Page 31 of Mean Machine

“I want to be my own man.” Brooklyn gritted his teeth. “Make a cage golden, it’s still a fucking cage.”

“Well, in the absence of other options, gold will have to do.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Anything else?”

“Why would you help me get out if you’re involved with ISU?”

“Because I don’t believe you’ll ever get used to being under contract. My best estimate is you’ll either kill somebody or kill yourself before long.”

Brooklyn took a step back. Like a straight, long punch, except he hadn’t seen it coming. “So what if I kill somebody? They can only get me once for murder, right?”

“But the first killing already tears you up.” Nathaniel stood. “You’re not a murderer, Brooklyn. You’re a policeman. You joined because you were an idealist. You believed that by joining the police, you could protect the innocent. Like your mother. Your sister, Tracy. You must hate that you’ve become a lot like your father.”

“If you say another word, I’ll kill you. I mean it.”

“I know you do,” Nathaniel said and turned towards the door. “The gym is out in the back. Just follow the path. Your trainer and sparring partners will wait for you at seven.”

“Fuck you.”

Nathaniel didn’t come up with a witty reply. Maybe he’d fired all his guns. Brooklyn watched him go, but there was no relief when the door closed. And while he wanted to punch something—someone—he didn’t. Nathaniel wasn’t an opponent; punching him might actually kill him. And that would look really bad.

But his words hit home.Protect the innocent.Except he’d left “home” earlier than anybody should have to, half kicked out of the door, half running to save himself by abandoning the others. How he hadn’t got himself into even more trouble in exchange for a bed and a meal was anybody’s guess. Both his sister and mother must have made their escapes, but he’d never reached out, and neither had they, not even during the trial. Maybe some prisoners avoided those they’d done time with because seeing each other again would bring back all those memories that simply couldn’t be dealt with.

He breathed deeply a few times and then shed his jeans and pulled on some training trousers and went in search of Eric. He needed to run.

BROOKLYN SHOWEDup in the gym nice and early. But the place was incredibly weird in that it didn’t smell of stale sweat and disinfectant. Instead, it reminded Brooklyn of the luxury spas in those TV shows about places no working stiff could afford. Shelley had been addicted to watching property shows and designer shows and weight-loss shows—none of which she needed or that served any purpose whatsoever. Light flooded in from two sides, with folding doors pushed wide open to the sea.

“Right, this is some weirdKarate Kidshit,” Brooklyn muttered to himself.

The gym wasn’t empty.

A fat, squat guy was just kneeling down to tie the laces of one of a pair of ripped men. Dark hair and eyes, and they were very clearly brothers, possibly twins. Great. He’d come to spar with a prettier version of the Klitschkos.

Squatty stood up and turned to Brooklyn, measuring him with a long, thorough glance—up, down, across, down, up, and then settled on his face. The guy’s gaze had the weight of a twelve-pound hammer. “You must be Brook. I’m Santos.”

“Hey.” Brooklyn sat down on a bench and began to wrap his left hand. “Who are the pretties?”

“Emilio and Rosario.” Brooklyn closed the first bandage and focused on wrapping his right. Excitement rose. He knew all his other sparring partners inside and out, knew a fair amount of “hired bodies” who took up gloves for money too. All decent boxers, but these were new and looked in their prime. Fit enough even to last twelve rounds, if he needed that, and Odysseus had the stamina to make him box the whole length. Shit, the way these guys looked—poised and ready—gave him an odd sensation of anticipation. Attraction? Well, if it was attraction to want to see how far he could push them and how they’d push back.

Brooklyn took up his gloves. “Let’s dance, shall we?”

Santos pointed at one of the men. Yes, definitely twins. The shaved heads and high cheekbones made them look sleek and tough, but physically, both were clearly heavyweights. Brooklyn put his gumshield in, stepped up to the ring, and lifted the gloves.

“Keep it to the body, Rose.”

The boxer nodded and tapped Brooklyn’s gloves.

Brooklyn lashed out immediately, landing a beautiful punch on the man’s shoulder before the man had retreated. Dirty, yes. But he wasn’t here to play.

Rose moved back, acknowledging the hit with a nod. And a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.

A few jabs exchanged, testing the man’s resolve, nothing yet, and then Brooklyn launched into a combination. Punch, cross, uppercut, but immediately, Rose responded with a counterattack, forcing him to move back. Counterpunching orthodox fighter. Like Odysseus. He’d be perfect to work with. Brooklyn grinned behind the gumshield. Fuck, this would be fun.

The next attack confirmed it. Rose was a great counterpuncher, and God, but he was fast and strong too. There was no gentleness or playfulness now. Rose gave him what he had, and getting hit by those punches fucking hurt. Brooklyn was relieved when Santos told them to stop after a long three minutes.

Brooklyn climbed out of the ring and spat out the gumshield. “That’s going to be fun. Is Emilio as good?”

“Four hundred amateur fights,” the other Cuban said. “Ten defeats.”

Brooklyn glanced at Santos. “Holy hell, that’s a lot.”

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