Page 8 of Nick

“Yeah,” I reply, giving him a drunken smile, then stumble to my room, making sure to hit the walls a few times in case he’s watching. Kicking the door closed behind me, I dump the girl in the armchair in the corner and throw a blanket over her. She doesn’t even stir. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I wait until I hear Patrick tumbling down the hall with someone. Another half hour and then I slip out into the hall. No sounds, so I quietly leave the condo. There’s a 24 hour truck stop not far from here, and they make keys, so I get a copy made and a burner phone, and I stick the bastard's keys behind a couch cushion, and I’m back in my room before anyone notices I’m gone.

Over the next several weeks, I text Cash through Fawx during the middle of the night, not wanting to risk entering his room until I’m sure he won’t rat me out. The burner phone stays in my bedroom, rolled into a pair of socks in my drawer. Patrick hasn’t realized I took his keys yet. Dumbass.

Chapter 6

It’s early spring before I’m convinced Cash trusts me. Patrick has been busier lately, so I convinced him to let me feed Cash his dinner once in a while. The visits are infrequent, though.

The first time I was allowed to bring him food was unexpected, so I couldn’t plan anything. Patrick threw me a key as he rushed out of the bar, saying he had been called in by Artur. I received two servings of dinner on a tray, and the cook instructed me to put it on the small table inside the room against the left wall. Entering, Cash’s eyes grew wide when he saw someone new. Assuming there were cameras and audio in here, I simply nodded to him and left the food on the table as I was told.

The next time Patrick told me to deliver his food, I slipped a note under one plate for him, just assuring him I was on his side and he could trust me. Since we’ve been talking through Fawx, there was really no need for much else.

After my second visit, he started sharing more of his story with Fawx and me. I learned that Mr. Fitzgerald kidnapped his sister, which is why Cash works for them. He didn’t know who Fitzgerald or Artur were, but he got a video of his sister tied up and beaten before he even realized something had happened to her. He was told that he now worked for them as a hacker, and since it was only him and his sister, with no other family, he agreed. They set him up in the room at the bar and tested him before returning his sister to him.

Cash tried fighting back initially, but whatever they did to his sister, he quickly stopped. According to Fawx, she was gang raped, but Cash doesn’t talk about it. Fawx came across a video of it on the dark web. Poor girl.

Cash is funneling information to Fawx when he can about Fitzgerald now. He’s the best hacker they have, so no one has realized what he’s been doing. He's never met Mr. Fitzgerald but has seen him occasionally on video talking to Artur with his back turned to the cameras. All he can tell us is that he's always in a suit, is about the same height as Artur, and has dark hair. Cash doesn’t know what Patrick is up to, though. Dear old Dad doesn’t trust anyone with his plans.

Since there are cameras and listening devices everywhere but the condo, I can’t spend time with Cash, so I’m relying on him and Fawx to gather incriminating information on the operations. It’s a strange situation because I still haven’t met Fitzgerald and I don't feel like I'm doing anything helpful.

I’ve done a few drop offs for Patrick at businesses he often stops at during the week when he was busy, and have beaten up random guys who didn’t pay for their drugs. We still haven’t talked about what he does, or the business, which is strange. I’ve asked, but the only responses have been silence or threats. He knows and I know about the drugs, but we don't speak of it. His version of mind games, which are dumb as shit.

I’m fairly confident the office building where the fights are is where the drugs come from. It’s the only place I have to sit and wait for Patrick, instead of following. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him leave with any drugs, but I might get some answers tonight. Patrick told me we're going to the train station after my fight to pick up a shipment.

As I’m sitting in the locker room watching the tv and waiting for my Friday night fight, one fighter in the cage is shot dead without warning. That’s new. I’ve seen a few people in the crowd shot over the months, but no one who was fighting. The referee holds up a shard of glass and announces he was cheating.

Artur, as I assumed, is the one who shoots anyone who doesn’t follow the rules, and he’s excellent. Perched in one of the glass rooms high up, he’s never missed a target. I’ve seen him take the shot a few times now.

The other poor bastard who was fighting is declared the winner. According to Patrick, both fighters in this match owed money to Mr. Fitzgerald, so someone he cares about will be saved from injury or worse. The family of the dead man may lose two people tonight, depending on how much he owed.

Fitzgerald and Artur run a tight ship, and I’ve often wondered how Patrick got involved with them. They must know he’s an untrustworthy rat. I suppose when you’re dealing with drugs; you won’t attract a quality employee.

All of my matches have been during the second or third rounds of fights every Friday night. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern, so I assume it depends on who's attending and betting each week. Artur tells me who I’m fighting, how to make it look, and whether to win or lose, so there haven’t been any more misunderstandings.

Tonight, I’m to lose to a new fighter, but make it last at least 10 minutes and keep it close. These are my least favorite. I end up beaten and bruised because it has to look real. Letting myself get the shit kicked out of me goes against my nature, but bringing up an image of Shortie or Gabby in my mind quells my need to win.

It’s a rare week my body isn’t sore. If I win my match, Patrick’s crew feels the need to try to catch me unaware and ensure I’ve got a few new bruises. His crew always look worse than me when we’re done, but they still try. Patrick's need for control keeps them coming back despite months of losing.

My opponent is a decent fighter tonight, so I’ll be sore tomorrow. I’m not allowed to tap out of any matches, so I have to wait for him to knock me out. I have a feeling I won’t need to fake the knockout tonight as I’m breaking a sweat in this match. If I don’t get out of Tennessee soon, I’m going to worry about the effect of all the concussions on my brain.

At the 12 minute mark, I leave an opening for him to punch my temple, and he takes it. I almost black out as I drop to the floor. The asshole attempts to follow up his punch with a kick to my skull, but I manage to move enough that he hits my shoulder instead. Still, I may need help getting back to the locker room. Fucker.

I wait for the winner to be announced and the fanfare to die down, since it's the last match of the night, before I stumble back to the locker room myself. Patrick is waiting for me as usual, just inside. The doctor stops by to butterfly my eyebrow cut and declares I have a mild concussion. No shit. I grab some pain meds and take a long shower to allow time for the meds to kick in before following Patrick outside.

“This is a big deal tonight, Nick. It’s the first time Mr. Fitzgerald has trusted me to pick up his shipment, so I need it to go perfectly. Watch my back and don’t fuck up,” Patrick tells me as he drives us to the train station.

When we arrive at the back of a work yard behind the station, he opens the glove compartment and hands me a gun. Well, shit, he must trust me enough not to shoot him. Fortunately for him, I need more information before I can end his life, but fuck, is it tempting.

Despite feeling woozy, I walk a step behind him, my eyes scanning the area as he walks straight for a row of rusty red boxcars. At least the darkness helps with the headache, and I don’t see anybody around yet. Maybe it’s just us?

Patrick unlocks a thick padlock with heavy chains attached to the third boxcar from the right, then swings open the door while I memorize the numbers painted on the door. He pulls a flashlight from his jacket pocket to illuminate the inside. There are crates shrink-wrapped along the left wall of the car, all identical looking.

Patrick inspects each one, seeming to look for something. I watch from the door, trying to discern what he sees. I don’t trust his crew or anyone else not to attack if we are both inside the container, though.

Once he’s found what he’s looking for, he joins me back outside. “Are we unloading it all?” I ask.

“No, just two. My crew should be here in a minute.”

I’d ask what specifically he was searching for, but even Patrick isn’t dumb enough to tell me that outright. The sound of engines reaches my ears as a forklift and two unmarked dark vans join us. Only three of his crew are here: Kevin, Deke, and Hank. The three he seems to spend the most time with.