Houston crashing to his knees. The sounds suddenly filling the small arena deafened him as the crowd cheered for his opponent to finish him.

Houston looked up in that moment and finally caught a glimpse of Frank Mazzeo taking a seat directly in front of him on the first row. The brief eye contact with the man gave him the fortitude he needed to stick with his plan.

Houston scrambled to his feet and skirted out of reach as the bigger man tried to finish him. No sooner did he get away and turn, his opponent charged him, a right hook aimed squarely for his head. He ducked and slammed his glove into the man's belly, gaining an extra dose of satisfaction when Frank glared at him.

Before he allowed this fight to end he wanted to make sure Mazzeo understood that he could end this his way if he wanted to. That he was the superior fighter. Instead, he was choosing to take a fall and give Mazzeo what he wanted. That clarification was more important than anything else.

He tried to wipe the sweat and blood from his face with the back of his glove and only made a bigger mess. Breath sawed in and out of his lungs as some of the earlier adrenalin faded.

His opponent seemed to pick up on the change as he smiled and came at him again, this time landing a punch to his head. Houston spun, or maybe it was the room. Either way the damage was done and he was finished. One second he was watching the crowd cheer and yell and the next he was face first into the mat as dark spots filled his vision.

Worse than that, for a split second he thought he saw Izzy sitting next to her father cheering on the still standing champ.

Fuck. Why couldn't he get her out of his brain?

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