Every connection was like being hit with a battering ram.
Holy shit, Jack thought as he tried his best to weather the tornado of blows.
He felt like a rag doll being tossed around. For every strike he managed to land, Duke unleashed a furious flurry of steroid-fueled punches and kicks. For a brief moment Duke stepped back while Jack nursed a split lip, and a bleeding nose. His head felt like it was swelling from the onslaught. One of his eyes was swelling, making it hard to see. One knee and hand on the cage floor, he cast a glance to Pope who was beaming. But it wasn’t Pope he saw, it was Roy Gafino. He saw a man that relished in torture, a man who had taught him to show no mercy, a man that had formed his character from a young age. Hatred rose up in the belly of Jack, a fire that had gained him the nickname of “The Butcher.” It welled to the surface, like an old friend. Jack spat blood on the floor and got up again. The crowd went wild, thirsty for more.
Duke cast a glance over his shoulder, an absent expression before turning to face him. As they studied each other, Eddie Carmine’s words came back to him.
Even the strongest trees can fall when you know where to strike.
There were no rules on what could be done inside the cage. Regular punches and kicks were having no effect on this man. His skin was like leather, his bones as strong as steel except he was still a man. Of that Jack was convinced if only by the rage that was similar to his own. And if Jack could bleed, so could he.
Jack pressed forward and Duke gave a nod as if accepting the challenge.
Except this time Jack didn’t throw a punch, or a kick to the stomach as before, instead he began hacking away at the three areas that were most vulnerable on a man of his build — the feet, the knees and his nuts. He kept his distance and used his foot like a pickaxe, stabbing in and out, and then kept moving. He saw Duke wince, again, then again. The side of the leg area just above the knee was prime real estate for bringing even the tallest to their knees. Jack slammed the heel of his foot down on the top of Duke’s foot, backed out, ducked a punch, slipped around him and fired one into his nuts from behind. He also kicked the tendons at the back of the leg and as Duke buckled, he followed through with another kick to the tailbone. It was these areas, though small and seemingly insignificant, that caused extreme pain.
The cheering for Duke gradually faded as the crowd saw the beast of a man wince, groan and finally break. All attempts at this point to try to grapple with Jack were pointless. He staggered forward, pain shooting through his body, and if the expression on his face eased for even a second, Jack repeated the same again though changing up where, and how he did it. Slowly some of the crowd began chanting his name and a ripple effect spread out over the knot of people.
Jack caught the look on Pope’s face. Defiance, horror, rage. It was all there. All the signs of someone about to lose an excessive amount of money.
A few hard blows to the knee and Duke could no longer stand. His right leg gave out from beneath him, and Jack took advantage of it — this time charging forward and firing off a knee to his face. As soon as he landed, and twisted to get back up, Jack was on him like a boa constrictor wrapping himself around the back of him and gripping his neck in a chokehold. Duke fought for control, pulling at Jack’s arms, but he’d locked himself in, strapped himself on even as Duke rose to his feet and flailed around in a desperate attempt to survive. Fifteen to twenty seconds and he would lose consciousness, and two to four minutes and he’d be dead.
Jack felt his body go limp and he could have killed him but that’s what Pope would have wanted, and he won the money whether Duke lived or died. Even as Jack pulled tightly on the man’s neck contemplating finishing him he looked over to Pope and then released his hold. Duke’s body flopped to one side and Jack rolled off him to a triumphant roar of cheers. Had some of those cheering for him lost money? Without a doubt but judging by the class of people in attendance, money meant nothing to them.
But to Pope, it was everything.
Jack breathed hard trying to catch his breath.
He rose to his feet. Gimpy came into the center to announce Jack the winner, he motioned to Spike and although Pope looked hesitant, he couldn’t lose face in front of his paying customers and colleagues. Jack was counting on that. Pope gave a nod and Spike squeezed through the crowd, unlocked the handcuff and reluctantly presented the winnings.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said to Spike who glared at him before returning to Pope’s side. Corks from bottles of champagne were popped, and a glass was offered to Jack but he waved it off. Several businessmen handed him cards and told him to call them, offering to make him a wealthy man. But none of that mattered. Jack knew the highs and lows of money but without Dana it mattered little.
“Mr. Weslo. Mr. Weslo!” Pope hollered through the noise of music as he made his way back to the elevators. Jack turned.
“That was an impressive comeback. You should stick around, celebrate. I’m sure there are many people here who would love to meet you.”
“We’re done.” Jack turned away but then stopped. “Oh, and
