Page 57 of Drilled

He looked like he was fighting with himself about whether or not to let me go. I could understand why. Bear had a natural protective instinct, the same instinct that resulted in his injury when he tried to protect that kid in the field. It was just part of who he was, his code. But I had a code of my own, too.

“Trust me,” I said quietly.

Our eyes locked and the hand on my elbow tightened, then let go. He took a step back. “Keep us updated, alright? And call if you need us.”

I shot him and Sy a grateful nod, then headed out into the cool night.

*

I knew I was in for a time when the cab driver’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline upon hearing the address. In fact, he stopped about a block short and I had to walk the rest of the way. It was already dark out, the cold air biting into my face as I marched to the abandoned warehouse. I used the time to try and plan out what I was going to say when I got hold of Dax.

Anger, confusion, frustration, worry; all of these emotions swirled inside of me and vied for control of my mouth. But I had to treat this the way I would any of my clients. The job meant I was well acquainted with people who would otherwise have never received a second shot. Their actions weren’t always justified but the shades of gray between intent and circumstances didn’t always play fair. I’d seen enough of Dax to know there was more to him than just some reckless prick who couldn’t stay out of trouble. I had to try and reach him.

The venue loomed into view—a soot-stained industrial brick foundry in a desolate manufacturing pocket. The cracked glass windows were covered in black spray paint, and a single rusted metal side door with a heavy-set bouncer marked the side ahead of me as the entrance.

I watched as he checked phones and took cash from a long line of bustling patrons, and rummaged around my bag. Shit. I had no cash on me, and I knew that I had to think fast or I’d have come all this way for nothing.

As my hands continued to scramble around for a Hail Mary, my fingers brushed against my work ID badge. Bingo. I slipped it out and began walking towards the line. It was a relatively quick wait, and when it was my turn to give my entrance fee, I simply held out the laminated card.

“I’m Dax Miller’s legal counsel. He has an emergency bail hearing at nine tomorrow and if I don’t get his signature on these papers right now, the police are going to be tracking him down at this exact address,” I said.

The burly security guard glared at me with suspicion, then narrowed his eyes at my badge.

“There’s still an entrance fee, sweetheart,” he said gruffly.

“If this place becomes a crime scene, then that’s not really going to matter, is it?” I asked. “Let me through.”

He huffed but backed down and stepped aside, cracking the door open with a meaty hand. I inclined my head and walked through, internally breathing a sigh of relief. Not only had that plan actually worked, but it also confirmed for sure that Dax really was here. That was the final little confirmation I needed.

Inside, the air was a suffocating mix of stale sweat, cheap beer, cannabis smoke and cold dust. The sounds and lights from the main arena guided me until the long, dark hallway opened up into the grand floor ringing the cage. It was a full house tonight and I’d arrived mid-match.

I had to squeeze through a dense wall of screaming bettors, heavy-set mechanics and street enforcers to get closer. When I finally made it to the front, I pressed myself against a structural iron pillar to avoid being crushed by the surging audience. The crowd’s animalistic roaring vibrated straight through the concrete floor and right into my chest, spiking my adrenaline as I looked into the cage where two muscular men were fighting.

Or, that’s what it was supposed to be but I’d never seen anything quite like it. It looked less like a sport than it did a calculated execution. One of the men had the upper hand, his lean but built body moving so fast I could barely keep track of what was happening. His taped hands were little more than blurs of force as he threw heavy, sickeningly loud punches at his opponent, who was trying in vain to dodge.

It sounded like leather hitting raw meat.

For just a fraction of a second, the man paused to catch his breath, his eyes lifting to the crowd and my mouth dropped open. It was Dax, blood dripping from a cut over one eye and his sweat, shirtless body heaving with adrenaline. Up until this point, everything about Dax’s past had been a mystery to me. I’d heard things here and there, and seen the result of years worth of fighting in his physique and speed and the steadiness of his hands as he worked the site.

But this was the first time I was witnessing him in his element; raw, almost beastlike, his eyes darkened by a predatory rage that had his opponent cowering on the floor at his feet. By all accounts, I should’ve been afraid, and I was. But I was also, undeniably, turned on.

It was so stupid, I knew that. But looking at him now, bloodied and bloodthirsty, it was hard not to try and reconcile those hands that had just caused so much damage with the same ones that had been gentle enough to hold me in that pantry. The contrast was more than a little jarring, and more than a little hot.

Dax’s gaze suddenly landed on mine and his eyes widened with recognition and shock when he registered that it was me. In the brief moment it took for him to lose his focus, his opponent reared up and delivered a brutal hook to his jaw, dropping him to the canvas.

The crowd around me broke into even louder clamor, jostling me in their excitement as Dax guarded his head from a flurry of ground strikes. My heart stopped with panic as I watched and silently prayed that he would get up. After a few more seconds of bracing himself, he slipped his hips out to trap his opponent in a leg lock, then somehow managed to roll them both over. He violently secured a chokehold from behind, squeezing until the other man went limp and tapped out in defeat.

And despite my anger with the whole situation, and my frustration with him, there was the tiniest flicker of pride too.

*

“Why the hell are you here?” Dax growled, his eyes glinting with fury.

We were standing in the shadowy, gravel loading dock zone at the rear of the warehouse. This was where the fighters parked, evidently, as I saw his bike nearby. He’d dragged me here the second he climbed out of the cage, and with the exception of the rusted dumpster, distant low hum of the Eisenhower Expressway and the single flickering yellow, sodium security light, we had total privacy.

“Well, I certainly didn’t suddenly develop the urge to join an illegal underground fighting ring, if that’s what you were concerned about,” I said caustically.

He didn’t laugh. “I’m serious, Lane. You don’t belong in a place like this.”