The Underground Fighter

An Ally

Damon didn't sleep that night.He sat on the couch staring at the phone in his hand. The screen stayed black. No more messages. No calls.

The Dravens knew.

That was the problem. They always knew. Alistair Draven didn't build his empire by being blind. He had eyes everywhere. In the police department. In the courts. In the warehouses and construction sites where men like Damon broke their bodies for pennies.

If they knew about the pit, they knew about the fight.

And if they knew about the fight, they would use it.

Damon set the phone down. His knuckles had turned purple overnight. The split skin was raw but no longer bleeding. He flexed his fingers. Pain shot through his hand like electricity.

Good. Pain meant he was still alive. Still capable.

He stood up. Walked to the bathroom. Looked at himself in the mirror.

Dark circles under his eyes. A bruise forming on his cheek where Viktor's wind had grazed him. Ribs that looked normal but felt like broken glass.

Thirty-two years old. He looked fifty.

Damon splashed cold water on his face. Then he made a decision.

He wasn't going to hide. He wasn't going to wait for Friday. He was going to find out how much the Dravens knew. And he was going to do it today.

The bus dropped him downtown. Not the nice part of downtown. The part where buildings leaned against each other for support. Where shops had bars on their windows and people walked with their heads down.

Damon found the address he was looking for. A bail bonds office sandwiched between a pawn shop and a check cashing store. The sign read "Rojas & Son" in faded gold letters.

He pushed the door open. A bell rang.

Inside, a woman sat behind a desk. Forty. Tired eyes. Hair pulled back in a tight bun. She looked up from her computer screen.

"You lost?"

"No. I'm looking for Leo Rojas."

"He's busy."

"Tell him Damon Corso is here. He'll want to talk to me."

The woman studied him for a long moment. Then she picked up a phone. Pressed a button. Mumbled something.

A door behind her opened. A man appeared. Short. Stocky. Gray streaking through black hair. His face was all sharp angles and old scars.

Leo Rojas. Former fighter. Current fixer. The man who knew everything about the underground because he had built half of it.

"Corso," Leo said. "You look like shit."

"I feel worse."

Leo waved him into the back office. The woman went back to her computer without another word.

The office was small. A desk. Two chairs. A filing cabinet with a broken lock. Photos on the wall of boxers from thirty years ago. Men with bloody faces and proud eyes.

Leo sat behind the desk. Didn't offer Damon a seat.

"You won last night. First fight. Against Viktor. Took him down in under a minute." Leo's eyes narrowed. "Not bad for a janitor with two cracked ribs."

"You heard about it fast."

"I hear about everything. That's my job." Leo leaned back. "The question is, why are you here? You got your money. You got your win. Go home and heal."

"The Dravens know."

Leo's expression didn't change. But something in the room shifted. The air got heavier.

"Of course they know," Leo said. "Alistair Draven owns half the cops in this city. You think Frank's pit is a secret? Please. Frank pays protection to three different crews just to stay open."

"Then why haven't they shut it down?"

"Because they don't need to. The pit is useful. It bleeds off the violent ones. Keeps them from causing real trouble." Leo paused. "But now you're in it. And you're not just any fighter. You're the man who married Alistair's daughter. The man who won't give up his kid."

Damon's jaw tightened. "Lucy is my daughter. Not his."

"Legally? Right now? She's his." Leo's voice wasn't cruel. Just honest. "The courts move slow for poor men, Corso. And fast for rich ones. You know this."

"That's why I need your help."

Leo laughed. A short, dry sound. "My help? I run a bail bonds shop. I'm not a lawyer. I'm not a miracle worker."

"You're connected. You know people. I need someone who can watch the Dravens the way they're watching me."

Leo stared at him for a long time. Then he stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out at the cracked sidewalk and the broken city.

"What you're asking for costs money. More money than you have."

"I'll have more. Friday I fight again. A thousand dollars. Then more after that."

"A thousand dollars is nothing. You think information is cheap? You think the people who watch powerful men work for free?" Leo turned around. "Alistair Draven has killed men for less than what you're asking me to do."

"Then why haven't you thrown me out yet?"

Leo was quiet. Then he walked back to the desk. Sat down. Opened a drawer. Pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"Because I knew your wife," Leo said. "Olivia. She came to me once. Years ago. Before she married you. She wanted help disappearing. Her father was trying to force her into a marriage with some banker's son."

Damon's chest tightened. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her to run. And she did. Straight to you." Leo poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass. Pushed one across the desk. "She was a good woman. Too good for that family. Too good for this city."

Damon didn't touch the glass. "Then help me get her daughter back."

Leo picked up his own glass. Drank half of it in one swallow.

"I'll make some calls. Quiet calls. I'll find out what the Dravens are planning. But I need something from you first."

"Name it."

"When you fight on Friday, don't just win. Make a statement. Make everyone in that room remember your name. Because if you're going to war with Alistair Draven, you're going to need an army. And armies start with reputations."

Damon stood up. His ribs screamed. He ignored them.

"I'll give them a show they'll never forget."

Leo raised his glass. "Then we have a deal. For now."

Damon walked out of the office. The bell rang behind him. The woman at the front desk didn't look up.

Outside, the sun was setting. Like it was burning.

Damon's phone buzzed.

A text. Different number this time.

"Friday. Ten o'clock. Don't be late. And don't bring friends. — F."

Frank. Damon typed back: "I don't have friends."

He put the phone away. Walked toward the bus stop. His body hurt. His heart hurt more.

But he had something now that he didn't have yesterday.

An ally. A plan. And a date with a man named Leo who knew where the bodies were buried.

Friday was two days away. He couldn't wait.