Page 48 of Mean Machine

Killing Odysseus had ruined everything. Sure, it had been another big step up the ladder, but dreams could so easily turn to ashes when they finally came close enough to touch. Turned out the title, the belt, didn’t make a lick of difference in the end.

They brought him up to a suite. Brooklyn tried to focus, tried to concentrate. He’d have to perform; he’d fuck or be fucked; he’d fight, sleep, take a shit, and eat when they told him to. Sometimes, having those choices taken away almost gave him something like solace. Not his choices anymore. Following orders was easy, even if it was hard. It wasn’t like he had any alternatives—his course had been set the day Jessica died, and all he could do now was walk it all the way to the bitter end, wherever it would lead.

Inside the suite, a big black guy in a suit who looked more like a bodyguard than a customer motioned him to the couch.

“That will be all, Mr Miller,” the guy said in a heavy American twang.

Brooklyn sat on the couch, trying to ignore the pile of magazines.Hello! OK! Apex Fighters. Even an issue ofUniversal Resilience. He couldn’t help noticing a few headlines. “RIP—Odysseus the Spartan,” “Body Count Ramps Up—Doctors Seek to Ban Boxing,” and, Les hadn’t lied, “The Killer Cop Strikes Again”—in whimsicalStar Warsfont.

“Marshall, get up.”

Brooklyn lifted his head, then stood before he realised who the man in plaid chinos, sandals, and a cream-coloured cashmere sweater was.

Dragan Thorne looked like a golfer or a yacht guy in that getup. Regardless of the poncy dress, the man himself was absolutely enormous. Part of why he drew crowds was because of his screen presence. If he hadn’t been a boxer, he could easily have made it as a leading man in cheap action flicks.

“Congratulations. That was an impressive fight. I haven’t seen many boxers who could turn things around the way you did.” Thorne came closer and offered him a hand.

Brooklyn wasn’t quite sure what that meant and hesitated. It came as a shock when Thorne took his hand and held it for a while, looking into his eyes.

“But they punished you for it, isn’t that right?”

Brooklyn swallowed. Thorne had paid for his time. He couldn’t pull away. Couldn’t protest. Couldn’t do a thing if Thorne decided that fucking that uppity convict would deal with any insult to his status. He wasn’t sure he could bear it.

“What’s up? Cat got your tongue?”

“Maybe a little.”

Thorne let his hand go. “Is that swagger in the ring an act? Could have fooled me.”

“I’m….” Brooklyn cleared his throat and watched Thorne sit down on the other couch. God, the guy was huge. Thirty pounds more than him when he’d boiled down to fighting weight, and right now a fair bit more than that. Currently on the soft side too. If “soft” was the right word for a world-class heavyweight. “I’m surprised. What do you want from me?”

“I’m here to talk. Only talk.” Thorne smiled. “Sit down, Marshall. No weird sex stuff if that’s what you’re so worried about. First, I like women; second, I appreciate a woman taking charge of me.” He laughed. “Not that many can.”

Brooklyn shook his head. “Okay. So I know I insulted you.”

“Youchallengedme.” Thorne leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And ignited the imaginations of a lot of boxing fans out there. The internet is full of people comparing us pound for pound. Very partisan, with more Americans on my side, of course, but you as the underdog have a big following too. The Brits like the underdog, and they like their own, like my people too. I’d suppose there are a lot of people who would love to watch you hit me.” He laughed again.

“I don’t have access to the internet or media.”

“It’s mostly bullshit; you’re not missing much. But it made me think.” Thorne tapped the side of his head. “It’s all narration. The really big fights all had a story around them. The Rumble in the Jungle. The Thrilla in Manila. Ali understood that. He was so popular not just because he was a damn good boxer, but because when he stepped into the ring, he made history. Black man versus white establishment. Muslim versus WASP culture. Man, he knew how to tell a story.”

Oh damn, he had to bring Ali into the mix.

Thorne narrowed his eyes. “But when I look around, I see no story for me. I’ve beaten all comers. I’ve held my titles for six years, going on seven. I’m turning thirty-five this month. My knees hurt, my back hurts. Sometimes, even my hands hurt. I have another two, maybe three years in me, and then it’s sailing the Caribbean and playing golf with Bruce Dickinson and Alice Cooper. I need what my investment adviser calls ‘an exit strategy.’”

Brooklyn shrugged. “Where do I come in?”

“You’ll help me go out with a bang rather than a whimper. The young hungry gun fights the established champion. Convict against upstanding member of the community. Brit against American. Your people will love that.”

“You’re offering me a title fight?”

“Yes.”

Brooklyn’s heart leapt into his throat. Fight Thorne. It sounded like a publicity stunt, but it would be a real fight. Thorne held three of the main heavyweight titles, carefully gathered and defended for years. This fight would mean something—above all, it presented the chance to unite four belts.

“See, I want to give them one last great show. There’s nobody else left who could do that. You demolished them on the way up, and you’re right, the heavyweight class isn’t worth much these days. I haven’t had a good contender in two years.”

“Willis almost got you.”

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