Page 85 of Legacy of Danger
The two fighters circled each other, jabbing as they moved forward and then feinting back several steps. Sweat and blood dripped down both of their battered faces.
Around her, the crowd screamed its approval.
Vaughn's left cheek had already turned purple and sported an oozing cut, but his left eye was open. Linc, on the other hand, had one eye that threatened to swell completely shut. The cut on his brow dripped blood but didn't appear to impair his vision. He'd need stitches afterward, of course. By the way Linc was fighting, nothing would stop him from killing Vaughn.
If the serious scowl of concentration on Vaughn's face was any indication, the feeling was mutual.
Ten seconds remaining in the round.
Vaughn's fists blurred in muscle-driven hisses of air as he pummeled Linc to the ground and kept pounding on the man. Mariah winced at the thuds of fist impacting flesh and bone. Linc's eyes glazed over. He stopped defending himself.
Ref, call the fight. Dear God. Call it.
As the ref lifted a hand, about to reach in, the bell rang. Vaughn jumped off Linc and strolled to his corner. Like he wasn't exhausted. Like he didn't have burning arms.
Just another day at work for the guy.
His massive chest heaved, and then slowed to a normal breathing pattern over about thirty seconds. Amazing.
Linc still laid on the floor of the octagon, the ref talking to him.
When the ref motioned to Mariah, her heart dropped—like off a cliff.
The crowd booed.
Linc sat up and waved off the ref, even as Mariah entered the cage. Her steps faltered at the sharp scents of adrenaline, sweat, and blood.
"Check him out, Doc," the ref called to her. "I need an opinion."
Sweat beaded her upper lip as she knelt next to Linc. "Tell me your name."
He pulled out his spit-and blood-covered mouthpiece. "Lincoln fucking McDowell, dammit."
"The month and year?"
"October. 2014."
Wrong answer.
"Where are you?" She projected her voice above the shouts of the crowd.
"In the octagon, about to fight again. So you'd better get out of my way, babe." His words slurred together, the consonants running over each other. His unswollen eyelid drifted shut, like he couldn't stay awake. He swayed back and forth where he sat.
She fished for her penlight. "Look up here at me, please." Checking his pupils, she shook her head. "He's got a brain injury. Not oriented. Pupils sluggish to react. Not tracking."
"Stop?" the ref asked.
Visions of litigation if she failed to protect a fighter from permanent brain damage danced in her imagination. "Yes. Stop. Concussion."
The ref jumped to his feet and waved his hands. "Fight's over. Medical stoppage."
The boos and jeers escalated.
Linc got up and staggered, off-balance, grabbing the ref's arm. "No," he screamed. "I'm fine. I can fight."
The ref shook his head. "It's done. Medical stoppage. That's final."
Linc spun around to her and threw the mouthpiece to the mat. "You did this!" His one open eye glowed red, and she recoiled from the acrid sulfur wave that blew past her.
