Page 13 of The Slayer
The men who killed his mentor Victor, forcing Chuito to take over the gang when he was only seventeen and bringing the wrath of their rivals to his door.
Wyatt was the bullets that killed Chuito’s brother and tía.
He was the man who put handcuffs on his cousin and tossed him in prison.
Now Chuito was in the cage with him, just the two of them.
He felt like he’d just won the gangster lottery, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“I think I’m gonna ref.” Clay Powers stood up from his seat next to his other business partner, a very intense, very tall woman named Jules, who looked like she could hold her own against just about anyone.
“It’s practice.” Jules held up her hand to the cage. “You said this was practice.”
“He doesn’t need you to babysit him,” Wyatt said as he stretched his arms. “He’s so big and badass. He’s got this.”
“I’m gonna ref.” Clay opened the cage door with intent and gave Chuito a harsh look, making it obvious Chuito wasn’t the one he was babysitting. “Do you know the rules?”
Chuito arched an eyebrow. “Last muchacho standing wins.”
“No low hits. No kidney hits. No fishhooking. And if he taps…” Clay suddenly seemed deadly serious. “You stop.”
“I’m not gonna tap,” Wyatt assured him and then put in his mouth guard, which was something Chuito thought Wyatt could use as a permanent accessory.
Wyatt gestured with his hands and then stretched his arms once more.
Chuito didn’t like the mouth guard when he put it in. He wasn’t used to it. He thought it was for pussies, but if it was part of the rules, he could play along. He sure wasn’t going to stand there, bouncing around and stretching. Instead he savored the adrenaline rush that surged into his bloodstream, making his muscles tight.
When they walked to the center of the cage, Clay stood between Wyatt and Chuito, giving Chuito one more harsh look. “You got the rules?”
Chuito nodded but remained otherwise motionless, letting a lifetime of anger build, while Wyatt tried to loosen himself up by hopping around like a fool. It wasn’t necessarily part of a greater attack plan on Chuito’s part, but by default the sheer lack of movement seemed to throw Wyatt off, because Chuito didn’t take any sort of fighter stance when Clay stepped back.
Chuito and Wyatt bumped fists for one brief moment. Then Chuito let all that fury spring free, jumping forward and lashing out with a left hook rather than bouncing back like Wyatt had. Chuito caught him a second time with an uppercut before Wyatt could regain his footing. Chuito mourned the fingerless gloves he was wearing as he watched Wyatt fall. He would’ve liked to feel the punches in his hand, to make his knuckles bleed with the effort of hurting this motherfucker.
Chuito had to give Wyatt and his black belts some credit. When Wyatt hit the mat, he recovered so fast it was impressive. Chuito never had someone knock his feet out from under him like that before, with one powerful sweep of his leg against Chuito’s ankle.
Then Chuito was on his back on the mat that wasn’t as hard as cement but still knocked the air out of him in an agonizing gush. Before his lungs could start working again, Wyatt’s foot connected with his jaw, making Chuito very glad he was wearing the mouth guard.
The pain fucked him up, putting him into survivor mode rather than just fighting in a little revenge match against a cop, because damn if those black belts didn’t have some benefit. This pendejo was so damn quick and recovered faster than any other man Chuito had fought before. Wyatt had Chuito pinned to the mat before he could really start breathing clearly.
What the hell did they put in the water in Garnet? Steroids?
The pain faded under the wild rush to protect himself. When Wyatt punched him, Chuito didn’t feel it. He just saw a huge gringo cop over him, trying to force his last breath out of him like they had taken everything else.
Chuito slammed his fist into Wyatt’s nose, because the dumbass had lifted his hold on Chuito’s left arm to hit him. Like every other fighter, Wyatt wasn’t able to compensate for the awkwardness fighting with Chuito caused. They were all preprogrammed whether they realized it or not. The harder they had trained, the worse they suffered for it.
Chuito used it to his full advantage. He flipped their positions and laid into Wyatt like they were in a street fight instead of an MMA match. Wyatt tried to use some sort of wrestling move to switch their positions once more, but Chuito blocked him at every turn, and it was easy because he had been fighting right-handed gangsters his entire life.
Wyatt clearly hadn’t fought very many left-handed MMA motherfuckers.
“Clay!” Jules screamed from somewhere.
Clay forced him off Wyatt, which pissed Chuito off.
He fell back on his haunches and jerked the mouth guard out, throwing it on the mat in a pool of spit and blood. “He didn’t tap! You said if he tapped!”
“You’re done!” Clay pushed Chuito’s shoulder, forcing him back with a scowl of warning, and then leaned over and smacked Wyatt’s face. “You all right?”
Wyatt surprised Chuito, because he should be fucking unconscious. Instead Wyatt pulled his mouth guard out. He wiped his face, coming away with a handful of blood, and glared up at his best friend. “A fucking southpaw.”
