Chapter 1 - A Question of Honor
He was ready for this next fight. He was trained, he was strong, he was rested. He was absolutely ready for this. He walked out of his hotel room, a luxury suite on the east side of the city. He'd driven instead of flying for this fight, something that he'd insisted specifically because he wanted to drive his new car, a brand new Honda NSX Type-R, imported directly from Japan. He'd had it painted the same shade of red as his boxing shorts, just so that it would match, along with a few other modifications. His car was parked underneath the thirty-story hotel, so he took the elevator to the basement. There was no one else on the lift, but there was a little bit of elevator music, some new wave band that he'd never heard of. That wasn't all that surprising, as he really didn't much like anything but American 80's music.
When the bell rang, indicating that the elevator had reached his floor, he picked up his duffel bag from the floor. As he was walking out, a big man shoved his way inside, bumping into his shoulder. The man was wearing a suit coat, grey, with a brimmed hat. He turned around to see the man's face, but the elevator doors closed. Straightening his Hawaiian shirt sleeve, he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and then reached into his pocket for his keys. He pressed a two buttons, deactivating the alarm, starting the car, and opening the driver's side door. He placed his duffel on the floor in front of the passenger seat, and then pressed a button on the console, closing the door. He pushed the button to roll down the windows, and then shifted into reverse, backing out, and then drove out onto the city streets.
It was a quiet time, but the city was still bustling with people. He shifted into third, watching the speedometer reach forty. The speed limit was thirty-five, but hey, he didn't really care in the least. The stoplight turned red in front of him, and he slowed to a stop. Steve hardly glanced over when another car pulled up next to him. Then he heard the calls.
"Nice ride!"
"Sweet!"
"Hey, man, how much power's in there?"
A group of boys were riding in what looked to be a Honda Civic. The steering wheel was on the right of the car, which wasn't all that uncommon in this town. They were jeering and admiring his NSX.
Not wanting to be rude, he turned and responded. "Enough to work just about anything on the street." Smiling, he turned to the road in front of him. Then he heard the driver next to him rev his engine. The boy was probably sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. He pointed forward with his finger as he revved again, with his friends cheering him on.
The fighter shook his head, smiling to himself. They don't know what they've gotten themselves into. He revved his own engine, listening to the deep thrum of the engine and exhaust system. Then the opposite light of the intersection turned yellow. It would be any second. He shifted into first, feathering the clutch and gas pedals. The other light turned red. He revved the tachometer to three.
Green light.
He stomped the gas, releasing the clutch, and the tires spun on the pavement. They caught the grip, held, and flew from the line, passing the Civic easily. The speedometer reached thirty, forty, fifty, seventy. Soon the other Honda was left far behind. He smiled to himself, slowing down to thirty to make his turn. He then took the main road into the town, where he finally arrived at the parking gate of the stadium. The attendant at the small booth came to the window as he pulled up.
"Can I help." The boy was entranced by the car.
"Yeah, here," he presented his pass, and the attendant opened the gate. The boy was still speechless as he pulled through. He'd been here before. He drove into the parking lot, around the back way, and into the private garage under the stadium. He parked it in one of the 'RESERVED' spaces up front, turned off the ignition, and opened the door, pulling out his duffel bag with him. As he walked toward the stairs he pressed the alarm, the car's lights flickering on and off with a musical tone accompaniment.
One of the guards stopped him. "Are you."
"My name's Steve Fox," he said, extending and shaking the guard's hand.
"Yeah," said the guard. "Can I have your autograph? My kid's a big fan."
"No problem," said Steve, taking the pen and pad, and signing quickly. He started to walk away.
"Umm, Mr. Fox?" Steve turned back. The guard put the pad back in his pocket with the pen. "Good luck tonight."
"Thanks," said Steve. He walked quickly up the stairs towards his room.
***
"What'd you find?" Cameron was in the suite, but his target wasn't there. He spoke back on his cell phone.
"He's not here," he said. "He must've just left."
"Get to the stadium, Cameron," said the phone. "You've got to get to him before the fight starts, or else we'll lose two, and you'll lose a job." The phone clicked dead. Cameron closed the flip-phone and pressed it against his forehead. He should never have agreed to take this job. It wasn't that the job was hard. Go bribe a boxer. How hard can that be? But it was that he didn't think this kid would do it.
He'd read about Fox. The kid was a champ. He had more money than anyone under thirty should be privy to. Why would he drop a fight for twenty grand? He wouldn't. Cameron just knew he wouldn't. Vales had given him permission to threaten the kid, but Cam really didn't want to do that. He really admired the boxer. Fox was the best fighter Cam had ever seen. But Vales had bet on Gerrerra, and that meant that Gerrerra had to win. It didn't matter how.
The pistol under Cameron's coat seemed to weigh heavier. He'd never used it before. He'd never had to. He was big enough to intimidate most anyone. But he'd never killed anyone before. Watched people die, sure. Captured them for Vales, definitely. But he'd never tasted death, and he didn't especially want to take a bite right now. He just hoped that Fox would take the money and that would be that. He closed the door, making sure that it was locked, so that no one would know that he'd been there.
He left in a black sedan, headed towards the stadium. The sun was setting. The fight would start in two hours. At 8:00.
***
Lei had always loved watching fights. Boxing was, to him, a mediocre sport at best, but it was still interesting. He liked to watch, and then think of how his fighting style might counteract and defy the blows that the fighters would throw at one another. He'd even tried boxing once, but found that he was too used to fighting with his feet for him to be really good at it.
At this time of night, he should have been out on the streets, patrolling. Instead, he'd been suspended for failing to bring down a mafia crime syndicate. The judgement, to him, seemed extremely unfair just because he botched a single case. He was one of China's finest! Why would the department shut him out for just that single case? His rage had finally subsided, but he was still bothered by the whole thing.
Add on top of that the fact that his girlfriend had left him, and Lei was extremely depressed. He decided he'd use the suspension as a vacation. He hadn't had one in so long that he didn't know where to start. It was only the second week of his suspension, and he was already in the habit of ordering take-out and watching late-night television into the early hours of the morning. It was almost four in the morning, but as usual, Lei couldn't sleep.
He took a drink from his soda, placing it back on the coffee table and laying back on the couch. The fight tonight was in England, Spain's Champion Frederick Gerrerra against the World Middleweight Champion Steve Fox. Lei admired Fox, mostly because he and the boxer were alike in that they both fought extremely well. Lei would've loved to challenge the British boxer to a fight, but he didn't think that the boy would be willing to take on some unknown Chinese cop.
The fight was scheduled to start within an hour. Just enough time for Lei to take a quick shower, go down to the corner store for some snacks, and be back in time for the bell. He made his way to the bathroom, and started the water, leaving the television on.
The shower drowned out the commercial for the latest King of Iron Fist Tournament.
***
After wrapping his hands, Steve went for a quick jog around the still empty arena. He punched and jabbed at the air, building up a light sweat, and getting his blood and adrenaline pumping. He was wearing only his sweatpants and a training shirt, but his blue boxing shoes gripped tightly against the concrete floor. He paused to fire off a succession of eight punches, all close guarded and linked together, moving him across the floor quickly. He was fast and furious, swaying at imaginary blows and pummeling with his own. Jab, dodge, feint, sway, jab, jab, cross.
"You're pretty good," said a voice, echoing into empty stadium. Steve turned to see the same man who'd bumped into him at the elevator. He was still wearing a grey suit and hat. Steve stopped his pre-fight warm-up, and walked over to the man.
"Aren't you the guy I bumped."
"Yes," the man confirmed. "If I'd have know that you were who you were, Mr. Fox, I would have spoken to you then."
"If you'd known who I was?" Said Steve. He straightened his wrap, tightening the Velcro around his wrist. "Most any fighting fan in England knows who I am."
"I was a little.preoccupied," the man replied. He almost sounded like he was hiding something. Steve decided he wanted to know what this guy was here for.
"What do you want?"
"I'd like to make you an offer," said the man. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of English pounds. There looked to be over a thousand notes, all in twenties. Steve looked at the wad, and then back at the man.
"I'm listening."
"I'd like you to throw the fight tonight."
"No deal," said Steve immediately. "I've got millions bet on me tonight. Besides, you think Bricktop is going to sponsor me any more if I lose to some Spanish wannabe like Gerrerra."
"Yes they will," said the man. "You're the World Champion. You just had a fluke, that's all." The man fluttered the notes again, just to get Steve's attention. He tossed the bills at him, and Steve caught them with his left hand. "Think it over, Mr. Fox." The man turned to walk away. But before he left, he spoke again. "And remember, Mr. Fox. We don't usually deal well with people who act against what we recommend." Steve stood there, staring at the man's back, and went to speak, but suddenly another voice entered the stadium.
"Steve!" It was Vince, his trainer and mentor. He was already dressed in his Bricktop uniform, his grey hair combed forward. "You're gonna be late, son. You've got forty-five to suit up!" Steve looked around, and noticed that some of the seats were starting to fill. He had to get to the locker room before he got mobbed. He stuffed the wad of notes into his sweatpants pocket and followed Vince to the dressing room.
What was that all about? He wondered. What's the big deal about the fight? The wad in his pocket must've been worth at least twenty-thousand pounds. Why would anyone offer that much just for him to throw a fight? Weren't some of the bets for him worth a lot more than that? He tried to put this out of his mind. He had a fight to concentrate on. Besides, when I win, I'll just give back the money and say tough luck. But something deep inside told him that this wasn't one of his options.
***
"So what happened?" Cam was on the phone again. It was twenty minutes before fight time.
"I gave him the money. I made the threat. What else can I do?"
"Remind him," said the phone. Cam loosened his shirt collar and tie as he sighed. He shouldn't have taken this job. As he made his way down the hallways, he couldn't help but think that this was a really big mistake. Why had Vales bet on Gerrerra? Fox was the world champ! Wouldn't Vales have been smart enough to know what the real outcome of the fight would be?
He was stopped by two guards as he tried to walk into the doors to employee access. "Can we help you, sir?" Said one.
"I need to speak with Mr. Fox," Cam said coolly. "It's quite important."
"We can't let you back there without a clearance," said the other officer. This wasn't working out the way Cam wanted. He decided to try a different approach.
"Even if it's a legal matter?" In his suit, tie, and hat, he would have passed easily as any number of different things. The guards were persuaded by something, as one opened the door, and the other stood aside.
"My apologies, sir. Just doing my job."
"It's no problem," said Cam. He walked in, listening to the door shut behind him as his shoes clipped quietly on the concrete floor. Soon he made his way to another door, titled "locker rooms." He pushed it open, walking into a well-lighted hallway with a highly decorative thin-carpet floor. He closed the door behind him, and started making his way down the hall.
I think I know why Vales bet against Fox, he thought to himself. Vales is Hispanic. I think his heritage is from Spain, actually. In a high-profile fight like this, of course he'd bet on his home blood. Spanish honor and all that. Cameron himself was from America. He'd left the country under suspicion of federal authorities, but they'd lacked enough evidence to convict him. In their eyes, he was Europe's problem now.
He looked up at the ceiling, checking that his gun was still clipped in his holster. If he had to use it, then he had to use it. But he really didn't want to. Hopefully, a little visual reminder would suffice for Fox to understand that Vales was serious. Cam hoped it would be enough.
A door suddenly was pulled open in front of him. Out stepped a bald man, in a blue and red jacket that read the 'BRiCKTOP' logo across the front. He was holding a decorative fighting belt in his hand. Behind him was another man, older, with gray hair, dressed the same as the first. The two walked right past him as a third man came out.
He was dressed in boxing shorts that went three inches below his knees. His shoes were blue and black. His robe, blue, with the word "FOX" emblazoned in gold on the back, was around his upper body, tied off with a white sash. He walked with an air of superiority, his gold and red gloved hands moving back and forth as he walked with composure. This was Steve Fox.
Cam stood in the hall, and looked directly at the boxer. Fox looked back, and then stopped for a second. Cam nodded, and opened his jacket, showing the gun that was holstered there. "Take the money, kid," said Cam. "It'll save you a whole lot of trouble."
Fox looked up from the gun at Cam, and then turned and brushed past him. Cam looked after him, and hoped that the fighter would take his advice. Otherwise, he's have his first kill on his record.
He was ready for this next fight. He was trained, he was strong, he was rested. He was absolutely ready for this. He walked out of his hotel room, a luxury suite on the east side of the city. He'd driven instead of flying for this fight, something that he'd insisted specifically because he wanted to drive his new car, a brand new Honda NSX Type-R, imported directly from Japan. He'd had it painted the same shade of red as his boxing shorts, just so that it would match, along with a few other modifications. His car was parked underneath the thirty-story hotel, so he took the elevator to the basement. There was no one else on the lift, but there was a little bit of elevator music, some new wave band that he'd never heard of. That wasn't all that surprising, as he really didn't much like anything but American 80's music.
When the bell rang, indicating that the elevator had reached his floor, he picked up his duffel bag from the floor. As he was walking out, a big man shoved his way inside, bumping into his shoulder. The man was wearing a suit coat, grey, with a brimmed hat. He turned around to see the man's face, but the elevator doors closed. Straightening his Hawaiian shirt sleeve, he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and then reached into his pocket for his keys. He pressed a two buttons, deactivating the alarm, starting the car, and opening the driver's side door. He placed his duffel on the floor in front of the passenger seat, and then pressed a button on the console, closing the door. He pushed the button to roll down the windows, and then shifted into reverse, backing out, and then drove out onto the city streets.
It was a quiet time, but the city was still bustling with people. He shifted into third, watching the speedometer reach forty. The speed limit was thirty-five, but hey, he didn't really care in the least. The stoplight turned red in front of him, and he slowed to a stop. Steve hardly glanced over when another car pulled up next to him. Then he heard the calls.
"Nice ride!"
"Sweet!"
"Hey, man, how much power's in there?"
A group of boys were riding in what looked to be a Honda Civic. The steering wheel was on the right of the car, which wasn't all that uncommon in this town. They were jeering and admiring his NSX.
Not wanting to be rude, he turned and responded. "Enough to work just about anything on the street." Smiling, he turned to the road in front of him. Then he heard the driver next to him rev his engine. The boy was probably sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. He pointed forward with his finger as he revved again, with his friends cheering him on.
The fighter shook his head, smiling to himself. They don't know what they've gotten themselves into. He revved his own engine, listening to the deep thrum of the engine and exhaust system. Then the opposite light of the intersection turned yellow. It would be any second. He shifted into first, feathering the clutch and gas pedals. The other light turned red. He revved the tachometer to three.
Green light.
He stomped the gas, releasing the clutch, and the tires spun on the pavement. They caught the grip, held, and flew from the line, passing the Civic easily. The speedometer reached thirty, forty, fifty, seventy. Soon the other Honda was left far behind. He smiled to himself, slowing down to thirty to make his turn. He then took the main road into the town, where he finally arrived at the parking gate of the stadium. The attendant at the small booth came to the window as he pulled up.
"Can I help." The boy was entranced by the car.
"Yeah, here," he presented his pass, and the attendant opened the gate. The boy was still speechless as he pulled through. He'd been here before. He drove into the parking lot, around the back way, and into the private garage under the stadium. He parked it in one of the 'RESERVED' spaces up front, turned off the ignition, and opened the door, pulling out his duffel bag with him. As he walked toward the stairs he pressed the alarm, the car's lights flickering on and off with a musical tone accompaniment.
One of the guards stopped him. "Are you."
"My name's Steve Fox," he said, extending and shaking the guard's hand.
"Yeah," said the guard. "Can I have your autograph? My kid's a big fan."
"No problem," said Steve, taking the pen and pad, and signing quickly. He started to walk away.
"Umm, Mr. Fox?" Steve turned back. The guard put the pad back in his pocket with the pen. "Good luck tonight."
"Thanks," said Steve. He walked quickly up the stairs towards his room.
***
"What'd you find?" Cameron was in the suite, but his target wasn't there. He spoke back on his cell phone.
"He's not here," he said. "He must've just left."
"Get to the stadium, Cameron," said the phone. "You've got to get to him before the fight starts, or else we'll lose two, and you'll lose a job." The phone clicked dead. Cameron closed the flip-phone and pressed it against his forehead. He should never have agreed to take this job. It wasn't that the job was hard. Go bribe a boxer. How hard can that be? But it was that he didn't think this kid would do it.
He'd read about Fox. The kid was a champ. He had more money than anyone under thirty should be privy to. Why would he drop a fight for twenty grand? He wouldn't. Cameron just knew he wouldn't. Vales had given him permission to threaten the kid, but Cam really didn't want to do that. He really admired the boxer. Fox was the best fighter Cam had ever seen. But Vales had bet on Gerrerra, and that meant that Gerrerra had to win. It didn't matter how.
The pistol under Cameron's coat seemed to weigh heavier. He'd never used it before. He'd never had to. He was big enough to intimidate most anyone. But he'd never killed anyone before. Watched people die, sure. Captured them for Vales, definitely. But he'd never tasted death, and he didn't especially want to take a bite right now. He just hoped that Fox would take the money and that would be that. He closed the door, making sure that it was locked, so that no one would know that he'd been there.
He left in a black sedan, headed towards the stadium. The sun was setting. The fight would start in two hours. At 8:00.
***
Lei had always loved watching fights. Boxing was, to him, a mediocre sport at best, but it was still interesting. He liked to watch, and then think of how his fighting style might counteract and defy the blows that the fighters would throw at one another. He'd even tried boxing once, but found that he was too used to fighting with his feet for him to be really good at it.
At this time of night, he should have been out on the streets, patrolling. Instead, he'd been suspended for failing to bring down a mafia crime syndicate. The judgement, to him, seemed extremely unfair just because he botched a single case. He was one of China's finest! Why would the department shut him out for just that single case? His rage had finally subsided, but he was still bothered by the whole thing.
Add on top of that the fact that his girlfriend had left him, and Lei was extremely depressed. He decided he'd use the suspension as a vacation. He hadn't had one in so long that he didn't know where to start. It was only the second week of his suspension, and he was already in the habit of ordering take-out and watching late-night television into the early hours of the morning. It was almost four in the morning, but as usual, Lei couldn't sleep.
He took a drink from his soda, placing it back on the coffee table and laying back on the couch. The fight tonight was in England, Spain's Champion Frederick Gerrerra against the World Middleweight Champion Steve Fox. Lei admired Fox, mostly because he and the boxer were alike in that they both fought extremely well. Lei would've loved to challenge the British boxer to a fight, but he didn't think that the boy would be willing to take on some unknown Chinese cop.
The fight was scheduled to start within an hour. Just enough time for Lei to take a quick shower, go down to the corner store for some snacks, and be back in time for the bell. He made his way to the bathroom, and started the water, leaving the television on.
The shower drowned out the commercial for the latest King of Iron Fist Tournament.
***
After wrapping his hands, Steve went for a quick jog around the still empty arena. He punched and jabbed at the air, building up a light sweat, and getting his blood and adrenaline pumping. He was wearing only his sweatpants and a training shirt, but his blue boxing shoes gripped tightly against the concrete floor. He paused to fire off a succession of eight punches, all close guarded and linked together, moving him across the floor quickly. He was fast and furious, swaying at imaginary blows and pummeling with his own. Jab, dodge, feint, sway, jab, jab, cross.
"You're pretty good," said a voice, echoing into empty stadium. Steve turned to see the same man who'd bumped into him at the elevator. He was still wearing a grey suit and hat. Steve stopped his pre-fight warm-up, and walked over to the man.
"Aren't you the guy I bumped."
"Yes," the man confirmed. "If I'd have know that you were who you were, Mr. Fox, I would have spoken to you then."
"If you'd known who I was?" Said Steve. He straightened his wrap, tightening the Velcro around his wrist. "Most any fighting fan in England knows who I am."
"I was a little.preoccupied," the man replied. He almost sounded like he was hiding something. Steve decided he wanted to know what this guy was here for.
"What do you want?"
"I'd like to make you an offer," said the man. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of English pounds. There looked to be over a thousand notes, all in twenties. Steve looked at the wad, and then back at the man.
"I'm listening."
"I'd like you to throw the fight tonight."
"No deal," said Steve immediately. "I've got millions bet on me tonight. Besides, you think Bricktop is going to sponsor me any more if I lose to some Spanish wannabe like Gerrerra."
"Yes they will," said the man. "You're the World Champion. You just had a fluke, that's all." The man fluttered the notes again, just to get Steve's attention. He tossed the bills at him, and Steve caught them with his left hand. "Think it over, Mr. Fox." The man turned to walk away. But before he left, he spoke again. "And remember, Mr. Fox. We don't usually deal well with people who act against what we recommend." Steve stood there, staring at the man's back, and went to speak, but suddenly another voice entered the stadium.
"Steve!" It was Vince, his trainer and mentor. He was already dressed in his Bricktop uniform, his grey hair combed forward. "You're gonna be late, son. You've got forty-five to suit up!" Steve looked around, and noticed that some of the seats were starting to fill. He had to get to the locker room before he got mobbed. He stuffed the wad of notes into his sweatpants pocket and followed Vince to the dressing room.
What was that all about? He wondered. What's the big deal about the fight? The wad in his pocket must've been worth at least twenty-thousand pounds. Why would anyone offer that much just for him to throw a fight? Weren't some of the bets for him worth a lot more than that? He tried to put this out of his mind. He had a fight to concentrate on. Besides, when I win, I'll just give back the money and say tough luck. But something deep inside told him that this wasn't one of his options.
***
"So what happened?" Cam was on the phone again. It was twenty minutes before fight time.
"I gave him the money. I made the threat. What else can I do?"
"Remind him," said the phone. Cam loosened his shirt collar and tie as he sighed. He shouldn't have taken this job. As he made his way down the hallways, he couldn't help but think that this was a really big mistake. Why had Vales bet on Gerrerra? Fox was the world champ! Wouldn't Vales have been smart enough to know what the real outcome of the fight would be?
He was stopped by two guards as he tried to walk into the doors to employee access. "Can we help you, sir?" Said one.
"I need to speak with Mr. Fox," Cam said coolly. "It's quite important."
"We can't let you back there without a clearance," said the other officer. This wasn't working out the way Cam wanted. He decided to try a different approach.
"Even if it's a legal matter?" In his suit, tie, and hat, he would have passed easily as any number of different things. The guards were persuaded by something, as one opened the door, and the other stood aside.
"My apologies, sir. Just doing my job."
"It's no problem," said Cam. He walked in, listening to the door shut behind him as his shoes clipped quietly on the concrete floor. Soon he made his way to another door, titled "locker rooms." He pushed it open, walking into a well-lighted hallway with a highly decorative thin-carpet floor. He closed the door behind him, and started making his way down the hall.
I think I know why Vales bet against Fox, he thought to himself. Vales is Hispanic. I think his heritage is from Spain, actually. In a high-profile fight like this, of course he'd bet on his home blood. Spanish honor and all that. Cameron himself was from America. He'd left the country under suspicion of federal authorities, but they'd lacked enough evidence to convict him. In their eyes, he was Europe's problem now.
He looked up at the ceiling, checking that his gun was still clipped in his holster. If he had to use it, then he had to use it. But he really didn't want to. Hopefully, a little visual reminder would suffice for Fox to understand that Vales was serious. Cam hoped it would be enough.
A door suddenly was pulled open in front of him. Out stepped a bald man, in a blue and red jacket that read the 'BRiCKTOP' logo across the front. He was holding a decorative fighting belt in his hand. Behind him was another man, older, with gray hair, dressed the same as the first. The two walked right past him as a third man came out.
He was dressed in boxing shorts that went three inches below his knees. His shoes were blue and black. His robe, blue, with the word "FOX" emblazoned in gold on the back, was around his upper body, tied off with a white sash. He walked with an air of superiority, his gold and red gloved hands moving back and forth as he walked with composure. This was Steve Fox.
Cam stood in the hall, and looked directly at the boxer. Fox looked back, and then stopped for a second. Cam nodded, and opened his jacket, showing the gun that was holstered there. "Take the money, kid," said Cam. "It'll save you a whole lot of trouble."
Fox looked up from the gun at Cam, and then turned and brushed past him. Cam looked after him, and hoped that the fighter would take his advice. Otherwise, he's have his first kill on his record.