Inside the octagon Nicky was fighting for his life. The Duke was like a pit bull, when he latched on to him he wouldn’t let go. Despite every effort to escape his grasp Nicky couldn’t. In the short time Tyson had been speaking to Pope, The Duke rained down skull-crushing shots and caused huge welts on his face and a massive hematoma on his forehead. For a brief second The Duke pulled back and raised his arms, flexing and gnashing his teeth as he paced around. Tyson yelled for Alejandro to intervene but he shook his head. Tyson slipped into the cage and dropped down to where Nicky was coughing up blood. One eye was sealed shut, his nose had a huge gash in it and from the look of his swollen hand, it was broken.
“Get him out of there!” Someone yelled for Tyson to be removed.
“Nicky!”
Nicky raised a limp arm towards him. Before Tyson could do anything he was dragged back by a horde of spectators.
The crowd screamed, “Finish him! Finish him!”
Somehow Nicky managed to scramble to his feet, yelling and punching the air with one hand. Blood dripped down into his mouth. Unsatisfied, bloodthirsty spectators screamed and pushed against the barricade, their drinks spilling to the ground. Held back by several of Pope’s men, all Tyson could do was watch as The Duke continued his violent assault. Pulverizing him like a piece of steak. Finally a sharp sidekick to the head put Nicky on his back. The Duke landed on him and began his ground and pound techniques — a series of brain-damaging blows that would have usually been stopped by the ref but now no one was stepping in. Nicky was limp and clearly unconscious.
“Stop the fight!” Tyson yelled but his voice was lost in the hysteria.
Finally, Pope gave a nod and The Duke’s team rushed in to end the fight. It was like trying to restrain a lion. It took four of them to drag him off the bloody mess.
“Get off. Get off!” Tyson screamed, managing to wiggle his way out from their grasp. He rushed in and dropped to his knees beside Nicky. “Call a medic!” There was so much blood — too much. Tyson lowered his head to listen to his breathing. It was shallow. A few wisps of air produced blood bubbles on his lips.
“Someone help!”
No one was paying attention. They were caught up in the thrill and agony of the event. Winners and losers reacted in cries and cheers; many who’d paid entry had placed big money on the fight, most on Nicky, as he’d never lost. Only then, when the fight had ended, did Alejandro come to his aid. “Move. I’ll take him to the medical center.” He pushed Tyson to one side and scooped up Nicky onto a stretcher, and he and one of their team carried him out.
Helpless, that’s how he felt.
All he could do was look on as it all played out in slow motion.
Rage boiled over as he saw Pope congratulate The Duke without a thought for Nicky.
Against his better judgment, Tyson got up and dashed over. One of The Duke’s team tried to cut him off but he wasn’t fast enough. Tyson cracked him on the chin, knocking him over. Before he could reach The Duke, several of Pope’s guys ran at him and dragged him away kicking and yelling.
“Get the fuck off!”
He felt someone jab him in the kidney before they tossed him down and kept him on the ground using their feet. He saw Pope approach through their legs as he continued to curse and struggle to get up. They parted and Pope loomed over him, his shadow darkening the ground.
“I told you to stop the fight,” Tyson yelled.
“And I did.”
“Yeah, too late.”
“Nicky knew what he was getting into.”
“Bullshit.”
Tyson didn’t think for a second about the consequences of what he was saying. He was too fired up and full of adrenaline to care. Pope dropped to a crouch and placed a hand on his chest. “Nicky took the fall.”
Tyson’s brow furrowed as he tried to grasp what he was saying. He was insinuating that it was all planned? That Nicky was in on the loss? No way. That was a lie.
“He would never do that,” Tyson replied.
“You don’t get it, do you? Nicky only had a few more fights left in him. This was the big one. One last fight that would set him up for life.”
“Set him up?” he yelled. “Oh you set him up, all right. You fed him to lions!”
Pope studied him, his eyes narrowing. How he managed to remain calm was a mystery. Tyson had seen him flip out on guys for much less. “Go home, Tyson. Get cleaned up. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Fuck you.”
Pope went to backhand him but stopped. Instead he stabbed his finger against Tyson’s forehead and told him that he got one free pass because of Nicky but if he spoke out of turn again he would suffer for it. And suffer he would. Rumors had it that enemies of Pope’s were buried in shallow graves. Pope rose, gave him one final scowl and gestured for his guys to leave him. Carla hurried to his side as Tyson sat up, wiping his bleeding lip. “Tyson, are you okay?”
Through gritted teeth he replied, “I’m fine.”
“Did he offer you a fight?”
“What?”
“A fight,” she repeated.
He couldn’t believe her. “Carla, shut the hell up, and get the hell off me.”
With that said he retreated to his girlfriends banged-up Honda Accord while the crowd thinned out. Many had lost large sums of money that night but it paled in comparison to Nicky’s loss. But no one cared about him. It was all about money. All about winning. And the only one who had truly won was Pope.
Chapter 6
Santa Fe was considered the fourth-largest city in the state of New Mexico, and yet if the population sign was accurate, even with 86,000 people, it was more like
